Confessions of a Peeping Tom
Nov. 10th, 2004 10:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
palace_jonJournal Entry: Private.
Jon turned on his heels and ran the short distance across the hallway to the correct door. To his door. His face was aflame with embarrassment and his hands shook as he tried to key the door open.
Once inside, he closed the door and leaned back onto it’s cool smooth surface, until he felt marginally more in control of himself. What to do? Never, in his short life, had he seen anything like it! So . . . primal, the [obviously] carnal meeting of two bodies, two lithe, taut bodies, had sent his mind into a spin, an image of the men, tangled together in a skein of silken limbs, seemingly burned into the back of his retinas.
Hand to his chest, he pushed off from the door and staggered over to the table, slumping down into the chair and resting his head on his hands, completely distraught. His fingers tapping the tabletop as he tried to think rationally touched on a solid metal object and he raised his head a little, identifying it and pulling it to him feverishly. His diary! That was the answer to all his problems. The battered old com unit he’d bought with him from Sunmount was his best friend, his mentor, was where he’d always catalogued his thoughts and worked out his problems. It would not fail him now!
Dear Diary,
I have seen the most upsetting [yet strangely compelling] sight. Attempting to make my own way back to my room from the cafeteria, I became turned around and confused, opening a door I mistook for my own and only discovering once I peered inside that it was Guy’s room, the man who helped me the other night.
But he was . . . copulating. With another man. They were . . . and he had his . . . and it was . . . I am most distressed.
No, that is not true. The word is incorrect. I was distressed only by my failure to meet my own expectations. My stomach felt tight and my blood seemed to heat as my face, I know, turned to flame and I ran. Please let them not have heard my inopportune entrance or worse yet, have seen me all a-flutter! Guy is such a nice, caring man and I should hate to upset him with my foolishness.
What else should I have expected I must ask myself? I know about libertines and their work, why then did I walk so blindly into this position? Was I expecting perhaps not to see anything untoward? I have been an unthinking fool.
Lord, spare me my blushes. I must accustom myself to the way things are, not walk about blinkered and startled at every turn. But where to begin? How do I start . . .
His fingers stilled on the keypad and he looked over at the closet door. Yes! He dived in and knelt down, pulling out his suitcase. Fumbling with the locks, he opened the near-empty case and pulled out the handful of pamphlets the lady at Reception had given him upon arrival.
Literature in hand, he went back to the desk and sorted through it. Upon arrival, he had been too weary to read it as he should have, but now, as he flicked open one brightly colored brochure after another, he found what he was searching for and held it up in triumph.
. . . I shall take classes! Learn about the new conditions in which I find myself, the better to understand [and to cope with] them and so that I can be more effective in administrating to my Palace flock.
Oh, I can be so much more helpful and compassionate and understanding, if I myself understand. This is wonderful and I see now that opening the wrong door was a sign and one for which I give fervent thanks, Oh Lord.
Jon’s finger traced down the list and he pulled out a piece of paper on which he could write down his selections. Anatomy, of course, just to make sure he understood the basic terminology. Then, naturally, there was Basic Sexual Technique. That would come in handy, too.
Perhaps he could even arrange to sit in on one or two of the advanced courses. It might be permitted, seeing as he was not a libertine and only engaged in research. Psychology maybe? And he scribbled down Advanced Eroticism as well, just in case.
He peered at the list. What was ‘Toys’? Brow furrowed with concentration, he tried to think of what it could possibly involve, but his imagination failed him and he shrugged. He’d ask someone at the first possible opportunity. Perhaps Guy would know?
Now, what else? Sitting back in his seat and a lot more composed now that he once again had things in order, he stuck the pencil in his mouth and scratched at the back of his neck where Brother Abraham’s name tag was sticking into his nape. He needed to get to know the building, to find his way around independent of assistance. Could someone possibly give him a tour? He made a note of the idea. He should see the places where the libertines worked, too. The rooms. What were they called? He scribbled again. Terminology, he wrote. Another new thing to learn.
The clock by his bed made a sick-sounding chiming noise and he looked up in surprise. Good Heavens! He was due over at the hostel in fifteen minutes to read to the children! Hurriedly, he stuffed his notes into his pocket and got to his feet, remembering at the last minute to lock down his journal and close the case.
