What is the voyeur? Is it the pervert at the keyhole, or the man hiding in the bushes with his hand down his pants? The flasher grinning behind a dirty coat, cock or cunt bared to the unsuspecting? The old man in the rusty truck, watching with his engine idling? Are they voyeurs—or just deviants?

No.

The voyeur is more elegant than that. More dangerous. And far more honest. It sees without touching, craves without disrupting. It makes no claim—but devours everything. The perfected voyeur orchestrates through will alone, thriving on what it sees until what’s seen consumes it, teases it past control, and finally lets it come undone without a single touch.

Shavonne drooled on my shoulder, asleep and warm against my spread body. That had become almost habitual by now. It wasn’t what occupied my thoughts, though the act of running my fingers down her back and cupping the curve of her ass always felt grounding.

No—the voyeur who had made me come undone, who'd made me submit to cock, ruin, and cum at her will—wasn’t the source. She was only the catalyst.

Because maybe I’d always been one. Not the whore. The voyeur.

I thought about Adam, my first boyfriend—and maybe the only one I hadn’t seen entirely through my own eyes. I’d been so young back then, a whole year ago, believing it was about him and me, the magic of lost virginity, something shared, something mutual. Orgasm as communion. Cock and cunt as dialogue. An orgasm that never came and a dialogue never had. Not with him.

But it’s not just about being fucked. It’s about seeing yourself being fucked. Watching your own destruction from somewhere just above your body. Cataloguing the sounds, the stretch, the breath—the power exchange. And knowing exactly where you break. Mapping where they fold.

The ruin. And loving it.

Maybe that’s why I never close my eyes when I come. Because I want to see it all. Because watching is how I survive. It’s how I stay in control, even when I give it up.

Maybe that’s what makes me dangerous. Not that I fuck. Not that I submit. But that I never stop watching.

You can study crusty porn mags or dig through internet archives, but that only makes you the voyeur. It doesn’t tell you why you’re it. A game of tag—magazines buried at the bottom of the pile in the outhouse, a forgotten browser tab, a failure to delete history—and boom. You’re it.

The voyeur is ancient.

The writings of Bataille, Mulvey, and Lacan—into the psychoanalytic void, where the gaze becomes structure, and the one who sees is never innocent. “To see is to possess,” someone wrote. “To witness is to wound.”

I’m my witness.

“To look is to fuck—with your eyes.”

Had I not fucked too many of my peers this year? My professors?

I devoured those texts. Slow, deep, held in the back of the throat until meaning settled in the lungs. Until I could feel the weight of their words pushing into me. A tip—you should swallow cum the same way.

Mulvey taught me that the camera wasn’t neutral. The male gaze frames women in stillness, in submission, into silent spectacle. But I wasn’t silent. And I wasn’t still. I saw myself through that lens and refused to freeze.

Nothing fucks a man—or a woman—worse than having their script flipped.

People’s minds still get fucked by that. Not the flipping itself—but the fact that I don’t care whether I fuck men or women. I’ve never paused, never gone breathless, over some tired, fragile question like am I gay? It’s nonsensical.

If I’m horny, I fuck. And maybe I don’t care whether it’s me or them that breaks beautifully.

No—I don’t even need to be horny. Horny is contagious. Maybe more than anything else that burrows into you. You just need it to be present. In the room. On the skin. In the breath between you.

Maybe that’s why I like girls more than men. I have a pussy. I’ve learned what she likes—and she’s learned to like what I want.

Fuck, I am a pussy.

I have the guts to watch myself in the mirror and admire what a perfect cunt I am. Lacan and the mirror stage—that’s where the fracture begins. But what if the mirror isn’t glass at all? What if it’s another woman’s gaze? What if the first time I saw myself as whole, I was on my knees, in Shavonne’s eyes, wrapped in ruin and leash?

Shavonne’s butt is perfect, and when she’s draped around me like she was that morning, her cunt feels less like an invitation and more like a grounding force. It wasn’t even sexual—not really—just silently anchoring. A quiet answer to all the noise in my head.

