Drunk, half-asleep and horny, our sexual explorer finds a peeping Tom moment too much to resist…

 

This month I want to tell you about a shameful moment of voyeurism, in which I spied on a young couple making love. The incident took place in the mid ’80s, and I’d completely forgotten it. But recently something happened which brought it to mind. It was an odd sensation, like getting a visit from someone you thought had died years ago.

What prompted the memory was my midlife crisis. I’ve been depressed for ages, and most days I just mope around the house, achieving nothing. But last week I decided to take action. I would shock myself out of it with discipline. A military approach! Every morning when my radio alarm went off, there would be no more reaching for the snooze button. Instead, I would leap out of bed, throw open the curtains and plunge myself under a shower. Invigorated by sunshine and hot water, I would be ready to tackle the day in a positive frame of mind. Only it didn’t quite work out that way.

For starters, I live opposite a junior school, a fact I should have considered before striding naked to the window. But I was too tired to think straight. I just opened the drapes, gave a massive arm-stretching yawn, and then heard the cheery laughter of 40 young children gathered in the playground below. I don’t want to get all Pete Townshend with my excuses here, because from their viewpoint I can see that it must have looked quite bad.

I had woken with the traditional semi-erection, and my wide yawn could easily have been interpreted by a five year old as a roar of demented sex rage. As soon as I realised what was happening, I hit the floor like I’d been shot by a sniper. Then there was the shower. What could go wrong? Well, I hopped in and got busy with the Imperial Leather, using my pubic hair as a “foaming area”. I’m sure we all have a system. Mine is groin, chest, armpits, arse. But as I attended to the first region, rubbing the soap briskly down through my privates, my lathered penis suddenly flicked back upwards like a medieval siege engine, hurling a sud straight into my left eyeball. The stinging was intense. I was blind! I staggered out, bumped into the sink, groped for a towel and finally sat, defeated, on the lavatory.

So the omens were clear. This wasn’t, after all, going to be the great day when I turned my life around. There was no point embarking on that killer film script or Booker Prize-winning novel. Instead, I slipped into my dressing gown and for the next five hours, as usual, I ate toast, played online poker and browsed obscene websites.

It was while engaged in this latter activity that I stumbled across a site dedicated to voyeurs. There were various free clips on offer, and one of them was called “My Weak Husband Watches”. It featured a weedy fellow sitting on the edge of a bed while a good-looking couple had sex in front of him. As soon as I saw it, all the details flooded back, crystal clear, in a Proustian rush. I don’t know why I can’t be reminded of nice things, of days when I had a romantic dinner or a pleasant day at the beach, but the fact is my brain only seems to regurgitate ignominious memories.

So then, 1986. In Number Ten, Margaret Thatcher; wearing number ten, Diego Maradona; at number ten, an awfully big marine called Camouflage. And I am smack in the middle of my ‘racking up the numbers’ period. Every weekend I go trawling for girls to have sex with, with a level of quality control so lax that it might be summed up as ‘no lepers’. I didn’t care if potential lovers had huge breasts or no breasts, pretty faces or ugly faces, just so long as they were willing to go to bed with me. One weekend, my friend Andy collared me to be his wingman at a party he’d been invited to. It was at a big rented house in Kensington, which meant the hosts were on the way up. Most of us had only left University a couple of years before, but you could already pick out the ones who would be flying away high and fast. The city boys, the lawyers.

But it also meant there would be lots of pretty Sloane Ranger girls in attendance, a species of female I was keen to experience more of. Having negotiated our way past the front door, I left Andy saying hallo to people in the hallway while I headed for the kitchen. The first mission at any party was to swap the drink we’d brought with us for something better. This wasn’t hard. In an effort to save money, we usually brought along ‘a Camberwell blend’. This was a collection of the dregs from old beer cans lying around our flat, mixed with Pepsi and poured back into a posh-looking wine bottle, which was then recorked and wrapped in tissue paper. Once dumped in the fridge, waiting like a time bomb for some poor sod to take a sip of, it gave us carte blanche to tuck into the champagne that more affluent guests had arrived with.

