By Gay Talese. I know a married man and father of two who bought a twenty-one-room motel near Denver many years ago in order to become its resident voyeur. Then he covered the openings with louvred aluminum screens that looked like ventilation grilles but were actually observation vents that allowed him, while he knelt in the attic, to see his guests in the rooms below. He watched them for decades, while keeping an exhaustive written record of what he saw and heard. Never once, during all those years, was he caught.
Bestiality, beastiality, animal sex or any form of sexual harassment of any animal Self-Masturbation or amateur masturbation fami,y a 3rd party famil a machine or any other type of masturbation including penetration of the pussy or the anus with any type of body part or instrument or device. My voyeurism has contributed immensely to my becoming a futilitarian, and I hate this conditioning of my soul. She was an in-house nurse, a co-conspirator with regard to his prying, a trustworthy manager of their family finances, and a private secretary, who would take dictation in shorthand when Foos was too tired to write in his journal. What they try to show you in public is not what they really are. Voyeur porn with the lascivious exhibition of genitalia The voyer family home page erected and non-erected penises, clearly visible labia minora or labia majora Neesa model lips and anuses also known as asshole and any type of close ups of genitals or anuses. He explained that he had met Donna in high school in a farming town called Ault, about sixty-five miles outside of Denver, and that the two had been married since It seems not to have occurred to him that this action could have given him away. The voyer family home page mentioned that an attractive young couple had been staying in Room 6 for the past few days and suggested that perhaps we would get a look at them tonight.
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Julia Loktev's father, Leonid, was hit by a car in and left severely disabled, vacant-eyed and virtually immobilized in his wheelchair.
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By Gay Talese. I know a married man and father of two who bought a twenty-one-room motel near Denver many years ago in order to become its resident voyeur. Then he covered the openings with louvred aluminum screens that looked like ventilation grilles but were actually observation vents that allowed him, while he knelt in the attic, to see his guests in the rooms below.
He watched them for decades, while keeping an exhaustive written record of what he saw and heard. Never once, during all those years, was he caught. I first became aware of this man after receiving a handwritten special-delivery letter, without a signature, dated January 7, , at my house in New York.
It began:. The reason for purchasing this motel was to satisfy my voyeuristic tendencies and compelling interest in all phases of how people conduct their lives, both socially and sexually. I did this purely out of my unlimited curiosity about people and not as just a deranged voyeur. These individuals were from every walk of life. Married couples traveling from state to state, either on business or vacation.
Wives who cheat on their husbands and visa versa. Lesbianism, of which I made a particular study. Homosexuality, of which I had little interest, but still watched to determine motivation and procedure.
The Seventies, later part, brought another sexual deviation forward, namely, group sex, which I took great interest in watching. My main objective in wanting to provide you with this confidential information is the belief that it could be valuable to people in general and sex researchers in particular. Presently I cannot reveal my identity because of my business interests, but [it] will be revealed when you can assure me that this information would be held in complete confidence.
After reading this letter, I put it aside for a few days, undecided on whether to respond. As a nonfiction writer who insists on using real names in articles and books, I knew that I could not accept his condition of anonymity.
Could such a man be a reliable source? Since I was planning to be in Phoenix later in the month, I decided to send him a note, with my phone number, proposing that we meet during a stopover in Denver. He left a message on my answering machine a few days later, saying that he would meet me at the airport baggage claim.
Two weeks later, when I approached the luggage carrousel, I spotted a man holding out his hand and smiling. My first impression was that this amiable stranger resembled many of the men I had flown with from Phoenix. He seemed in no way peculiar. In his mid-forties, Foos was hazel-eyed, around six feet tall, and slightly overweight. He wore a tan jacket and an open-collared dress shirt that seemed a size small for his heavily muscled neck.
He had neatly trimmed dark hair, and, behind horn-rimmed glasses, he projected a friendly expression befitting an innkeeper. After we had exchanged courtesies, I accepted his invitation to be a guest at his motel for a few days. He added that, later on, he would take me up to the special attic viewing platform, but only after his mother-in-law, Viola, who helped out in the motel office, had gone to bed. He removed from his pocket a folded piece of stationery and handed it to me.
