THE TALE OF AN ENCOUNTER AND AN
INFORMAL INTERVIEW WITH A VOYEUR
I woke up to a beautiful summer morning. The sun was shining and the rainclouds were far away. I decided I would spend the day on the beach. I always enjoy visiting the beach as it gives me an opportunity to laugh at people's hideous bodies. But where? And then, suddenly, a wonderful idea came to me: why not go to a nudist beach as they always attract the ugliest people with the worst bodies imaginable. And you get to see their naughty bits too, for added humour.
So I rushed to my computer to check the Internet for possibilities and, to my utter amazement, I discovered there was a naturist beach only fifty miles from my beautiful home. As I read the details of the beach and the directions, I had a sense of déja vu; I realised with a frisson of erotic anticipation that it was the very same beach described by Victor in his wonderful story "Confessions of a Voyeur". [Please see link below]
I was at the wheel of my incredibly expensive and luxurious car just as soon as my servants had packed my essential requirements: icebox with chilled vintage champagne, lightweight folding gold-plated sun-lounger, vicuna picnic rug and of course my lunch hamper. My chef had rapidly prepared a delicious impromptu luncheon of smoked salmon, steak tartare and a selection of other goodies. I decided to dispense with the services of my chauffeur in the interests of preserving the confidentiality of my destination.
In less than an hour and a half I was there; and the place was exactly as Victor had described it. A long stretch of mixed sand and pebbles, backed by dunes planted with wild grass, waving romantically in the sea breeze. Idyllic, and crawling with naked perverts as a bonus. I parked my car and transported my equipment to the dunes. I regretted not having brought one of the servants as the hamper and icebox were quite cumbersome and heavy. I was perspiring gently by the time I had unloaded everything and set it all up to my satisfaction.
I took some care in selecting what I felt was the optimum location as I needed to combine the potentially conflicting benefits of wanting to see as many naked people as possible (hopefully including some sex action) with the need for privacy. After all I am famous. I finally chose a spot where there were several ghastly specimens on view for a few laughs and where I could also see a potentially interesting couple who might be exhibitionistic perverts. The man was about 45, shaven-headed, skinny and prematurely wrinkled all over by the sun (yes, I do mean all over) and he had an interesting tattoo on his back: "I love hot horny sex", which I saw as promising. The woman was plump with pendulous breasts and very prominent buttocks; additionally - how can I put this delicately? - her cunt was totally bereft of hair, as hairless as a new born babe's.
Several male heads kept popping up regularly above the pampas, clearly waiting for what Victor described as "a bit of action". What a weird place.
Before settling down to my lunch, I felt a little perambulation would not come amiss. So, as bold as brass, off I went for a little nude stroll through the dunes. I will not describe in full detail the visual horrors I encountered: hirsute old men playing aimlessly with wizened, shrunken todgers the size of a thimble; obese old biddies, their rolls of sun-tanned lard hanging round them like rows of bloated udders on a pregnant sow; tattooed bald queens, muscles bulging under lashings of sun-oil, their pierced genitals glinting wickedly in the sunshine; the list was endless. How could such grotesques revel in revealing their corporeal repulsion to the eager world?
And then I saw him! It had to be him! In a dip in the sand dunes lay a middle-aged, paunchy little man, intently watching a couple of old faggots groping each other incompetently. It could only be Victor! After all, just how many one-legged voyeurs are there?
I strolled over to him, coughing discreetly so as to give him a chance to stop his furtive masturbation. 'Do excuse me for disturbing you,' I said, 'but are you by any chance Victor the famous voyeur whose confession I read only last week?'
'Why yes,' he admitted, 'but how on earth did you recognise me?'
I smiled and pointed to the cast-off artificial leg lying next to his beach towel (which, incidentally, was emblazoned by a giant "V", a bit of an identity hint, I felt). He patted his stump ruefully and laughed uproariously so that his average-sized penis flapped like a pennant in a Force Eight gale. 'I forgot,' he bellowed deliriously.
'I'm just about to have a spot of lunch,' I said. 'My chef, Jean-Claude, always over-caters ridiculously as he knows I often pick up people on my excursions, so there'll be more than enough. I'm afraid it's nothing special: some smoked salmon and some assorted cold meats, possibly a spot of pâté de foie gras, if I know Jean-Claude. And, naturally, enough champagne to drown a hippo in. Please do say yes, as I have so many questions to ask you about your hobby.'
'That's very kind of you. I should be very happy to accept your generous offer. Incidentally, to whom have I the honour of speaking?'
I was, frankly, shocked when I realised Victor had not recognised me, and then I remembered I was naked. That explained it. 'Why, I am none other than Edna Sweetlove, poetess to the stars and biographer of the intrepid and incredible SNOGGO,' I murmured sotto voce, not wishing to be mobbed for my autograph.
'Edna Sweetlove!' he exclaimed, 'you mean THE Edna Sweetlove?' And so saying he glanced down to my genital zone in order to answer the question which so many of my fans have asked over the years. He grinned as he saw the solution to the great mystery.
Victor quickly strapped on his prosthesis and accompanied me (slightly lopsidedly) to my little luncheon site. He helped me unpack our repast and then made himself as comfortable as a naked one legged voyeur could reasonably expect to be without a chair.
I must say Chef and his team had excelled himself in the twenty minutes I had given them: smoked salmon roulades, a magnifique plateau de fruits de mer including a three-pound giant lobster, steak tartare, a whole cold pintarde à l'ail, a few dozen sushi rolls, a monster summer pudding, and naturally a magnum of Krug 92. No wonder the hamper had been so fucking heavy. I could see Victor was impressed as I offered him a chilled flute of champagne.
