The Voyeur Mafioso

To be honest, I'm not sure what started me along this path. It could have been boredom or the excitement of a new passion. I was working a dead-end job where it was my duty to make sure incoming cardboard packages were transferred to the proper airport. On weekends, I always stopped by the local adult book store, where one fateful day I was solicited for work by the man behind the counter.

"We're expanding," he said. The internet opened a new market that they intended to exploit. Across the city, intrepid agents had drilled peep holes into women's dressing rooms or into gym bathrooms. Now that the system was established, they needed camera men (all of us were male) to record what was appropriately titillating.

I've realized that many of our sexual thoughts and fantasies are fueled in large part by the basics of voyeurism. I've always found that being denied full nudity is in many ways more erotic than seeing everything. So do our customers. Some of my co-workers take it to extremes, and some play it safe. Nevertheless, our private glee and secret arousal often is motivated by observing something supposedly off-limits and forbidden.

With time, those fantasies grow more refined, layered, and amplified due of our own advanced personal tastes and the growth of rich fantasy life. Both are further enhanced as we grow older.

Some years later, I read My Secret Life. It's an erotic book published by an anonymous author around the end of the 19th Century, shortly before the conclusion of the Victorian Era. It could never be confused as a work of great fiction, or even good fiction, but its veracity could not be questioned. One particular anecdote has always stuck with me.

In the days before mass produced, easy to obtain pornography, men turned to other sources to appease themselves sexually. I recall one section of the work, an extended interlude upon a group trip through the woods. The men were to dress and bathe in one segregated area of the camp. The women were to occupy still another space where they might presumably have privacy.

Several men took vantage points along the top of a hill, directly next to where the women dressed. They witnessed many women changing and taking time for bodily functions. The account was, like the rest of the book, alternately bizarre and at times uncomfortably graphic. Its author was much kinkier and sexually adventurous than I was or ever would be. He fancied himself a bit of a dandy and was willing to take risks I could not and would not. He was quite wealthy and could afford to play daredevil. I envied his proficiency and access, though some of his behavior was beyond even me.

As I learned later, voyeurism paid. A market existed for it. I had to buy my own equipment at first, though I was eventually reimbursed for it within the first month or two. Digital video cameras are a fraction of the size they used to be and I learned many ways to disguise what I was doing. Disguise was my stock in trade and I coupled that with enough raw nerve to achieve every target goal.

Every morning, even Saturday and Sunday, I received a fresh e-mail from my boss. They were usually curt and to the point, typed in all caps. TARGET DRESSING ROOMS IN HECKART, 10:30 AM-12:00 PM, COLLEGE STUDENT RUSH. One wouldn't want to hang around for too long, as that would attract attention. I stick around for 45 minutes at most, and then keep moving.

The times really have changed. Technology makes much possible that was once impossible, or at least consigned to the realm of speculative fantasy. Photographs are much easier to take, because they last only a fraction of a second or two, but the customers clamor for videos. If you were curious, don't worry about trying to find our website.

You won't come close unless you're an expert in navigating parts of the web beyond the reach of Google or have a few hours to spend fruitlessly linking from site to site. Most of our business is spread by word of mouth, though at times a few persistent and lucky people have encountered our site on a whim and subscribed. Everyone knows the risk involved. As the saying goes, you pays your money, you takes your chances.

Every assignment has its own challenges and unknown variables. One day at a department store I spied only middle aged women, which is fine for some, but we tend to get more requests for the younger set. I'll let our customers provide the color commentary. For me, this is just a job. My foremost responsibility is not getting caught. I'll concede there is a degree of taboo fun present for me sporadically, but that's mostly faded into the background. I've become a professional, a label that always eluded me beforehand in every other occupation I tried.

How I do it is a trade secret I would prefer to keep mostly hidden. Suffice it to say that it wasn't learned overnight. In the beginning, I silently observed whoever entered a stall, feigning that I was trying on clothes myself. Having attained access to the dressing room area, I then balanced uneasily on a chair or by whatever elevation was possible for me.