Bataille didn’t even try to be clean about it. For him, sex was transgression and spectacle—the body as a stage. The orgasm is a surrender of the self to the void.

Fine. Let it be void. But I’ll name it. And I’ll watch it swallow me.

It didn’t feel academic. Not when I was studying in bed, Shavonne’s thigh draped across my stomach, sweat still between us, my pussy still aching like it had been filed open by a priest. But I underlined every line anyway—her pussy as parchment, fingers as quill. Annotated the margins in half-legible shorthand.

Because if I was going to be the object, I was going to become the fucking scholar of it.

Maybe that’s what the voyeur is. Not just a watcher. But a curator of undoing. A cartographer of collapse. I saw myself. I documented. I preserved the moment.

And then, I turned the page.

I didn’t fool myself. The night before had been a history lesson. I’d cracked a joke about Shavonne’s origins—flippant, lazy, laced with the drawl of a Southern girl raised on bigotry and cotton fields. A mockery of slavery dressed up as charm.

Shavonne didn’t correct me. She offered me as the punchline. She sold me. That was the lesson.

Truths, humor, and even lies are always about perspective—and I was never shy about learning.

Gosh, golly, Mr. Sir. That’s an awful lot of money. I respect your cock so much more now. You’ve gone and made my cooter all wet ’n’ bothered.

Perhaps even Emma-Mae, watching from the kitchen window, would’ve chimed in:

Yes, Miss Reed, and you’ve still got the nerve to call me slave.

The echo cracked through my head like thunder across a Southern plantation fantasy I never asked for. That’s the thing about buried things—they still find ways to surface, dressed in someone else’s drawl. I could mock inherited money and legacies carved in blood, but that would mean I also had to face my own.

I had to make a mockery of Southern bigotry—Bible in one hand, chains of the past in the other, and on my back, the monkey still asking why my doctor was a Black man. Because that’s what Madison whispered in its still-dark corners.

And I was the butt end of every incest joke about the South.

Still, when I used her own slick as lube and slipped a finger up her sweet butthole, she moaned and drooled harder against my shoulder. I wondered, just for a second, if the way her body tensed before yielding, the way she spread herself wider across me—maybe this is what people confuse with love?

But I didn’t fuck her out of empathy. So it had to be something else.

Maybe this was more her field than mine. Perhaps that’s why the lesson stuck. Because maybe the night wasn’t about psychology at all. Maybe it was sociology.

Maybe she was sociology—messy, embodied, raw data against my palm. Her butthole tight and trembling, her cunt leaking truth, her body a thesis that refused to be peer-reviewed—but was critically acclaimed.

She felt like the interracial fantasies on those websites. And maybe, once you stumble onto Black, you can’t go back.

But interracial is a myth. We’re all human. And in the end, she was flesh and skin, cunt and ass—just like me.

She drooled half-asleep into my shoulder, and I realized she wasn’t just part of the study. She was the study.

I’m cumming.

I slapped her ass. She stirred awake, drool stringing from her lips to my skin. She wiped her mouth, kissed me, and slipped into the shower—easy, casual, as if none of it haunted her.

Maybe it didn’t.

I joined her. Not just because that’s what we do—but because it felt efficient.

“Did you just fuck me?” she whispered between soap and lips.

“Did it feel like it or a dream?” I whispered into her mouth.

“This whole trip is a dream,” she answered.

We counted our money. I giggled at my tip, but we’d financed the whole trip—gas, food, even indulgence. Of course, Shavonne treated me to breakfast on Mr. Delacourte’s tab. We ordered too much, lingered too long, and let the morning light pretend it hadn’t seen the night before.

We slipped into the pool to make sure all the stains and bruises were properly soaked, the filth washed out of creases and between thighs, down drains no one dared question.

She booked me a massage at the hotel spa—a well-deserved indulgence. I let the robe fall. He expected panties. I wore none.

I lay down, closed my eyes, and let him work. He rubbed out every knot, every stretch, every sin. Every echo of cock and collar, dollar and leash.