'Better than the pathetic, poverty-stricken muck you were going to eat, I expect,' I commented in a friendly way.
'Mmmmmmmmm! Absolutely delicious, Edna. I was certainly not expecting this! But before we start on what looks like a truly exquisite nosh-up, I must give you a word of warning.'
'A word of warning? What about, Victor dear?'
'Well, you see, there's no, um....er,' he blushed charmingly.
'No what, Victor? Don't be embarrassed, sweetie. This is Edna you're talking to. Spit it out, baby.'
'Well, um, there's no shithouse on the beach, Edna,' explained Victor uncomfortably. 'So, if you need to pump ship, you have to do it native-style "au naturel" in the dunes over there, which can be a bit messy what with all the filth lying about the place in that area, not to mention the lavvo-voyeurs hanging round. Or else you need to swim out a bit and unload into the sea. Judging by what's on offer at your stylish picnic, we'll both be bursting for a good old piss and crap afterwards.'
I shrieked with laughter and explained there was nothing I liked better than a widdle en plein air or a double act dans l'eau. We then tucked into lunch with a vengeance. It was fucking delicious, even though I say so myself. After about fifteen minutes' happy munching, interspersed with witty small talk, Victor suddenly went rigid. 'Look over there!' he hissed and indicated the middle-aged couple by the windbreak.
I looked and I was surprised. The plump woman with the big bum was on her knees in front of her partner, giving him a vigorous blowjob, and he was lolling back in ecstasy, a broad smile on his face. He seemed to be looking straight at us, almost visibly willing us to watch. He winked repeatedly in a conspiratorial fashion; maybe he had St Vitus’ Dance.
'They're regulars here, they normally put on quite a good show,' explained Victor excitedly, his hand reaching down automatically to his rapidly stiffening dong.
'Victor!' I admonished him, 'I would prefer it if you didn't jerk yourself off during lunch. How about another oyster, you silly old cunt?'
'Sorry, Edna, I forgot,' he replied shamefacedly. 'No more oysters thank you; they only make me more randy than I already am. But I'll have another lobster claw if I may. My compliments to your chef.'
So we sipped our champagne and enjoyed our luncheon as we watched the couple give us their little exhibition. After a few minutes sucking, the fat lady turned around and leaned forward on her hands and knees and her gnarled bald hubby screwed her doggy fashion from behind with some gusto; this made her beefy buns bounce about like two ferrets fighting in a sack.
I glanced around us and realised that, totally unbeknown to me, the little spectacle had attracted quite an audience. Nine men, young and old, short and tall, fat and skinny, stood staring transfixed by the petite scène erotique before us, all masturbating wildly. 'Oi!' I called out, 'Can't you see we're eating?' I admonished them, but to no fucking avail whatsoever.
Victor was visibly torn between his innate desire to watch the copulators and masturbators and with his understandable wish not to offend his lunch companion by manhandling himself unrestrainedly. But, thank God, his natural good manners prevailed and we continued to converse and enjoy our meal in the midst of this Bacchanalian scene of depravity.
I watched dispassionately as the couple came to what sounded like a very satisfactory mutual climax, accompanied by the observers' seminal tributes to their performance. I naturally had filmed the entire scene secretly on my state-of-the-art mobile.
'If you give me your email address, Victor my love, I'll send you a copy of that little show,' I promised. He nodded in gratitude. 'Victor the voyeur at yahoo dot co dot uk,' he mumbled rapidly, 'no dots, Victorthevoyeur is all one word.'
Once we had polished off lunch, I told Victor I would like to interview him with a view to writing a short story about his life's work. He was touchingly flattered and, with a little judicious prompting and probing, told me his saga, which I recorded on my Edna-phone.
I naturally don't want to pre-empt my forthcoming mini-biography of Victor, but suffice it to say that Victor told me how and why he became a voyeur, he regaled me with some of the staggering things he had seen, he gave me a list of some really ace dogging locations, he shared all his best peeping places with me, he gave me the ultimate lowdown on the world of Britain's most celebrated sex snooper and I was touched by his burning honesty.
But, although it’s a bit naughty, I feel I must share one aspect of Victor’s history with you all right away. Victor had not become a voyeur because he only had one leg, although such a deficit naturally limited his pulling power and severely curtailed his opportunities for picking people up in clubs and discos. No, Victor had lost his leg as a direct result of his rampant voyeurism.
One evening, Victor explained, he had been hanging round his local gay park, hoping for a bit of visual stimulation as he put it, when he saw two skinheads having a wank in the bushes. Victor was watching avidly as they dropped their pants and got stuck into some hardcore anal action. Then he accidentally stepped on a dry twig which snapped loudly. The bigger and butcher of the two skinheads, a great beast of a man, yelled out 'Fido! Kill!' and an enormous Rotweiler appeared out of nowhere and sunk its fangs into poor Victor's right calf. So hideously mauled was Victor by the time the dog owner had finished his business with his new friend and called the brute off, that the horrified doctors at his understaffed local hospital decided they had no choice but to amputate the remains of his lower leg. I felt a tear prick my eye at this tragic tale.
All too soon it was time for us to part. After thanking me profusely and making me promise I would visit him one day so he could repay my generosity, he re-attached his metal leg and limped away towards his beach towel. I knew he was raring to go as the best of the action normally took place in the early evening.
I shall always remember his parting comment. 'It can be a hard life being a voyeur,' he had observed philosophically. 'And I'm always very cautious about dogs these days.'
Adding your comment:
Entertaining as always, Edna.
This was just the yank at the britches I needed for lunch today Edna 