My focus was on an immediately adjacent room. Half-standing, half-crouching, peeping just over the partition, I recorded a few minutes or so before noiselessly ducking back down for protection. Before I perfected my technique, I almost got caught on more than one occasion. My first few attempts were unusable because I couldn't hold my hand steady. I was too nervous, too fearful of getting caught in the act.

I don't know the identities of anyone else who works this same basic job. This is a condition of employment. We can't be seen at the same place too frequently or be somehow linked together even in guilt by association. Some men are assigned very different tasks from my own. Those who are skilled with hidden cameras have a basic understanding of concealing their equipment in an inconspicuous way, inside walls, bricks, bathrooms, and showers. Some shoot from the floor, with their camera focused upwards, capturing legs and feet.

I'm not smart enough or proficient enough for setups like those. Since none of us receives formal training, what we bring to the table are skills we've likely cultivated as a hobby, often to appease our own private peccadillos. Those jobs I've just mentioned pay more because there's increased risk involved and arguably more work. I'm not sure how to remove mortar around bricks or to chisel a small opening for a camera lens, nor do I care to learn.

I make enough. My paychecks never bounce, but they always come from a front company that is totally legit, but vague enough to not attract suspicion. For what it's worth, I'm good at what I do. I never have to leave the city and I don't scout my own assignments. In the summer, certain people are assigned to beach detail, drive a couple of hours to the coast, then setting up cameras inside shower stalls where women change into bathing suits. Year-round, some find ingenious ways to enter and visually document women's locker rooms at pools, spas, and gyms.

The only drawback for me is that weekends are always busy. When everyone else is out having fun, I've hit four or five dressing rooms, usually in the touristy part of town. I've done this long enough to know what to expect and when to expect it. If nothing especially interesting shows up within a few minutes, I know alternate locations that have worked well before. But unlike those who know how to conceal a hidden camera which runs for hours, then edit it down proficiently, my usable videos might last for a minute or two tops, or at best they might last for no more than five. To correct my earlier mistakes, I try to keep my hand steady and I don't make a sound.

At the moment, I've just finished up recording a young woman who appears to be in her early twenties. On my knees in the adjacent stall, I've managed to take an effective camera position. She is too busy trying on swimwear and then talking on a cell phone to know what I'm doing. These are the easy ones. Posted on every door in the changing area is a reminder that it isn't sanitary to try on bathing suits without first donning underwear. This woman doesn't seem to notice, but I could care less about store policy. She stays reasonably still and will be a popular upload.

What makes my work even possible is the way the cubicles are laid out. In many smaller stores, the men's facilities are right next to the women's. In stores where men and women are placed far apart, my job is impossible. We usually hit these locations for this reason, though once again, scouting is a task best left to someone else. As I leave, the woman continues to speak excitedly to an unknown party, entirely naked, conversing enthusiastically about some person who is, in her parlance, a dickhead. I've been here long enough. It's time to move on.

I check my phone for a text message.

GAP DRESSING ROOM, DOWNTOWN, 3:00 to 4:30 pm

That store always makes me nervous. It provides considerable challenges even when it is not packed to the gills. I know that whatever I salvage from this trip is going to come at great risk and what is usable may not be much. Apparently it's a popular location for our subscribers, which is why I keep being sent here against my better judgment.

When I set up next to a woman in an adjacent room, I have little to no idea of what she looks like. I have to rely on my ears, not my eyes. Based on what I've heard, I assume the occupant is a woman around eighteen or nineteen. This is confirmed when I peek slightly over the divider, using my camera attachment like a flexible periscope.

She's also trying on bikinis, minus the brassiere portion. Her breasts are large. She calls out to an unseen friend who is also trying on clothes. A group of girls appear to have gone on a shopping trip together.

"Maybe we should go to Target later."