It was a typed document stating that I would not identify him by name, or publicly associate his motel with whatever information he shared with me, until he had granted me a waiver. I signed the paper. I had already decided that I would not write about Gerald Foos under these restrictions.
I had come to Denver merely to meet this man and to satisfy my curiosity about him. As Foos drove us to the motel, he took the opportunity to sketch out the story of his life for me. He explained that he had met Donna in high school in a farming town called Ault, about sixty-five miles outside of Denver, and that the two had been married since His parents, hardworking German-Americans, had had a farm.
He did not have to look far, he said, steering the car toward the suburb of Aurora, where his motel was situated. At the age of nine, he said, he started watching her.
Aunt Katheryn was in her late twenties then. He watched her for five or six years and never got caught. Once, I did see them having sex, and it made me upset.
I was jealous. She was mine, I thought. I had known him for barely half an hour, and he was unburdening himself to me about his masturbatory fixations and the origins of his voyeurism. As a journalist, I do not recall meeting anyone who required less of me than he did. He did all the talking while I sat and listened. The car was his confessional. He told me that he was a virgin through high school. It was only after joining the Navy, serving in the Mediterranean and the Far East, and training as an underwater demolition specialist that he enlarged his knowledge of sex under the guidance of bar girls.
But he also kept fantasizing about his Aunt Katheryn. When he returned from the service, he started dating—and soon married—Donna, who was a nurse at a hospital in Aurora. Foos found work as a field auditor for Conoco. He was miserably employed, sitting in a cubicle all day, keeping records of the inventory levels of oil tanks. Often on foot, although sometimes in a car, he would cruise through neighborhoods and spy on people who were casual about lowering their window shades.
He made no secret of his voyeurism to Donna. She seemed to understand. He said he had chosen the single-story Manor House Motel as the site of his laboratory years earlier because it had a pitched roof—high enough for him to walk upright across the attic floor—which would make it possible for him to realize his dream of creating a viewing platform to peer into the guest rooms below.
He bought the property for a hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. Foos pulled into the parking area of the Manor House Motel, a brick building painted green and white, with orange doors leading into each of its twenty-one guest rooms. He parked next to an adjacent building consisting of an office and the family quarters. She was heading to the hospital, to work a night shift. On the way to my room, Foos told me that their son was a freshman at the Colorado School of Mines, and that their daughter, who was born with a respiratory ailment, had to drop out of high school to be treated at a special clinic, where she lived.
He opened the door to my room, switched on the air-conditioner, and put down my luggage, saying that he would collect me in an hour to go out to dinner. After I unpacked, I began making notes of my impressions of Gerald Foos. My interest in him was not dependent on having access to his attic. I was hoping to get his permission to read the hundreds of pages that he claimed to have written during the past fifteen years, with the result that he would one day allow me to write about him. I knew that he viewed himself as a sex researcher along the lines of Alfred Kinsey, and I assumed that his account centered on what excited him sexually, but it was possible that he noted things that existed beyond his desires.
A voyeur is motivated by anticipation; he invests endless hours in the hope of seeing what he wishes to see. Yet for every erotic episode he witnesses he is also privy to hundreds of mundane moments representing the ordinary daily human routine—people channel-surfing, snoring, urinating, primping, and doing other things too tediously real for reality television.
I was intrigued by the notion of the voyeur, in the course of his trespasses, inadvertently serving as a social historian. In , an American edition of the book was legally published for the first time, by Grove Press.
Marcus considers it a trove of insights into the social history of the period. Foos took me to a restaurant called the Black Angus Steakhouse. After ordering a margarita and a sirloin, he promised that he would mail me a photocopy of his manuscript.
He said he would send it in installments, because he anticipated having to photocopy it in the public library, a few pages at a time, for the sake of privacy. I asked Foos if he ever felt guilty about spying on his guests.
