Voyeur – Personal Experience

The Voyeur – Personal Experience by Ted Morgan Tedmorgan@webtv.net

“Genius is the ability to put into effect what is in your mind.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Have you ever broken into laughter at your astonishment that some sensual sexual activity or image dominates your desire? Finding that female headshaving and female baldness dominates my sexual fantasy life this year does not amaze me. What astounds me is how much pleasure I suddenly take in sharing my fantasy with this community.

Interrupting writing a story about Justine’s bowl cut, I reckon that I need to explore this fascination we have with haircutting and shaving women’s heads. As one who only first logged onto the Net a bit more than a year ago and then only began intently to explore this and related sites in mid-October last year, I smile. An unexpected door appeared. Just as unexpectedly, it opened a tad.

A year ago my browsing the Haircut Story Archive and related sites (but above all this site) reanimated both my sense of sexual playfulness and my titillation at living at the edges of a once almost abandoned erotic preoccupation.

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Discovering our sexual selves almost always arises from quirky moments. In fumbling and often furtive ways from earliest childhood and onward, we learn our erotic desires and carnal longings.

Learning about reproduction seems easy. Reproduction involves a mass of facts and diagrams about plumbing. The desire to create children comes from immense desire but the biology of it involves more technology than romance. Even children recite the passage of sperm from father to the ovum in the mother.

Eroticism, however, reveals itself to us obliquely. Good sex reveals its secrets as we fumble with each other and with ourselves beneath football stadiums, in hidden hallways, back bars, or cramped automobiles.

Good sex comes to us in dreams and intimations. It comes to us with and in loss and ecstasy and with and in tears and fears. In eroticism, the quirkiest moments assume lasting force in memory. Late we search for lost love (a time as Bergson and Proust taught us) within remembrance.

Not surprisingly many of us discover bizarre, kinky, and weird eruptions in our utterances of sexual longing. When a notion sexually thrills us, how often do we suppose ourselves bizarre or, at least, quite odd? Ironically, we discover what we once believed to be bizarre, kinky, or weird to be simply gratifying and enjoyable forms of play.

Discovering suddenly a once unknown or poorly known passion surprises us. Even if we do not need that new passion in order to feel or to complete desire, we experience it as peculiarly our own individual longing.

Fantasies bring forward extraordinary epiphanies. Strong people dream of sexual submission. Compassionate people suddenly dream of sexually dominating another person. Fears we knew in infancy reappear with primordial intensity. The smallest insinuations capture our entire attention.

Some of what excites us surprises us by coming from attendant and atrocious conditions. What turns us on arises from the social context that defines us.

In the United States, a powerful mood of hostility to amative activity pervades political debate. Religious and other social institutions do seek to dominate and enslave us and our ardor.

Dangers exist. Sexual monsters do roam the highways or live in the house next door. Sometimes they even live in the home. Some fathers do rape their daughters. Mothers do sexually mutilate their daughters. It is well known that in many places many a mother cuts off her daughter’s clitoris – the ground zero of the daughter’s sexual pleasure. Everywhere, mothers do pressure daughters to cut off their pretty hair. In the United States, we all know about the pervasive brutality of police.

All this seeps into our awareness. There may even be reason to suppose some of our sense of the dark side of sexual pleasure comes simply wired into us. Or who is to say that there is not a bit of Kelli and her tormenters not only within the worst of us but within the best of us?

Desires themselves overwhelm us and compel our complete devotion. Desire interrupts sleep, work, religious devotion, careers, and, oh most oddly, marriage itself!

Sensuousness abducts libido. Libido abducts everything. Libido and sensuousness merge so closely that they become one. Fear, bliss, loss, and gain all become one in interplay after interplay.

A lover with great amative imagination opens many doors of perception. You most fully learn your sensuality in the arms of your lover. Together you and the lover explore, discover, and play. Of course, it never hurts to practice on your own.

Personally, as one trained in philosophical theology, I celebrate play and ethics, the only two things, after “the fear of the LORD,” that really matter.

My enchantment or at least intrigue with female baldness and the processes of rendering women bald defines only one aspect of my sensuous and libidinal desire. Still, this fascination looms larger than it once did; in large part, because all other intense erotic reveries emerged during the development of aspects of intimate relationships, primarily the one I shared with my former spouse.

Though shared in fantasy with a lover, female baldness lies pretty much beyond my tactile experience. That simple fact currently places my interest in female baldness (almost) at center stage.

In one sense, I hesitate to name my interest a fetish. Technically, an activity or object becomes a fetish only when it sufficiently substitutes for “everyday” sexual intimacy.

