The Voyeur's Motel Read online

  THE

  VOYEUR’S

  MOTEL

  Also by Gay Talese

  FRANK SINATRA HAS A COLD (PHOTOS BY PHIL STERN)

  THE SILENT SEASON OF A HERO

  A WRITER’S LIFE

  THE GAY TALESE READER

  THE LITERATURE OF REALITY (WITH BARBARA LOUNSBERRY)

  UNTO THE SONS

  THY NEIGHBOR’S WIFE

  HONOR THY FATHER

  FAME AND OBSCURITY

  THE KINGDOM AND THE POWER

  THE OVERREACHERS

  THE BRIDGE

  NEW YORK: A SERENDIPITER’S JOURNEY

  GAY

  TALESE

  THE

  VOYEUR’S

  MOTEL

  Grove Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2016 by Gay Talese

  “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” words and music by Don Gibson. Copyright ©1958 Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC. Copyright Renewed. All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219.

  International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

  For the use of excerpts from his manuscript, Gerald Foos received a fee from Grove Atlantic.

  Jacket design: CHIPS

  Jacket photograph: Brooklyn Underground Films

  Author photograph: Rachel Cobb

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  First published by Grove Atlantic, July 2016

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2581-1

  eISBN 978-0-8021-8973-8

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  16 17 18 19 10 9 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  THE

  VOYEUR’S

  MOTEL

  ONE

  I KNOW a married man with two children who bought a twenty-one-room motel near Denver many years ago in order to become its resident voyeur.

  With his wife nearby to assist, he cut rectangular-shaped holes in the ceilings of a dozen rooms, each hole measuring six by fourteen inches. Then he covered the openings with louvered aluminum screens that simulated ventilation grilles, but were, in fact, observation vents that allowed him, while he knelt or stood on the thickly carpeted floor of the attic, under the motel’s pitched roof, to see his guests in the rooms below. He continued to watch them for decades, while keeping an almost daily written record of what he saw and heard—and never once, during all those years, was he caught.

  I first became aware of this individual after receiving a hand-written, special delivery letter, without a signature, dated January 7, 1980, sent to my home in New York. It began:

  Dear Mr. Talese:

  Since learning of your long awaited study of coast-to-coast sex in America, which will be included in your soon to be published book, “Thy Neighbor’s Wife,” I feel I have important information that I could contribute to its contents or to contents of a future book.

  Let me be more specific. I am the owner of a small motel, 21 units, in the Denver Metropolitan area. I have owned this motel for the past 15 years, and because of its middle-class nature, it has had the opportunity to attract people from all walks of life and obtain as its guests, a generous cross-section of the American populace. The reason for purchasing this motel, was to satisfy my voyeuristic tendencies and compelling interest in all phases of how people conduct their lives, both socially and sexually, and to answer the age old question, “of how people conduct themselves sexually in the privacy of their own bedroom.”

  In order to accomplish this end, I purchased this motel and managed it personally, and developed a foolproof method to be able to observe and hear the interactions of different people’s lives, without their ever knowing that someone was watching. I did this purely out of my unlimited curiosity about people and not as just a deranged voyeur. This was done for the past 15 years, and I have logged an accurate record of the majority of the individuals that I watched, and compiled interesting statistics on each, i.e., what was done; what was said; their individual characteristics; age & body type; part of the country from where they came; and their sexual behavior. These individuals were from every walk of life. The businessman who takes his secretary to a motel during the noon hour, which is generally classified as “hot sheet” trade in the motel business. Married couples traveling from state to state, either on business or vacation. Couples who aren’t married, but live together. Wives who cheat on their husbands and visa versa. Lesbianism, of which I made a personal study because of the proximity of a U.S. Army Hospital to the motel and the nurses & military women who worked in the establishment. Homosexuality, of which I had little interest, but still watched to determine motivation and procedure. The Seventies, later part, brought another sexual deviation forward, namely “Group Sex,” which I took great interest in watching.

  Most people classify the foregoing as sexual deviations, but since they are practiced so commonly by the larger proportion of people, they should be reclassified as sexual interests. If sexual researchers & people in general could have the ability to see into other people’s private lives and see this practiced & performed, and to ascertain exactly how large a percentage of normal people indulge in these so-called deviations, their minds would change immediately.

  I have seen most human emotions in all its humor and tragedy carried to completion. Sexually, I have witnessed, observed and studied the best first hand, unrehearsed, non-laboratory, sex between couples, and most other conceivable sex deviations during these past 15 years.

  My main objective in wanting to provide you with this confidential information, is the belief that it could be valuable to people in general and sex researchers in particular.

