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By Misha Firer
With a keyhole saw I cut out a round 4” by 4” inch hole in my bedroom wall four feet two inches from the floor level. I cleared out polystyrene and compressed wood debris and carefully abraded the rugged interior sides first with 60-grit then with 120-grit sandpaper. On the other side of the wall, I lowered the toilet seat, stepped on it and unscrewed the casing of the ceiling lamp and swapped a 100Volt bulb with a 60Volt. With electric lights dimmed, I took the frameless 12” by 15” mirror off the wall, scotch-taped a DR-64 sound-activated digital recorder and fed its interface USB cable towards my room. I, then, fixed in a customized 4” convex mirror hidden video security camera that combined a see-through convex with a built-in high-resolution hidden microvideo security camera; the latter provided a panoramic view of the entire ladies’ restroom of the “World Ground” restaurant, which ladies’ restroom happened to be adjacent to my ground-floor apartment. I fed its cable along with the USB one and superglued the convex mirror’s acrylic edges. I held a flat unframed one-way see-through mirror (which I cut with a band-saw from its standard 24” by 24” frame through the masking tape to the 12” by 15” parameters). I had the coated side face the restroom and mounted it on the plastic pegs. I returned to my bedroom, fished out the cables and connected them to CCTV (close circuit television), a Sony WEGA 50” in. Flat Panel. I positioned my red-velvet love-chair directly in front of the opening and aimed my remote control at it. I panned the camera (wall-to-wall), then tilted (ceiling to floor) and zoomed (in and out the toilet bowl), the image superimposed on my 1365 by 768 resolution TV that sat slightly off to the right from the round hole in the wall.
The restroom door was pulled open and a woman — late twenties, darkish skin, insignificant breasts, bulging behind — stepped in, bolted the door for privacy, unzipped and lowered her semi-casual linen trousers, her pink thongs and mounted the white throne made of vitreous china. I, in turn, pulled myself out of my denim jeans and boxers, switched off the lights, and, with the index finger of my left hand readjusting the camera angle via remote control kneaded softly the shaft of my penis with my right hand.
I was sucked into the vacuum of my fantasy; my mind clouded. But from the fridges of consciousness, I was still capable of formulating my thoughts clearly in relation to, what I termed, temporary delirum.
My pragmatic, high-educated self, what I unflinchingly believed to be my core, perceived the moving image on the TV for what it really was: electronic transmission rendered visually in digital pixel by pixel format. I knew exactly how the technology worked that provided an escape route for my repressed manhood.
What I saw with my eyes now was a visual fabrication of the real person. I watched simulacra of the woman fifteen feet away on my TV screen relax her pelvic muscles and begin to urinate. Upon that soulless, two-dimensional ersatz, did I project whatever my already hallucinating naked-woman-body-hungry mind wished to.
I promptly freed my imagination from its civilized constraints, and thus for a moment I could visually project myself into the imaginative restroom humiliating the woman, or more precisely, her simulacra. I was urinating on her seated body, my acidulous, pungent fountain hitting her against her face, the warm salty liquid would then trickle down on her perky breasts, her bared belly, her moist hirsute triangle of rosebud flesh. Or I could as easily pretend I was fucking her, wedging my pulsating cork into her pussy real-time, or killing her, wringing her poultry-paltry neck. All fantasies were equally possible and permissible. It was daydreaming, a dark fairy tale for adults. Technology and my monitoring device provided suspension of disbelief, the magic wand that stirred the murky recesses of my soul.
Nancy called me. On my cell phone speaker her voice taken out of bodily context sounded overly recognizable. After a while of talking, I easily separated the exaggerated familiarity of her melodic, slightly lisping voice from the real Nancy, escort bursa my Nancy, my now ex-girlfriend. Like the ladies’ restroom users of my masturbatory sessions, while on the phone, she too became ersatz of her true self.
We could, and indeed did, pretend to engage in a meaningful, emotionally rich and yes, mutually caring, conversation. But the formulaic aspect of her questions: “How’s your engineer work? Did they promote you?” “Are you dating someone?” “How’s your father’s cancer?” — denigrated any sentiments, if such were to trouble me with their wishful thinking, of seeing us as a loving couple, of us as dedicated parents etc. Indeed, I confess, that emotions did overwhelm me at the time I was dating Nancy, and I believe, the same, although to a lesser degree, happened to Nancy in respect to me.
We met in the nightclub “Crostini,” had sex four hours and twenty-six minutes later and on our third date, Nancy said the following. “I have a three-date rule. That is after the third, I call it quits and move on. I already can sniff out filthy smell of attachment hanging in the air above our table. Do you dig me?” Nancy broke her rule and unilaterally called it quits only on twenty ninth date. In summary we had had sex forty two times, of which twelve anal and six times oral. I’m a didactic/pedantic kind of person and I keep a day-to-day log of events.