Jon turned on his heels and ran the short distance across the hallway to the correct door. To his door. His face was aflame with embarrassment and his hands shook as he tried to key the door open.
Once inside, he closed the door and leaned back onto it’s cool smooth surface, until he felt marginally more in control of himself. What to do? Never, in his short life, had he seen anything like it! So . . . primal, the [obviously] carnal meeting of two bodies, two lithe, taut bodies, had sent his mind into a spin, an image of the men, tangled together in a skein of silken limbs, seemingly burned into the back of his retinas.
Hand to his chest, he pushed off from the door and staggered over to the table, slumping down into the chair and resting his head on his hands, completely distraught. His fingers tapping the tabletop as he tried to think rationally touched on a solid metal object and he raised his head a little, identifying it and pulling it to him feverishly. His diary! That was the answer to all his problems. The battered old com unit he’d bought with him from Sunmount was his best friend, his mentor, was where he’d always catalogued his thoughts and worked out his problems. It would not fail him now!
Dear Diary,
I have seen the most upsetting [yet strangely compelling] sight. Attempting to make my own way back to my room from the cafeteria, I became turned around and confused, opening a door I mistook for my own and only discovering once I peered inside that it was Guy’s room, the man who helped me the other night.
But he was . . . copulating. With another man. They were . . . and he had his . . . and it was . . . I am most distressed.
No, that is not true. The word is incorrect. I was distressed only by my failure to meet my own expectations. My stomach felt tight and my blood seemed to heat as my face, I know, turned to flame and I ran. Please let them not have heard my inopportune entrance or worse yet, have seen me all a-flutter! Guy is such a nice, caring man and I should hate to upset him with my foolishness.
What else should I have expected I must ask myself? I know about libertines and their work, why then did I walk so blindly into this position? Was I expecting perhaps not to see anything untoward? I have been an unthinking fool.
Lord, spare me my blushes. I must accustom myself to the way things are, not walk about blinkered and startled at every turn. But where to begin? How do I start . . .
His fingers stilled on the keypad and he looked over at the closet door. Yes! He dived in and knelt down, pulling out his suitcase. Fumbling with the locks, he opened the near-empty case and pulled out the handful of pamphlets the lady at Reception had given him upon arrival.
Literature in hand, he went back to the desk and sorted through it. Upon arrival, he had been too weary to read it as he should have, but now, as he flicked open one brightly colored brochure after another, he found what he was searching for and held it up in triumph.
. . . I shall take classes! Learn about the new conditions in which I find myself, the better to understand [and to cope with] them and so that I can be more effective in administrating to my Palace flock.
Oh, I can be so much more helpful and compassionate and understanding, if I myself understand. This is wonderful and I see now that opening the wrong door was a sign and one for which I give fervent thanks, Oh Lord.
Jon’s finger traced down the list and he pulled out a piece of paper on which he could write down his selections. Anatomy, of course, just to make sure he understood the basic terminology. Then, naturally, there was Basic Sexual Technique. That would come in handy, too.
Perhaps he could even arrange to sit in on one or two of the advanced courses. It might be permitted, seeing as he was not a libertine and only engaged in research. Psychology maybe? And he scribbled down Advanced Eroticism as well, just in case.
He peered at the list. What was ‘Toys’? Brow furrowed with concentration, he tried to think of what it could possibly involve, but his imagination failed him and he shrugged. He’d ask someone at the first possible opportunity. Perhaps Guy would know?
Now, what else? Sitting back in his seat and a lot more composed now that he once again had things in order, he stuck the pencil in his mouth and scratched at the back of his neck where Brother Abraham’s name tag was sticking into his nape. He needed to get to know the building, to find his way around independent of assistance. Could someone possibly give him a tour? He made a note of the idea. He should see the places where the libertines worked, too. The rooms. What were they called? He scribbled again. Terminology, he wrote. Another new thing to learn.
The clock by his bed made a sick-sounding chiming noise and he looked up in surprise. Good Heavens! He was due over at the hostel in fifteen minutes to read to the children! Hurriedly, he stuffed his notes into his pocket and got to his feet, remembering at the last minute to lock down his journal and close the case.
