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Leonardo Myers
Leonardo Myers

The Voyeur Next Door PATCHED



The book has alternative POVs of both the main characters- Ali and Gabe, so we get to learn everything from both their perspectives. They develop a cyber relationship with each other and they agree to keep their identities secret from one another until they are ready to see each another. And this thing leads to the next and they develop a far more deeper connection than only sex. But when they actually learn the truth, sort of hell breaks loose.




the voyeur next door



Written by the one and only Alexis Fawx, "The Voyeur Next Door" is a four-part series that takes a deep dive into the wild, sexual perversions of suburbia. Although the gated community of ZZ Royal Hills might strike the naked eye as a postcard-worthy representation of an idyllic suburban paradise, Alexis Fawx and her boyfriend, Ricky Johnson ? a kinky, forward-thinking couple ? have infiltrated the cozy confines of McMansions and model families. Even more disconcerting for the community's conservative residents is that Alexis and Ricky intentionally display their licentious activities, and this behavior has trickled down to Kendra Spade, the foreign exchange student living with them. Even more, Alexis loves an audience, and she finds a willing one in the form of the repressed Parker Family, who live next door and seem to be waiting for someone to unleash their hidden perversions.


I went to bed, tired, after a long day of learning with others to access the felt sense and the techniques of focusing. There were eight of us along with two instructors. The day had been enlightening and invigorating. I was looking forward to continuing the following day and wanted to be fresh and well rested. I settled down to sleep, adjusted my pillow, did a relaxation exercise and then proceeded to lay there while the projector in my mind fired up and for the next seven hours the whole novel played itself out in fast forward.


''It is a restless moment. Hong Kong 1962,'' reads a title card at the beginning of ''In the Mood for Love,'' and a restiveness that's almost voluptuous -- like that first blush of love when you can barely concentrate on anything else and the world seems new and strange -- fills the movie. ''Mood'' is a great word, because a lot of the movie is mood. The principals are caught as the camera peers at them through the edges of doorways. Its writer and director, Wong Kar-wei, is one of that gifted new breed of moviemakers who think through the lens, and he uses that talent to give the film a heated, rapturous quality; the camera floats along, sneaking a look at the performers out of the corner of its eye. Narrative has rarely been a motivating factor for him; instead his heart spills out onto the screen.


Mr. Wong is infatuated with the headiness of pop and he's brilliant at using it, as with the Nat King Cole songs that play repeatedly throughout. Cole's pearly enunciation reflects the refinement of the stars, Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung. They play a couple married to other people who are renting rooms in apartments right next door, and they eventually discover that their spouses are having affairs with each other.


V/H/S 99 is the latest of those sequels to arrive from Shudder, with another expected to arrive next year. The anthology followed a found footage theme before it began incorporating specific years into the mix in 2021. Doing so injected new life, as well as new horror directors, into the franchise.


The story follows a married couple documenting their traveling during their honeymoon. But it stops being romantic once a stranger breaks into their room and films themselves having their way with their sleeping body. The end reveal is fantastic, in the short taps into the voyeurism aspect of horror very well, and the second-hand sense of betrayal comes through to the audience.


I stood there in the sunshine, my jaw turned to concrete, the 96-point bold italics sang out from the other tabloids. IRELAND MOURNS, IRELAND SHRIEKS IN ANGUISH. A white Sanitation Department truck cruised down the block, its rear end agape like a huge maw. The driver leaned across the front seat, swung the right door open, his mate jumped onto the running board from the street and pulled himself in, hey there, cordially. The door slammed, the truck picked up speed and the May breeze blew away the odor quickly.


Well, maybe. I walked back to the pay-phone on the other corner. In Amsterdam or Rome I might have trudged half-a-mile. In North Africa I would have waited on line with 20 other people at the PTT or driven to the next dot on the map to place my call. Here in Manhattan, I balanced my address book on the small triangular shelf inside the phone booth.


The girl came over the next morning. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and rang the bell twice while we took turns admiring her from the peephole. Her hair was blond and ironed straight and she was falsely tanned. She glanced at something written in a pink notebook and took a step back to look up and down the street, shading her eyes with her hand. While we watched her, my partner asked me if we could educate her on the physical dangers of using chemically bleaching products and I said No, none of that.


My partner left for work and I practiced with my doors. As I opened and closed the bathroom door, I wondered idly if the girl above had a boyfriend who would be worried about her. She might even be thinking of him at that moment, willing him to take to the streets, to search for her. I knew there would be no value in her fantasies.


With thoughts of him erased from my mind, I became free to attend to my daily practice. After he leaves for work, I throw open the bedroom door and declare what a fine day it is, how the sun is glinting so kindly off available glinting things. Opening the door to the pantry, I speak of the green lawn. I hold my palm up in the bedroom closet and note that it is about to rain. In this way, I have repurposed the home and found new utility in its rooms.


The girl created a method by which she could live with relative order. A few times a day, she would crawl into the standing-room area where she had first entered the system, finding the footholds and lowering herself into the space. She could store her money and empty dishes there, or stand and stretch her legs. A scraping sound when she crawled suggested she was wearing the watch around her wrist or ankle. I discovered her routine while opening and closing the bathroom door, which stood next to the entry portal to the system. My continued practice against fantasy was making it harder to imagine what green grass would look like up close. My best image was of a sea of green like what one finds in a stagnant pond, but this image was fading along with my knowledge of ponds. The work was to convince myself that this was an improvement. The girl and I did not speak to each other most days, and after a while, I noted that the girl had quit speaking entirely. It was a welcome discovery.


I thought of my father, combusted ash, swallowed by the park pigeons: which saint was his other half? Surely in some church registry their names are written next to each other. Surely my lover, on his commute home, has looked out the bus window at the same time another woman has stepped back from the curb and looked up. 041b061a72


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