"Yeah, we should," she replies.

Her voice is girlish and youthful, very much a stereotypical very feminine girly girl with immaculately applied makeup. The audience likes women like her, based on the statistics and the research. When one considers the number of highly ranked and viewed downloads, women like her are among our most favored.

There's commission in it for me if stumble upon a revealing setup and produce a particularly popular clip. That depends on luck more than it does skill. Much like the dynamics of a viral video, it's often difficult to predict success and interest. Videos I thought were fairly unimpressive have at times struck a chord.

Assuming I had a girlfriend, I might be able to take on-the-job experience and apply it to my love life. I've seen hundreds of women preen and primp before the mirror, scrutinizing themselves in a way they would only do in strictest privacy. That ritual in insecurity can take whole minutes before I need to start filming. I often have to do lots of editing at home to compress ten minutes live action into two or three.

After going through an elaborate, private ritual of insecurity, she begins to put on a new outfit or element of clothing. The process is goes forward is that of considerable analysis. Aesthetically speaking, this display of vulnerability and privacy is much more interesting to observe. Sex is one thing, but perceived total secrecy is even more private than that. We may be more comfortable as sexual beings in the outside world, though we are somewhat on our own terms. We are considerably much less confident when our bodily flaws are on display. Our worst critics are ourselves.

I've done this for five years and I've developed a sixth sense about this location. Something about this place makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I'm tempted to leave a few minutes early. The effect reminds me of reckless gambling. Should you chance upon a winning streak, the best decision is in knowing when to quit. The odds are in your favor only to an extent. Eventually, mathematically speaking, your luck will swing against you. Time to cut one's losses and move elsewhere.

As I alluded to earlier, the pay isn't what I'd prefer, but neither do I have to work terribly odd hours. Once I worked as a security guard at an exclusive golf course. My assignment was the graveyard shift, 7 pm to 7 am. Twelve hour shifts will really take it out of you, as well hitting the bed after the sun has risen. I don't have to guard ice machines and golf clubs at early mornings anymore, and I'm thankful for that much.

Even with the constant promise of great terror and being discovered, my work is generally fun. The adrenalin rushes I feel every day on the job no longer affect me as they once did, however.

One learns to not ask questions of one's superiors. Plausibility denial is a good strategy. I don't even know the name of the person who puts clips and pictures online. I send them along in edited form to a purposefully vague and innocuous e-mail address. I am only to use the address for video submissions. Few of my contributions are ever returned for being of insufficient quality or for needing additional video edits.

An operation this intensive and complex could only work in a large city, which is how I've learned nearly every neighborhood and general area, even if I've gotten completely lost a time or two.

If this wasn't a job for me, I might find the finished product as arousing as our customers seem to feel. As it stands, I don't really have the luxury. I never was the Peeping Tom sort, but I can at least intellectually understand why people are willing to pay the price for such veracity.

If one finds oneself aroused by the peculiar sound of urine hitting a toilet bowl or the sight of a woman clutching a handful of toilet paper, far be it for me to pass judgment. The spectacle never did much for me, but it does a great deal for many.

I guess I'm a bit more pragmatic. I'm attracted to the girl-next-door, the sort that might be interested in a guy like me. Beautiful women intimidate me. I see them on the street or through my viewfinder and question whether they'd ever be attracted to me. Our audience wants the girls who look like runway models, and that's quite a tall order. I have no control over who enters the next dressing room. I wish I could tell them that beauty comes in many forms.

For the first time in my life, I've become a professional in something. When I was younger, I was always attracted to films about hit men, the glamor of living a lone-wolf existence, the craft involved, and the insistent need for secrecy. I might not have approved of the tactics of it, but I sensed it gave a man like me a purpose. I always shyly kept to myself, letting few people into the particulars of my life.

I know it limited me socially, but I nevertheless I struggled to find a job where I'd have only sporadic contact with others.