I diligently answered Nancy standardized questions, asked my own, likewise rigid and insincere, received a usual batch of lies (“Not dating anyone at the moment” “I miss you sometimes.” etc) and hung up.
I glanced at my watch. Six p.m. Saturday. I mulled over the idea of going to “Crostini” and hooking up with a woman, but something (sick imagination? laziness? low self-esteem?) stopped me and instead I turned on my TV and tuned in to my Reality TV being transmitted live from the other side of the wall.
Urine flooded hose-jet down the urethra and poured out with a downward spiral from the clean-shaved vagina. The five-time augmented Dolby surround sound of urine hitting the slant wall of the toilet permeated my ears with 17 000 Hz frequency response, closed ear cushion making sure no external noise would interfere. I watched the close-cut image of the woman reap off two square sheathes of double-tissue toilet paper from the roll embedded in the tile wall, soak her vagina up and toss the balled paper into the plastic garbage bin sitting a foot away to the left. I wiggled the remote control pad zooming out and panning the camera lenses for the full view of the upright figure turning the hot water and washing hands in the sink. The woman then stood right in front of the mirror, rearranging her short black hair ambiguously looking and not looking at me, who rested in sublime certitude of watching her kinky erotic film debut, engulfed in darkness of the improvised movie theatre hall. My released penis pulsated, its engorged, circumcised head twitching hither and thither, like a TV antenna vacillated by strong wind.
The woman exited the restroom, and another one – very young, blond hair, ample boobs, narrow hips — attained the private space for relief. I pressed the “record” button.
Yesterday, Nancy paid me an unexpected visit when I was busy cataloguing my Restroom CD’s. I was dividing them into categories according to race: white, black, asian, latino. And then subdividing into weight categories: fat, normal, skinny. The age: young and mature. I preferred to watch them “live” though for there would always be new actresses; sometimes doing weird spontaneous stuff, like for instance, getting undressed and starting dancing naked, yes, you guessed it right, in front of the camera lenses.
I had an emotional twinge, when I saw Nancy stride into my hallway, palpitating her thighs. And immediately I felt shamed, felt guilty of having that twinge, insignificantly small as it was, in the first place. My cool was temporarily thawed, like a piece of frozen turkey shoved into a microwave. I wanted Nancy out of my apartment, immediately, so I could restore my normalcy with my Zen-like CD-cataloguing. I confess I didn’t plan to articulate my request, basically because, in the far corner of my mind there formed gorukle escort cells of hope, hope that Nancy would condescend, overcome by lust, to have sex with me today. After three days of incommunicado, she officially proclaimed that we wouldn’t have a sexual relationship ever again, that from now on we were “just friends.”
After a fortnight of abstinence I was extra careful in gearing my dialogue with her to increase the chances of having coitus that day. We sat on my red-plush armchairs in my living room. I locked the door to my bedroom, which, with two cables snaking out of the hole in the wall, would certainly arise unnecessary suspicions. What if she does choose to have sex with me now, how should I explain to her my preference of sofa over a king size bed? I thought anxiously.
“I detected the notes of hostility in your voice when we talked on the phone last time.”
“No hostility. I like you. And I really don’t want to break connection with you.” I said program-atically.
“Are you sure?” Nancy said hostilely.
“Absolutely.” I said with cool certitude returned to my voice. Absolutely was my absolutely favorite word. Its semantics didn’t leave any room for doubt or any remotely intelligent response.
Nancy examined with her layman eye my photovoltaic façade, which modules converted 30 percent of the sun’s light to electricity and absorbed fifty per cent of its energy in the form of heat. Stared dumbly at my Mio’s Capsule light made of one hundred per cent wool felt using nineteenth century hat molds, my Lublin Pivot oak table, lightweight wall panels designed by Jouko Karkkainen, made of solid-wood frame covered in thin, undulating birch plywood. And there would be only two words of comments impressed in her mind, glowing with red-alert intensity: expensive shit.
“Would you like to invite me to that new restroom they opened next door to your apartment?”
I slumped in the chair, heart pounding, hands shaking. After watching urination of seven women in a row, I finally climaxed watching a middle-aged, pretty in a magazine-cover glossy kind of way woman masturbate. She was depressing her finger into her G-spot, and burrowing three fingers of her left hand into her moist, gaping vagina. She then titillated her clitoris, her breath quickening. I heard her grunt into my earphones; spasmodic twitches rippled and wreathed her body. She grunted again, almost inaudibly, perhaps afraid to be overheard. I carefully timed my orgasm with hers, polluting my expensive Persian carpet with my DNA blueprint. Instinctively I grabbed the roll of Bounty from the table, tore off two sheaths of tissue and started wiping my carpet clean, simultaneously watching the post-orgasmic woman engage in a likewise activity. She was wiping her vagina, and then proceeded to restoring the business, all-serious mask upon her facial features, in front of the mirror, directly staring at the camera lenses. Her explosion of hormones was like a renegade geyser bursting through the snows of Iceland, sending an areole of hot water into the air that would immediately crust to ice once overpowered by gravitation. The woman corrected the symmetry of her jeans and her silk blouse. She then hung on her slim shoulder a portfolio that contained, most surely, some very important papers and pushed the door open, letting a waiting person in. I could almost see the woman-masturbator part her lipsticked lips slightly ajar and administer an uber-polite smile. I turned the TV off, feeling exhausted.