Arming myself with some Mumm, I swaggered out into the fray. There were maybe 60 people dotted around the house, with most of them in the front room. Andy and I quickly assessed which women were up for grabs and launched our double act. This was rather less sophisticated than The Game, as our sole tactic was to approach a girl, tell extraordinary lies about each other, and keep pouring booze into her glass like it was on fire. A typical exchange would involve me introducing Andy as a decorated Falklands veteran, or him hinting that I was going to be a lord when my father died. If a woman swallowed these fictions without protest, we knew we were halfway there. And maybe if I had kept my sights low, aiming as usual for the drunker, less attractive females, I might have got a result that night. But it all went wrong when I saw Melissa. She was stunning. About five six, perky figure, dark hair and a real minx’s mouth. Way out of my league.

But astonishingly, she came over and asked for some champagne. Given that I was wearing cords and an old Stiff Little Fingers T-shirt, there was no way she could have mistaken me for a waiter, so it could only mean she was keen to talk. I jumped right in, and it was superb. I made her laugh, she looked foxy as she smoked Silk Cut, there was a lot of arm touching and leaning into each other’s ears to make ourselves heard above the hubbub. I didn’t even need Andy, which was good as he was making progress of his own with a girl who, I was pleased to note, was nowhere near as good-looking.

When Melissa excused herself for a quick pee, I sidled over to bask in the glory. Andy reckoned I should play it cool and leave her alone for half-an-hour so she stayed “intrigued”. I was about to reply that this was the most insane piece of advice since King Harold was told “Cor! Look at those arrows up there!” at the battle of Hastings, when his pull suddenly piped up. “God, why does every man like her?” she said huffily. “She’s such a cheap slut.”

I believe the expression is, “asked… and answered.” And reassured that her morals were commendably low, I decided to give Melissa 15 minutes without me. The plan was to let some yacking toff bore the ears off her about polo or stockbroking for a while, then ride to the rescue and get a shag. However, when I next saw her at the party, the flaw in my cunning scheme was revealed. She was sitting on the sofa and had her tongue so far down the throat of another bloke that she could have been conducting an endoscopy.

Unable to interrupt such passion, I slunk off to call Andy a tosser, only to find that he’d sneakily left already with his conquest. So I was stranded in Sloane Ranger Hell – no taxi fare home, no single women and Simply Red on the stereo. I responded in the only rational way possible, by getting blind drunk and passing out in the spare room. It belonged, I later discovered from Andy, to a girl who was smart enough to work at the Treasury, but not smart enough to lock her door when she went away for the weekend. There was a single bed complete with a family of teddy bears, a couple of beanbags and an armchair. I loosened my trousers, took my shoes off and got between the sheets.

For the next hour or so I was vaguely aware of people coming in and out to get their coats, but nobody properly woke me up. Only thirst could do that and, around four in the morning, I groggily regained consciousness. I peeled open my eyes, focussed my gaze and immediately froze.

Melissa was naked on the carpet. The bloke she’d been kissing was on top of her. They were fucking with silent intensity. Once my brain had kicked into gear, I realised I was faced with a stark choice. I could either politely cough and let them know they were observed, or narrow my eyes and watch some living porn. Looking at Melissa writhing in the silvery light, her nipples erect, her loins grinding up at her partner, there could only be one decision. Within seconds the erect penis count in the room had doubled.

But watching was not enough, so moving at glacier speed, I subtly slid my hand down into my trousers and began to masturbate. I had to do this without making a sound, of course, as a single creak of the bed could have given me away. So instead of strumming away heartily, I ever-so-gently caressed my penis with microscopic up and down movements. It was a stealth wank.

On the floor, their thrustings grew stronger. I could hear the noise of their bodies slapping together, and over it her muffled gasps. There was a sheen of perspiration on her breasts. Biting my lip, I began to time my strokes with his. In, out, up, down… accelerating towards an orgasm I knew would be explosive. But where could I come? Not in my own clothes, not with an hour-long bus journey waiting for me in the morning. And not on the sheets either, because the owner would surely discover the crinkled stains. I needed something close at hand that I could erupt on and then discreetly wash in the sink.

Sadly for my self esteem, there was only one thing within reach that fitted the bill. At the time, I tried to kid myself it was a jumper she kept under the pillows, but – even in my drunkeness – I knew the truth. Giving a pretend snore, I rolled onto my side and shot my wad over Paddington Bear. As predicted, my climax was a belter. I couldn’t measure it in fluid ounces, but let’s just say it was a good job the little fellow was wearing his wellington boots and sou’wester. Still… ejaculating on a children’s character. It was a new low, and it’s easy to see why I’d buried the memory. But, in an odd way, remembering it has made me feel slightly better about my depressing midlife crisis. If only because I now realise things may actually be getting better…