I do admit I'm a Peeping Tom. Not that I'm sitting on my balcony with a pair of binoculars hoping to spot a showering neighbor, or that I'm trying to capture something in the vicinity of nude beaches with my telephoto. Nor do I take up-skirt pictures of girls sitting on the steps of a cathedral, or shove my i-Phone under the hem of a skirt on the platform waiting for the next tube train, or on the escalator of a department store. No not that. What I do mean is that I feel like a Peeping Tom. At heart. I'm a man who enjoys an unexpected and provocative view on that what should stay hidden from the eyes of the world. I´m a man of billowing summer dresses, and an avid enthusiast follower of ladies tennis. I love seeing those small skirts whirling around the athletic hips, offering glimpses of the promises below. I'm a man of translucent fabrics, wet swimwear and tiny pants. But a little bit of pubic hair simply should be present.
An example. I remember swimming one afternoon with friends, male and female, from my student house some thirty years ago, during my university years. One of the girls wore a white bathing suit. Nothing special, the lining was not cut out of the crotch and the suit wasn't three sizes too small. Nothing remotely close to Japanese swimsuit porn. But the dark-haired beauty - a true bitch she was, but a nice bitch - had not shaved herself between her legs, which was pretty obvious after her first dive.