He didn’t ask questions. And for a while, it felt earned. I just breathed. Rejuvenated. Fresh. Relaxed.

Not a whisper from Kristeva or a sound from Bataille. Just a girl almost dozing off, mind slumbering between the touch of a man and the memory of a girl.

I should have known.

He rubbed the tension out of my last toe, and I heard him exit the room. But the presence that followed didn’t arrive with footsteps. It came quiet. Lingering. Familiar before the scent even reached me—cigar smoke and expensive Cognac, stitched into the fabric of a perfect suit.

Shavonne moaned behind the curtain, hips crashing against ass—her rhythm unmistakable. Of course she was fucking her masseur. Of course she was.

I sighed and opened my mouth.

Mr. Delacourte pushed inside.

We hit the road just after one o’clock. She grinned that familiar grin—the one that said more than any conversation ever could. I rinsed cum down my throat from the bottle I’d picked up at the reception. Still on Mr. Delacourte’s tab.

“Worth it?” she asked, grinning like she already knew.

I didn’t answer right away. Maybe the truth was too daring. But she asked for honesty.

“He’s growing on me,” I said. “But he fucks in slow motion, and I haven’t quite adjusted.”

I’m not sure whether the look she gave me was worry or intrigue, but she moved on.

“GPS roulette?” she asked.

I studied the map. I’d let chance get me gangbanged—a history lesson wrapped in orgasm, a psychology experiment turned sociology lecture. I wasn’t ready to let fortune dictate my next move. Maybe I wanted to see if there was a lesson for Shavonne somewhere along the 401. Maybe I just wanted to know what Canadian cock felt like.
But I’d been fucked raw. Maybe it was time to let body and soul catch up to whatever it was I was becoming—before letting chance teach me more.

“No,” I said. “Road trip with purpose. Ottawa. Toronto. Niagara Falls. Then back to Cambridge.”

We did tourism in Ottawa. Walked the canal. Pretended to care about Parliament. Drank overpriced coffee beside monuments built on stolen land. Shavonne took pictures.

I watched people.

Yeah—I fucked them with my eyes.

Neither of us said what we were actually thinking, but underneath it all, we were just roommates on spring break—two girls who dared to walk backward and flirt.

Somewhere, in the dim corner of a quiet bar, I let myself wonder:

If something was a little less Shavonne and a little more Kelly…And Kelly was less Kelly and more Shavonne?

We got intimate in the melting pot of Toronto.

Walked panty-less on the glass floor of the CN Tower, watching the miniature people below, hoping they’d catch a glimpse. Maybe they did. Maybe that was the point.

A rooftop bar. A shared plate of something neither of us could pronounce—spicy, vinegary, too good to slow down for. We drank cocktails named after poems and dead philosophers. She licked sauce off my chin with the hunger of someone who’d skipped lunch and dinner.

We ate hot dogs from carts at midnight, greasy and perfect, ketchup dripping onto our wrists. I stole a bite of hers just to piss her off. She bit back—hard, playful, just above my collarbone.

We got giddy. Loud. Unapologetically American. She kissed me in front of a group of boys outside a bubble tea shop on Yonge, and I think I moaned just to make their lives harder.

“Yonge Street,” Shavonne whispered. “Wonder how many orgasms she’ll hear tonight?”

I breathed.

She had made me hot. But somewhere between my heat and the city steam, I started to wonder.

What kinds of girls had walked the spine of Yonge before us? What were they chasing? What were they fleeing? Had they strutted in heels, fresh from a bad decision, or limped barefoot after one too many?

Had they kissed strangers in alleyways, swallowed their shame with gin from their father’s cabinets, or told themselves they were in love when really—they were learning to perform it?

What had Yonge made them do?

I imagined the street as archive. As altar. As stretch of asphalt soaked in secrets. Girls like us had always walked it. But only some left anything behind.

We caught a cab. Her fingers slid down my jeans, and we forgot to tip the driver.

I came quietly in the elevator.

She came later, laughing into my mouth in a too-expensive hotel room with a view that didn’t matter.

