LIFE & TIMES OF A FAGGOT: VOYEURISM

LIFE & TIMES OF A FAGGOT: VOYEURISM

By BRYCE RAY

My bedroom window looks directly into the kitchen and living room of the apartment across from mine. Every so often I'll catch my neighbor peering out his window, across the airshaft, and into my room. The first time I noticed him I was changing and happened to look right into his eyes as I was pulling my underwear down. I ducked so fast that I nearly hit my head on the window sill. Slowly, I eased back up, subtly trying to see if he was still watching. he was. I jumped onto my bed and out of view of the window, unsure whether or not to be offended, amused, or turned on. Part of me enjoyed it. After that, every time I would change in front of the window, I'd sneak a peak across the airshaft, secretly hoping to catch him looking. One night, a few weeks later, I was laying naked in bed, smoking a joint, when I started to touch myself. again, i looked up to find him watching me. I stared at him for a moment, considering whether or not to keep touching myself. I thought of Miranda on Sex and the City playing window peek-a-boo with her own neighbor. Then I remembered that her neighbor was actually cruising the guy in the apartment above her. I gave my neighbor a little wink and ducked out of sight. It felt good to be looked at—desired like that—but I wasn't feeling the fantasy. My neighbor is nowhere near as cute as Miranda. Still, every time I change, I look to see if he is there. 

you can’t live in new york city without liking to be looked at. at least a little bit. Recently I've found myself walking a lot. joint in hand, I walk. I like to observe the city, study the people around me. the city is great for people watching. New York is such a voyeuristic city. you’re constantly being bombarded with people. as you watch them, they watch you. Everyone is constantly being perceived at all times. I love walking around at night and peering into people’s apartments from the sidewalk below, seeing little snapshots of other people’s lives. one can’t help but imagine what the lives of the people living inside are like. What do they do? How do they relate to one another? Why'd they put that bowl there? an old friend of mine used to live in cobble hill in an apartment with windows that looked directly into the windows of the apartment across the very narrow airshaft. I stayed with her for a few weeks, years before I even moved here, and we spent every breakfast just watching the lives of this white, well-to-do cobble hill couple and their newborn baby. We delighted in watching the rather attractive husband coo at his baby. Once he even played guitar. their lives felt like a performance for us to marinate in—an anthropological glimpse into other people’s lives. 

Because New York is such a voyeuristic city, New Yorkers understand the art of presentation. people leave their apartment with the expectation that they are going to be looked at. they dress with a certain amount of intention, every article of clothing signaling something about their personality, wealth, social circle, and the person that they want to be and the world to see them as. from just a pair of martine rose sneaker heels or a Yeezy x Mowalola WET tank, you’re able to classify exactly who that person is and the crowd that they run in. You can even tell what neighborhood someone lives in based on how they dress. the hell’s kitchen gays dress much differently than the bushwick gays who dress differently than the chelsea gays—and so on and so forth. It's the same with people’s apartments. Every glimpse into someone else’s apartment is a glimpse at how they want themselves to be viewed. Look at how chic the mirror is above my fireplace, they seem to be asking, curtains wide open, begging the sidewalk passers-by to notice. Doesn’t my kitchen make me look so rich? you hear as you steal a glance at their enormous marble island standing tall in the middle of their enormous kitchen in their enormous apartment. (I'm not bitter, I promise.)

I love that about the city. I love that you can tell so much about each and every person you pass by just by how they present themselves (and their apartments!). Of course, this is true of people in any place, but New Yorkers are a special breed. The constant bombardment of people and advertising (can’t forget about social media!) has warped our brains into thinking that a pair of tabis are a substitute for a personality. Perhaps they are.