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The woman mixed a drink, then removed her clothes. As the two entwined on the bed, the woman moaning frantically, the man abruptly stopped.

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She reached for her purse and handed him a hundred-dollar bill. He then returned his attention to her prone body.

After satisfying her, he rebuffed her offer to reciprocate, then relented. She gave him the money, and several minutes later he left. When the woman drove off, Foos followed her in his car and saw her enter an apartment in a retirement complex. He watched through her kitchen window. Foos walked around the complex and asked a neighbor about the woman.

He learned that her husband had been killed in Vietnam and her son was away at college. He expressed anger at the toilet industry for its failure to address the challenges men have in directing their urine stream accurately.

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But more often Foos found observing his guests depressing. They argued. They watched too much television. This was especially irksome when the guests were attractive and could have spent their time having sex instead. After watching one sexual encounter, which he regarded as typically unsatisfying for the woman, he wrote:. This is real life. These are real people! These subjects will never find happiness and divorce is inevitable. The only thing he knows is penetration and thrusting, to orgasm, under the covers with the lights out.

My voyeurism has contributed immensely to my becoming a futilitarian, and I hate this conditioning of my soul. What is so distasteful is that the majority of subjects are in concert with these individuals in both design and plan. Many different approaches to life would be immediately implemented, if our society would have the opportunity to be Voyeur for a Day.

He had no control over what he saw and no escape from its influence. As I read the sections of the journal he sent me, which covered the mid-nineteen-sixties through the mid-seventies, I noticed that his persona as a writer changed, gradually shifting from a first-person narrator into a character whom he wrote about in the third person. The entries become increasingly portentous, and Foos starts to invest the omniscient Voyeur character with godlike qualities. He appears to be losing his grip on reality. But only once, while posted in the attic, did he actually speak through a vent to a person below.

He was looking down on Room 6, where he saw a guest eating Kentucky Fried Chicken while sitting on the bed. Instead of using paper napkins, the man cleaned his hands on the bedsheets. He then wiped the grease off his beard and mouth with the bedspread.

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The subject stopped eating and looked around the room, and then went to the window and looked out. Apparently he knew someone shouted S. He went to the window and looked out for the second time and pondered the situation for a few minutes, and then continued with his animalistic eating habits.

Foos lost control on other occasions, each time risking exposure. One time he was watching a couple who were in town on a cattle-buying trip. Foos was eager to see the woman undressed, but the man turned off the lights. The room is lit up real well, and he begins his animal-like thrusting under the covers. I finally get to see her body when she un-covers to wipe the semen away on my bedspread. She is very beautifully proportioned, but probably equally stupid and dumb.

He comes back from the bathroom and notes that the lights outside are still on. The journal entry ends with an existential rumination: Foos is sinking deeper into isolation and despair.


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Conclusion: I am still unable to determine what function I serve. The depression builds, but I will continue onward with my research.

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No one would believe my accomplishments as a voyeur anyway, therefore, the dreamlike manifestation would explain my reality. Foos made it clear to me from the beginning that he regarded his voyeurism as serious research, undertaken, in some vague way, for the betterment of society. At the end of each year, he tallied his observations into an annual report, trying to identify significant social trends. In , he noted that of the sexual acts that he witnessed, involved white heterosexuals, who favored the missionary position. Over all, he counted male orgasms and 33 female orgasms. The following year, there were sexual activities that he believed warranted recording.

He also broke people into categories according to their sex drive:.

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In , he had observed only five instances of interracial sex; by , he told me, the number was closer to twenty-five. Foos viewed this as one of many examples in which his small motel reflected social changes throughout the nation. He constantly reminded himself how lucky he was to have Donna for a wife. She was an in-house nurse, a co-conspirator with regard to his prying, a trustworthy manager of their family finances, and a private secretary, who would take dictation in shorthand when Foos was too tired to write in his journal.

As the years passed, he became more preoccupied with receiving recognition for what he viewed as his pioneering research. By necessity, he existed in the shadows, running his laboratory for the study of human behavior.

Gerald Foos bought a motel in order to watch his guests having sex. He saw a lot more than that.

Much of the research at such places was obtained from volunteers. He grew jaded about what he was seeing through the vents, and he began to realize that it was impossible for him to get the scientific credit he felt he deserved. His writings began to reflect not only what he felt while watching other people but also how he felt about himself and his compulsion, beginning with his origins as a farm boy infatuated with his aunt Katheryn. But he wrote about himself in the third person, as if he were a character in a novel:. The youth moved silently through the night over the grass and across the barbed wire fence.

Shutters folded back, unsuspecting, letting the northwest breeze play through the arrangement of the bedroom. The youth looked in, forgot about the cold and rain outside, forgot about essence, forgot about time. While observing his aunt, she began to move toward her collectibles. His sensible mother suggested that he begin collecting baseball cards. This started him off on a lifelong hobby, resulting in his amassing tens of thousands of sports cards by the time I met him, in , when he was forty-five.

But he always associated his collecting with his boyhood attraction to his aunt. There was a direct association from his aunt being nude and his collecting. In later years, he also collected stamps, coins, and vintage firearms, and as a boy he kept a stash of muskrat tails, a by-product of skinning the ones he and his father trapped—one of his chores. Gerald was the first of two children born to Natalie and Jake Foos; he was five years older than his brother, Jack.

I am very curious about everything and everyone I see. The consequence of so much unsupervised freedom was that I became precociously independent. Foos never got over his first love, a high-school cheerleader named Barbara White, who, along with crowds of onlookers, cheered from the grandstands after he had hit a home run or scored a touchdown. This was in , his senior year, and I saw clippings about him from the Greeley Daily Tribune , which regularly printed his picture and described his achievements.

Barbara White broke up with Foos when she discovered that he had a foot fetish. Years after being discharged, after building the viewing platform in his motel, he felt at times as if he were still in the Navy, adrift on the sea, peering down through the vents the way he used to squint through binoculars on deck duty, keeping a lookout for objects of interest.

Life in the attic was humdrum. His motel was a drydocked boat whose guests endlessly watched television, exchanged banalities, had sex mainly under the covers if they had sex at all—and gave him so little to write about that sometimes he wrote nothing at all. They sometimes tried to cheat him out of the room rent, and hardly a week passed without his witnessing instances of chicanery.