She watched me pee in the shower and got off on it. I hadn’t planned it that way. But she asked if I would.

And for her? Why not?

We got filthy again in Niagara Falls. Proper cunt, cock, and cum filthy. We arrived late Wednesday night, just in time to catch the light show—spectacular beams slicing through mist and darkness, casting the city and the water in a surreal glow. It was beautiful enough to make us whisper.

Then we turned and looked at the city.

Americans can’t be entertained by beauty alone, so Canada delivered a compromise: horror houses, family restaurants, fudge stores, tacky souvenir stands, and casinos. Neon signs sold distraction—cheap thrills in a town built on falling water. Capitalism gnawed at the hallowed ground—because money, power, and entitlement always do. And honeymooners came into the soil like it was ritual. Like blasphemy. Like colonialism with better lighting.

And we had money to burn. And we weren’t shy about blasphemy either.

We hit the casino, then the strip clubs. We promised strangers that the girls were fine—but we were better.

We whored. Sold ourselves to a group of guys—no names, no context, just barely enough cash to justify it. No power play. Just gas money, cum, and the last shred of pretense stripped off like something we’d outgrown. Face to face on a motel bed, I watched her. Not just her body—her face. How it shifted with each new cock. The way her jaw clenched, the small winces, the flickers of detachment, and something else. She took them in like she was testing herself, measuring endurance, or maybe just pushing past boredom.

And then, somewhere between the third and fourth guy, I saw it fade. All of it. The performative pleasure, the resistance, the awareness. She stopped being someone doing something. She just was.

In that moment, her eyes found mine. We moaned into each other’s mouths—not from lust, not from ruin, but from something closer to release. Like we’d spent ourselves back to zero. Because that was intimacy—the way we’d chosen it that night. And making out with your best friend is worth cumming over.

And the guys? They’d have a story to tell about Niagara Falls once they started at the University of Toronto.

We walked through the dawn, sipped coffee, and told lies. Laughed at promiscuity like it was something daughters needed to find in order to become truly. The Niagara River Parkway stretches out and beyond, takes you somewhere without asking if you’re ready to go. But if you pay attention, you can veer off—walk the quiet parks until you end up on Dufferin Isle Road, where the Niagara River takes an unnatural bend around the Dufferin Islands.

Two girls squatting in the muddy riverbed, pissing out half a week of sin and pleasure into the water.

“Would your father approve of you?” she asked mid-pee.

“Dad?” I asked, stalling.

She smirked—that sly, knowing smirk that read my mind. “You miss them?”

“My parents? Sure. But not just because…”

“What’s better? Whoring or family?”

She’d always been blunt.

“They’re different,” I offered. “One’s a need. The other—”

“A different need?”

Later, back at the Horseshoe Falls, we giggled at the tourists on the boats, wrapped in blue and yellow raincoats, bracing against the spray like it wasn’t the most epic golden shower in history.

It was time to get back to Cambridge.

Slow at first—the Rainbow Bridge is a long wait. Passports inspected under the scrutiny of law. Racism personified, as my driver was questioned and I wasn’t. Then highway again, a hum against slow and silent conversation.

“Thursday in Madison. Spring break,” she said.

I glanced at my phone. Eleven-thirty.

“Just barely getting up. Possibly untangling from Sander’s limbs. Separating his from mine,” I said.

“Every night?” she wondered.

I paused. Watched the sun reflect off the silver tanker she just had to get past.

“Not every night. I don’t think.”

She grinned. “What does family sin taste like, Hannah?”

It wasn’t even a stab or a judgment. It was an honest question, coming from a sincere place.

“Surprise, at first,” I said, tasting the back of my mouth. “Then familiarity—almost like slipping into your favorite sweater and worn slippers. Until you reset, because you can’t let it become tedious.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just let the answer sit between us like steam on the windshield. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel, syncing with the soft tick of the blinker as we passed another sleepy exit. No rush. No destination that couldn’t wait.

“Do you think you’ll ever stop?” she asked eventually.

She couldn’t have known my head was wrapped around Sander’s cock, sliding between the folds of...