Every other sexual enthusiasm emerged from intimacy. This one did as well but its course has been away from immediacy to voyeurism – to being an onlooker. Now a spectator may be a witness. He or she may be a beholder.

That role has its proper place. However, I most fully enjoy sexual enthusiasms within the web of relationship and intimacy – Martin Buber’s “I-Thou.”

Female baldness happens to an individual woman, not to me. In my heterosexual version of this enthusiasm, someone has to be the woman and I lack the physiology and training to qualify. Thus, my enjoyment of female baldness has assumed a voyeuristic character. Preferring to be “a hands-on type,” I find being limited to merely looking makes this sexual enthusiasm, shall I say with a bad pun, seem detached.

Though not entirely frustrating, simply looking remains – well – simply looking. This enthusiasm lacks intimacy. Now, I have clipped the sides and nape of my hair from 1/8 to 1/4 inches. It feels sensual to me but not erotically sensual. Male baldness just doesn’t do it for me – unless, of course, I encounter my beautiful baberette – hint, hint.

As a child, I adored looking at women’s breasts, but I most wanted to get my hands on them. I do not merely want to gaze (or gawk) at the lovely women in the videos that Bob Fitzgerald, Michael Chapman, Ed Cunningham, or Zvi and Apryl produce. I want to join in the play. The play is more than the touch; it is in the intimacy of being involved.

Still, I confess that, in the meanwhile from my monkish tower, watching videos of pretty women being rendered bald gives me pleasure. Today, Helen Sanger looks and sounds infinitely young as she playfully lets herself be rendered bald. The pretty once dark and long-haired young woman who herself with Michael Chapman renders herself bald reveals a touching vulnerability. Somehow, I assume her dark and long-haired again now.

Images of the lovely young professor of English being rendered bald in one of Zvi’s videos leaves me wondering how she sees our world. It makes me want to ask her about that hint in one moment when she seems to ask herself, “What in the hell am I doing?”

On another of Zvi’s tapes, Sarah, the beautiful young woman, with dark brown eyes and once with crinkled locks, smiles in my imagination and fantasy despite my age and her youth. The old man imagines strolling and talking with her in Chicago on Michigan Avenue.

Of course, I have promised Zvi to be at least proud (and lustful) purchaser of that forty-something woman who longs to share her shearing with the rest of us – hint, hint.

I am not ashamed of my voyeurism. I rather love it. This role of beholder defines part of the person I have become. Perhaps, tracing similar treks into imagination, e. e. cummings writes:

“somewhere I have never traveled gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me or which I cannot touch because they are too near.”

Still, as I have blatantly confessed throughout this little missive, beyond voyeurism lies a more personal desire for palpable experience shared in breathless sharing. Haircuts have almost always given me pleasure even when I – from time to time – grew long hair. I think that I transpose that pleasantness onto the women I have dreamed of becoming my lovers.

I recall bad haircuts but not traumatic ones. In College Park, Georgia, my first barber – long ago, I suppose, while the Second World War still raged toward resolution – knew how to cut my hair. He knew the shape of my head and the flow of my hair. I loved his touch on my head. The snip of shears had a friendly sound. The buzz of conversation (got you) between adults intrigued me. The whir hummed beside my ear. The wisp of a soft brush on my nape felt safe and companionable. The scrape of a straight razor on my nape and between my ear and hair made me feel grownup. Then finally, I liked being released from the cape with my hair falling to meet the hair of other people.

My dad took me for haircuts, my grandfather took me, and my mother took me. Sometime later, perhaps, around the second grade in elementary school in Forest Park, my mother began cutting my hair. At first she used hand clippers. She had a good eye and she had learned what my barber in College Park had taught her about my hair and head. Later my mother used electric clippers. In old photographs, the sides of my head suddenly became a bit high! The cuts emphasized my fundamental oval face (without the pointed chin).

Fundamentally, my mother was a good barber. It felt familiar and comforting to have my mother cut my hair. A rather beautiful woman, she had about her a kind of muted sensuousness that (let us say) enraptured me. In this dispatch, the exquisite sensuousness of those haircuts remains private.

Even back then, sometimes, I got my hair cut at the barbers. I barely paid attention. After the sixth grade, I think I always got my hair cut at the barbershop. One of the two barbers at the shop I patronized had great skill with my hair. The other was an old man who complained a lot about any and every issue of the day.

Though under no pressure about what kind of cut I got, I often enough asked for a standard crewcut by the time I was in the seventh grade. I liked the way it looked and I liked the way the cut felt. Eventually, almost every other male classmate wore the same style.