I came in three spurts. The build up was fueled by the close-up images of two urinating women. I climaxed extensively and intensively watching another woman defecate.
I had had deliberately engaged in a conversation with all three of them at various times while eating in the restaurant next door (now, whenever I was off work I lunched, dined and supped there). They were single businesswomen and lived in the loft buildings, ugly cement bunkers stacked up in five rows, built in downtown for the yuppies too sissy to handle the suburban traffic. The women’s speech was peppered with figures, digits, customer and environment friendly products, gossip of people I had never seen, and other totally meaningless bursa sınırsız escort bayan and dreary gibberish. My goal was to collect as much personal information about them as possible. My new plan was to inflate their images with wholesome, believable personalities next time I see them on my TV with panties slung down.
I’m s a sociopath-ic kind of person, but I behaved differently with those women. I projected an ego-less, flat ersatz that had blueprinted in my mind from my masturbatory sessions and would initiate a conversation with the simulacra of the real persons. And thus I geared myself to become garrulous, confidence inspiring and friendly in their company.
I befriended with various degrees of congeniality, two-dozen women who were regular customers at the restaurant. I dedicated a CD to each, and impeccably made more and more recordings of them engaging in lowly, almost-taboo-like activities in the restroom.
It also gave me ingenuous pleasure to learn their queer quirks. For instance, Christine – red hair, flat butt, freckled skin – would stand at the mirror, take off her shirt and bra and start massaging her breasts, and then proceed to jerk her nipples, as if trying to milk herself. Laura – late thirties, flabby midriff, lumpy breasts, strong legs – would slap her buttocks until they turn red, accompanying each slap with empathetic “Do you like it, girl? You like it girl, don’t you?” Sasha – pudgy, huge breasts, even huger ass – would sprawl her elephantine, but somehow sexually arousing, body on the tile floor and begin to roll around the rectangular perimeter with her eyes closed.
When talking to Judie in an essentially civilized, politely courteous way about increase in mortgage prices, weather prognosis, trip to Cancoon with her two kids and ex-husband (“Should I include him in my $800 package? What do you think?”), I was itchy to blurt out, hey, I know that you like to stick your index finger up your anus after you shit and then lick it clean.
What attracted me wasn’t the dirt, but the idea of dirt. The idea that all these self-assertive, glamorous (or glamour-imitating), self-sufficient, money making women being just as human as the rest of us was refreshing, was appealing. I could keep my cool in their presence with visual knowledge of their crazy imperfections stored on the discs and meticulously catalogued.
I was more of a man realizing that so much of the women killer power was a dupe, pretense, a show. That once left to their own devices, they promptly relinquished what they had borrowed from men, and let lunar cycles wreak havoc in their minds, their bodies, their souls.
I am watching Nancy have sex with, if my memory is correct, the chef of the restaurant. She straddles corpulent body of the cook, who is sitting on the lowered toilet seat. Nancy’s gyrating motions are both recognizable and generic: her palpitations can be easily attributed to any woman from my, or any other’s, porno savvy collection. Neither is there any distinction in Nancy’s physicality. Her performance (indeed, she produces a contrived scream every now and then) is average. The desire that she inspires in me has nothing to do with Nancy as a person I know, with an emotional connection that we allegedly had had between us, but rather with the amount and composition of my hormones, the current flow of dopamine in my head. Nancy, as seen on my TV, is a robotic stimulator of my sexuality. A picture of a naked girl on Internet would have aroused me just as much. It is also satisfactory to learn that on a personal level watching Nancy fucking someone else has absolutely no affect on me.
I follow the unwritten rules of pornography, reflexively, blindly, and project myself into the ersatz of the “World Ground” restaurant chef. His dick (which is, if my judgment is not overly biased) is half an inch smaller than mine, but its air control tower shape is reminiscent of that of my own. In my mind I can and easily do swap the corks, and it is me now who is fucking Nancy after eighteen days of abstinence.
I groan when the cook groans and I come when he does. I slump in my love chair; sperm sliding down the outer side of my palm, like lava from the erupted volcano. I exhale and absently observe the couple fix their clothes, at the end of their show for a voyeur party of one.
It is then when I’m hit with a horrendous realization that I forgot to press record button.
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