Now, I fit someone's profile. I never had to brave the indignity of demeaning vocational tests and overly polite job counselors. No one cared about my references or my flimsy resume. The two most important questions asked were whether I was willing to do it and would I keep the nature of my vocation a complete secret. I assented eagerly to both. If asked, I was to say that I edited raw film for a professional pornography website. No one ever asked any further questions.

To this day, I don't even know who my immediate boss is. The interview prior to my hire was conducted completely online through chat. I saw no faces and they did not see mine. Specifically they asked about my computer skills with a particular editing software program and stressed that, should I be hired, I was to follow closely the demands and requests of our customer base.

A week later I was scanning my inbox and found a job offer waiting for me. I accepted by way of calling an unlisted cell phone number with an out-of-town area code. The digits were included in the text of the body. I was told would start in a week and was told to delete the message immediately after receiving it.

We've insisted upon strict secrecy to make sure that those on film or in a photograph never come across their own image for any reason.

We bill ourselves, in long-established parlance, as a gentleman's club.

And yes, we do have a handful of female members, too, meant to legitimize how harmless we really are. Subterfuge is remarkably easy in the internet age.

If you listen to the politicians speak and take their rhetoric seriously, you might concur that I worked for one of those All-American small businesses boosting the economy with ingenuity and effort. It was certainly established with both in mind, but I doubt anyone would want to equate economic stimulus with a small online fetish pornography company. I know we've provided the basic needs of many, enough to keep us afloat from quarter to quarter.

I don't rationalize what I do, but neither do I feel guilty. It's interesting work and beats anything else I did beforehand. I take pleasure in my handiwork, especially in the editing room that doubles as one corner of the living room in my small apartment. In post-production, I do my best to make every word spoken come out as clear as a bell, removing extraneous noise.

Customers have e-mailed us to say that the best videos make them feel like they're actually in the room themselves, observing every moment and every sound. The fly in the wall effect is our goal every time out.

In accordance with our policy, the raw files successfully uploaded to the server at central control and then are then promptly destroyed. No need to leave a paper trail or an electronic one. Like a criminal wiping clean the fingerprints, I wipe over the hard drive three times before starting a new assignment. I never said this wasn't a little sketchy or chancy, but this sort of business appeals to my rebellious side.

There's always work available. Like the taxi driver Travis Bickell, I have nothing resembling a life or a family, and I'm on the clock almost every day, though I am busier in the middle of the day. Customers leave frequent comments about which sets they enjoy the most and what they hope to see from us in the future.

These are taken seriously, because we pride ourselves on good customer service. For security purposes, we only conduct a one-way exchange with those who've signed up. They make requests, but we can't respond or provide feedback and apologize for it.

If someone were to ever ask me about the tricks of the trade, I'd remark that there really aren't any. Intuition and practice are far more valuable. What is high-risk can become high-reward very quickly. The most daring among us show faces and easily identifiable features with their camera work, which only courts disaster.

But that's my opinion. I cover my ass by usually shooting videos from the neck down, or pixilating faces when necessary. Customers complain, but they get 95% of what they want.

At times I fancy myself something of an unconventional auteur. The only difference is that my actresses aren't aware they're on stage and haven't read their lines beforehand. After a hard day's work, lines of a different sort begin to blur, the ones between reality and fantasy.

Sometimes I even think someone's filming me. The one liability to this job is that it shatters specific distinctions and perceptions that are normally in place to preserve our sanity. I can relate, on one level, to the celebrities who get hassled by paparazzi, always in front of a camera, with tabloid hunters even rooting around in their garbage.

I'm not amoral or uncaring. Most of my subjects will never know that their images are on film. Why would they think otherwise? They're usually too engrossed in over-analyzing their perceived physical flaws and perhaps even more secretly delighting in their assets. This is what makes my job easier than it could be. The company may well have substantial proof of my existence to use as blackmail if I threaten to quit. I can check out any time I like, but I can never leave.