Every so often, I receive a piece of news that brings me closer in spirit to my human cousins. This one comes from Oregon, home state of Sassy Miss Kara, the dirty-blond scooter-maid. In a forest campsite near Portland, a man of 63 years lurks next to the ladies’ lavatory, pressing his face against a crack in the woodwork. An alert male camper spots him in mid-ogle and raises the alarm. The peeper flees into the undergrowth, but is chased down by a hunting party. He is frog-marched back to camp and tied to a tree, pending arrival of the gun-toting sheriff. It is not the activities of the peeping tom that bear any resemblance to the behaviour of gorillas. Everything happens outdoors in the wild, so a female ape powdering her nose is of no great concern to anyone but the insects scuttling below. Even the sight of apes mating is only enthralling to human naturalists who are into that sort of thing. If I happen to pass a male gorilla mounting a female, I give him a polite grunt and hasten on my way (unless he is mounting one of my females, when I punch his lights out).
No, it is the humans who apprehended the miscreant who acted in a manner worthy of their hairy cousins. First, in the robust action they took against an intruder who had violated their sacred taboo. There are times when a bit of mob violence is necessary to disrupt the designs of the lone nut who would bring dishonour to the neighbourhood. But what really made my heart soar like a hawk was their instinctive awareness that the prisoner should be tied to a tree. This is an age-old gorilla custom that is standard operating practice for keeping scoundrels under lock-and-key before deciding upon their ignoble fate.
I myself have spreadeagled countless simians on trees before bringing them to justice. Not for being peeping toms, of course, you have to do something far worse than that to taste bark in the jungle. The most serious offender I ever dealt with was a murderous chimpanzee whose reign of terror had decimated the local chimp population. I mercifully spared his life. His punishment was to be butt-fucked by a kinky gorilla (not me) in front of his former subjects, who jeered and taunted him as his dignity dissolved in rapine. This utterly broke the spell he had over them, allowing me to release him back into the community. We gorillas favour a progressive policy in the rehabilitation of felons.
Although Portland seems like a cold and windy place, inhabited by unhealthily pale humans, I am now tempted to spend a few days there. I won’t live in a campsite, of course – a rented villa in town should be satisfactory. After paying my respects to Miss Kara, I think I’ll visit the peeping tom in his jail cell. Why would a man spy on a woman in a toilet when he could pay a prostitute a few dollars to piss right in front of his face? The answer, I believe, is that he cannot gawp at any woman who is aware of his presence, for fear of provoking her contempt. As a gorilla who has grown quite used to the scorn of his own females – and indeed has learned to enjoy it – perhaps I could give him a few pointers on curing his mental block.
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peeping tom /
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