Hair seems so fundamental to sexual play and attraction that I cannot say when I first singled it out for focused attention. However, I do recall a photograph in Life magazine of a young girl who was rendered bald because of head lice. She was my age and incredibly beautiful. I had intense masturbation fantasies about her. I enjoyed fantasies about her for a long time.

Later, in the fifties, I found an image in Life of an incredibly beautiful starlet having her head shaved for the film “Girl in the Kremlin.” The caption said nothing about the movie but I clipped the image because it reawakened the strange desire the image of the little bald girl had inspired in me. However, this was all just fleeting and marginal.

By the time I entered the famous engineering school that I attended, I wore a buzz cut. By the time I transferred to university, I kept my hair buzzed. It looked appropriate. Though I don’t recall that I particularly paid much attention, I think that having my head buzzed felt good. Also, I liked the feel of the razor on my nape.

Of course, I do recall that I liked stroking my head as I read course work or toyed with obtaining elegant proofs in symbolic logic. However, whatever sexual connotations that had seem to have sailed past my awareness.

A turning point came the fall of my last year at university. Without warning, I had fallen madly in love with a brilliant and ravishingly beautiful young woman. She had the most remarkably toned red hair and pale Celtic features. The hue of hair mated with the splendid colors of autumn in North Georgia in October.

Our relationship quickly matured into the most sexual relationship I had known until then. I adored this woman and felt immense desire for her. Without warning, perhaps in winter, she had her shoulder-length hair cut to what looked like no more than an inch or an inch and a half. Already intense desire unfolded into a surprising intensity.

Her hair curled tightly and the severity of her curls left almost nothing to my imagination about what she would look like were she bald. I think the moment I first saw her new cut marks the fail-safe point for my passion for short hair. Still, I was not aware of having a fetish for hair or for female baldness.

I noted that I knew classmates who did have a fetish for female hair. You would have surprised me had you told me then that I myself had one.

Just after being graduated from university and after my summer (believe it or not) serving as a Boy Scout Camp Chaplain, I happened on television upon the – by that time in my mind – classic film “Girl in the Kremlin.” Just as the cut began, my mother happened by. Together in silence, we watched the incredibly lovely woman sheared, buzzed, and shaved bald.

The young actress looked remarkably like a young woman on whom I had a long lasting crush and whom eventually and technically became my first lover. The sadism and brutality of that sequence of the movie surprised me. I almost felt embarrassed to have found it acutely erotic. However, getting turned on trumps embarrassment.

At that time, I was already enough of a greenhorn feminist to experience what we later named cognitive dissonance. Nevertheless, my former spouse always said that I deluded myself if I thought of myself – as I did and do – a feminist. Regardless, the idea of making it with a beautiful bald lover found a permanent home in my imagination.

Intimacies germinate and with cultivation result in fruitful harvesting of many kinds. Despite the cant of witless priests (though many a good priest wishes well those of us who play in the fields of love) and leaders of the (American) Republican Party, Eros dances with us.

Still, I am only a voyeur, not a player, in this lovely age when all you have to do to see a sexy bald woman is to long on the World Wide Web. Enjoy the stories Chris helps us enjoy. Do not even worry too much about the misogyny in some of the stories we read. It does not have to be our own and even if it is, it is.

I find female baldness on the verge of becoming what I have long hoped it would be – one of many styles women might enjoy. I am discovering that women enjoy the sensuousness of being bald and may, like me, long to explore its eroticism. I dream that one day in love and intimacy I also get to join one of you in play. Rejoice! As for stories on the Haircut Story Archive, each one of us lives his or her story. The cruelest illnesses are those that deny one access to the requisite memory for the flow of one’s own narrative.

Postscript

To those who suffer from alopecia or other hair loss illnesses: I know that your illness causes you immense pain. It is one thing arrogantly to chop off hair that grew in abundance, another to have your sovereign loveliness stolen from you. If my pleasure in baldness offends you, I confess my crime. I can do no more. If you need to know that an ordinary person finds the idea of total baldness erotically appealing, alluring, fascinating, and tempting, I know one such (delightful) person.

I confess that, whenever I think my own hair might one day abandon me, I find the thought unsettling – even abashing. Yet, I hope that you do not take offense that I might find your baldness lovely and desirable. Meanwhile with George Gascoigne, “I could not though I would: good lady say not so,/since one good word of your good wil might soone redresse my wo./Where would is free before, there could never fayle…” Sixteenth century poets appear not to have enjoyed access to spell check.

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