While he admitted to constant fear of being found out, he was unwilling to concede that his activities in the attic brought harm to anyone. He said that he was indulging his curiosity within the boundaries of his own property, and, because his guests were unaware of his voyeurism, they were not affected by it.
He then thought of installing the faux ventilators and hired a metalworker to fabricate a number of six-by-fourteen-inch louvred screens. Only Donna, who was in on the plan, could help Foos with the installation. She would stand on a chair in each of the designated rooms and reach up to fit a louvred screen into the opening in the ceiling that Foos had made with a power saw. As he lay prone in the attic, he secured the screen to the plywood floor and rafters with long flathead screws.
He installed three layers of shag carpeting over a central strip of the attic floor; the nails that kept the carpeting in place were rubber-tipped, to deaden any squeaks from footsteps. After the screens were in place, Foos asked Donna to visit each room, recline on a bed, and look up at a ventilator as he was staring down at her.
If she said yes, he used pliers to bend the louvres into an angle that would conceal his presence while maintaining a clear view of the bed and the bathroom door.
Foos said he began watching guests during the winter of He was often excited and gratified by what he saw, but there were many times when what went on below was so boring that he nodded off, sleeping for hours on the shag carpeting, until Donna woke him up before she left for the hospital.
Sometimes they would have sex up on the viewing platform. And, unlike me, she grew up having a free and healthy attitude about sex. While driving us back to the Manor House, Foos continued to talk. He mentioned that an attractive young couple had been staying in Room 6 for the past few days and suggested that perhaps we would get a look at them tonight. They were from Chicago and had come to Colorado to ski. As we approached the motel, I began to feel uneasy.
Finally, after saying good night to his mother-in-law, Foos beckoned me to follow him across the parking lot to the utility room. Curtains were drawn across the windows that fronted each of the guest rooms. I could hear the sounds of television coming from some of them, which I assumed did not bode well for the expectations of my host. Attached to one wall of the utility room was a wooden ladder painted blue.
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Julia Loktev's father, Leonid, was hit by a car in and left severely disabled, vacant-eyed and virtually immobilized in his wheelchair. As viewers of Ms. Loktev's documentary, ''Moment of Impact,'' discover, Mr.
Loktev now needs intensive care from his wife, Larisa, who spends much of her time attending to him in brusque, vigorous fashion. As the couple's only daughter trains her camera on the Loktevs, Mr. Loktev is seen being bathed, fed, dressed and moved about. He is also seen trying to speak, which he does only with great difficulty after Julia or her mother has prodded him. Loktev makes his feelings absolutely clear. What he tells his daughter, slowly but surely, is this: ''For you to go away.
Loktev a berth on the festival circuit and a documentary directing award at Sundance, but it is outrageously exploitative of both her parents and her viewers. While the audience pities Mr. Loktev and comes to admire his wife's feistiness and dignity, the filmmaker blatantly capitalizes on these emotions. As she remarks in an audiotaped message to her father, which she plays here while filming herself sitting pensively beside a window, she is a student who got high marks in courses like French Film of the Nouvelle Vague and Sadomasochism in Literature and Film.
And here, in the midst of her parents' hardship, is the chance to buck for another A. In a film devoid of both insight and self-knowledge, Ms. Loktev offers little but a few old photographs to explain who her father was and what he has lost.
Strong as she is, Larisa Loktev eventually erupts in tears over the strain caused by her daughter's intrusions. It might be said that there is courage in filming one's parents half-naked in the shower ''What difficult work it is to wash a hippopotamus!
It might also be said that only by manipulating images can the filmmaker express her deepest feelings about this family tragedy.
But few deep feelings are in evidence when, say, Ms. Loktev recreates the accident using a toy car and an action figure, or when she grills her mother about whether Leonid has any will to live. Love is shown by action. Loktev; produced by Melanie Judd. Running time: minutes. This film is not rated. Log In. View on timesmachine. TimesMachine is an exclusive benefit for home delivery and digital subscribers. We are continually improving the quality of our text archives.