  Additionally, I have been wanting to tell this story, but I am not talented enough and I have fears of being discovered. It is hoped that this source of information could be helpful in adding an additional perspective to your other resources in the development of your book or future books. Perhaps if you have no use for this information, you could put me in touch with someone who could use it. If you are interested in obtaining more information or would like to inspect my motel and operations, please write to my box # below, or notify me how I can contact you. Presently I cannot reveal my identity because of my business interests, but will be revealed when you can assure me that this information would be held in complete confidence.

  I hope to receive a reply from you. Thank you.

  Sincerely yours,

  c/o Box Holder

  Box 31450

  Aurora, Colorado

  80041

  Afte
r receiving this letter, I put it aside for a few days, undecided on how, or even if, I should respond. I was deeply unsettled by the way he had violated his customers’ trust and invaded their privacy. And as a nonfiction writer who insists on using real names in articles and books, I knew at once that I would not accept his condition on anonymity, even though, as suggested in his letter, he had little choice. To avoid prison time, in addition to the probable lawsuits that might bankrupt him, he had to reserve for himself the privacy he denied his guests. Could such a man be a reliable source?

  Still, as I reread certain of his handwritten sentences—“I did this purely out of my unlimited curiosity about people and not as just a deranged voyeur” and “I have logged an accurate record of the majority of the individuals that I watched”—I conceded that his research methods and motives were similar to my own in Thy Neighbor’s Wife. I had, for example, privately kept notes while managing massage parlors in New York and while mingling with swingers at the nudist commune, Sandstone Retreat, in Los Angeles; and in my 1969 book about the New York Times, The Kingdom and the Power, my opening line was: “Most journalists are restless voyeurs who see the warts on the world, the imperfections in people and places.” But the people I observed and reported on had given me their consent.

  When I received this letter in 1980, it was six months before the publication of Thy Neighbor’s Wife, but there had already been lots of publicity about it. The New York Times had a story in its edition of October 9, 1979, that the film company United Artists had just bought the film rights to the book for $2.5 million, exceeding the sum previously paid for the highest book-for-film deal: Jaws, which sold for $2.15 million.

  Thy Neighbor’s Wife had been excerpted in Esquire earlier in the ’70s, and later written about in dozens of magazines and newspapers. It was my researching method that had attracted journalistic attention—managing massage parlors in New York, gauging the sex trade business in small and large towns throughout the Midwest, Southwest, and Deep South, and also experiencing firsthand the fact-gathering I obtained while living as a nudist for months at the Sandstone Retreat for swingers at Topanga Canyon in Los Angeles. The book, once released, shot up to the Times bestseller list; it remained No.1 for nine straight weeks, and sold millions of copies in the U.S. and overseas.

  As to whether my correspondent in Colorado was, in his own words, “a deranged voyeur”—evocative of the Bates Motel proprietor in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho; or the murderous photo­grapher in Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom; or was, instead, a harmless man of “unlimited curiosity” as represented by Jimmy Stewart’s wheelchair-bound photojournalist in Hitchcock’s Rear Window or even a simple fabulist—I could know only if I accepted the Colorado man’s invitation to become personally acquainted.

  Since I was planning to be in Phoenix later in the month, I decided to send him a note, with my phone number, volunteering to stop over at the Denver airport on my way back to New York, proposing that we meet at baggage claim at 4:00 p.m. on January 23. He left a message on my answering machine a few days later saying that he would be there—and he was, emerging from a crowd of waiting people and catching up with me as I approached the luggage carousel.

  “Welcome to Denver,” he said, smiling, while holding aloft in his left hand the note I had mailed him. “My name is Gerald Foos.”

  My first impression was that this amiable stranger resembled at least half of the men I had flown with in business class. Probably in his midforties, Gerald Foos was fair skinned, ­hazel eyed, maybe six feet tall, and slightly overweight. He wore an unbuttoned tan wool jacket and an open-collared dress shirt that seemed a size too small for his thick and heavily muscled neck. Clean-shaven, he had a full head of neatly trimmed dark hair, parted to one side; and, behind the thick frames of his horn-rimmed glasses, he projected an unvaryingly friendly expression worthy of an innkeeper.

  After we had shaken hands, and had exchanged courtesies while awaiting my luggage, I accepted his invitation to be a guest at his motel for a few days.

  “We’ll put you in one of the rooms that doesn’t provide me with viewing privileges,” he said, with a lighthearted grin.

  “Fine,” I said, “but will I be able to join you while you watch people?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Maybe tonight. But only after Viola, my mother-in-law, has gone to bed. She’s a widow who works with us, and she stays in one of the rooms of our apartment behind the office. My wife and I have been careful never to let her in on our secret, and the same thing goes, of course, for our children. The attic where the viewing vents are located is always locked. Only my wife and I have keys to the attic. As I mentioned in my letter, no guest has ever had a clue that they’ve been under observation for close to the last fifteen years.”

  He then removed from his breast pocket a folded piece of stationery and handed it to me. “I hope you’ll not mind reading and signing this,” he said. “It’ll allow me to be completely frank with you, and I’ll have no problem about showing you around the motel.”

  It was a neatly typed, one-page document stating that I would never identify him by name in my writings, nor publicly associate his motel with whatever information he shared with me, until he had granted me a waiver. It essentially repeated his concerns as expressed in his introductory letter. After reading the document, I signed it. What did it matter? I had already decided that I would not write about Gerald Foos under these restrictions. I had come to Denver merely to meet this man of “unlimited curiosity about people” and to satisfy my own unlimited curiosity about him.

  When my luggage arrived he insisted on carrying it, and so I followed him through the terminal to the parking area and finally in the direction of a highly polished black Cadillac sedan. After placing my luggage in the trunk and waving me into the passenger seat, he started the engine. He responded to my favorable comment on his car by saying that he also owned a new Lincoln Continental Mark V but was mainly proud of his three aging Thunderbirds—his 1955 convertible and his ’56 and ’57 hardtops. He added that his wife, Donna, drove a 1957 red Mercedes-Benz 220S sedan.

  “Donna and I have been married since 1960,” he said, driving toward the airport’s exit before entering the highway to begin our ride to the motel, located in the suburban city of Aurora. “Donna and I went to the same high school in a town called Ault, about sixty-five miles north of here. It had a population of about 1,300, mostly farmers and ranchers.” His parents had a 160-acre farm and were German Americans. He described them as hardworking, trustworthy, and kindhearted people who would do anything for him—“except discuss sex.” Every morning his mother dressed in the closet of his parents’ bedroom, and he never witnessed either of them exhibiting an interest in sex. “And so, being very curious about sex even as an early adolescent—with all those farm animals around, how could you avoid thinking of sex?—I looked beyond my home to learn what I could about people’s private lives.”

  He did not have far to look, he said, steering the car slowly through the commuter traffic. A farmhouse next to his parents’, about seventy-five yards away, was occupied by one of his mother’s younger married sisters, Katheryn. When he started watching his aunt Katheryn she was probably in her early thirties, and he described her as having “large breasts, a slim athletic body, and flaming red hair.” She often walked around nude in her bedroom at night with the lights on, the shutters folded back, and he would peek in from below the windowsill—“a moth drawn to her flame”—and hide there quietly for an hour or so, watching and masturbating. “She was the reason I started masturbating.”

  He watched her for five or six years, and never got caught. “My mother would sometimes notice me sneaking out and she’d ask: ‘Where are you going at this hour?’ and I’d make some excuse like I was checking on our dogs because it sounded like coyotes were out there.” Then he would sneak over to Aunt Katheryn’s window, hoping she would be walking or sitting in the nude, maybe at her dre
ssing table arranging her collection of porcelain miniature dolls from Germany, or her valuable collection of thimbles, which were kept in a wooden curio cabinet hung on the bedroom wall.

  “Sometimes her husband was there, my Uncle Charley, usually deep in sleep. He drank a lot, and I could count on him not waking up. Once, I did see them having sex, and it made me upset. I was jealous. She was mine, I thought. I’d seen more of her body than he had. I always thought of him as a rough character who didn’t treat her right. I was in love with her.”

  I continued listening, without comment, although I was surprised by Gerald Foos’s candor. I had known him for barely a half hour, and already he was unburdening himself to me on matters of his masturbatory fixations and origins as a voyeur. As a journalist and purveyor of my own curiosity, I do not recall meeting anyone who required less of me than he did. It had taken me years to gain the trust of mafia lieutenant Bill Bonanno, the subject of my book Honor Thy Father, years of writing letters, visiting his lawyer, having dinner with him “off the record.” Eventually I gained his confidence, convinced him to break the mafia code of silence, and came to know his wife and children. But Gerald Foos had no such hesitation. He did all the talking while I, his safely signed confidant, sat in the car listening. The car was his confessional.

  “I didn’t have sex in high school,” he went on, “but in those days hardly anyone did. I met my future wife there, as I said, but Donna and I didn’t date. She was two years behind me. She was studious, and quiet, and pretty enough, but I was interested in one of the cheerleaders for our football team. I was a star running back. For about two years I actually went steady with this cheerleader, a beautiful girl named Barbara White. Her parents ran a diner on the main street. No sex, as I said, but we did lots of hugging and kissing after school in the front seat of my ’48 Ford pickup. One night we were parked behind the pump house, on the northern end of town, and I tried pulling off her shoes. I wanted to see her feet. She had lovely hands, and a slender body—she was still wearing her cheerleader’s uniform—and I just wanted to see and hold her feet. She didn’t like it. When I persisted, she got real mad and jumped out of the truck. She then ripped off the chain around her neck and threw my ring at me.