Page 58 of Total Exposure

No. I forfeit.

Do I want to win? I don’t even know what that means. “I just want to play my show,” I whisper. Mostly to myself, but he probably heard me. “I just want to walk out of the house like a normal human being. I want to feel the sun on my face and laugh at people’s dumb jokes. And not be afraid. And… live. That’s all. Why does it seem so far away? Why does it all seem so hard?”

The telltale crackle of the intercom makes me look up, hopeful. But then… nothing. He doesn’t reply. Just leaves me to figure it out on my own.

I try to rationalize what’s happening. It’s treatment. All this, to the best of my knowledge, has been prescribed by my doctor. A woman who has reminded me over and over and over that she’s some know-it-all professional in the field of weird psychological phobias.

It’s a lie. Not her, or her credentials. The rationalization that’s going on here. I cannot even imagine that she knows what’s happening inside this house. And the really disturbing thing is… I’m rationalizing not calling her with the fact that I broke my phone.

I mean come on, Evangeline! You are sick! Because a normal person would walk out the door and keep going until she got home, whatever that took, and call up her therapist and demand to know just what the fuck is going on!

Sure. I have this fear of being watched. But it’s night now. I’ve already come up with an escape plan. All I’d have to do is implement it. Just leave, walk until I find a phone at a local bar or an all-night grocery store, call my building concierge, and end this madness immediately.

That might even cure me, for fuck’s sake. I mean… really. It’s a big, huge, monumental step that requires a whole lot of participation.

The intercom crackles again. Another tease, because that’s all it does.

He’s reminding me that he’s here. As if I’d forget that little detail.

Why can’t I make a decision?

Because I want to say yes even though I know I should say no.

One. Look up at the camera.

I do. I look at all of them. Holding each in my gaze for several seconds before going to the next.

Two. Take off your clothes. Slowly. Never breaking eye contact.

My hand goes to the hem of the cashmere white sweater. The sweater he told me to put on this morning. I hesitate, my heart racing with a staccato beat that makes me long for the past. For the sad nights alone where no one expected anything of me.

With much reluctance, I admit I’m still here because of the possibility of sex with a complete stranger who gets to watch me. Like a voyeur. And he’s probably jacking off right now. His hand is slowly pumping his cock, his eyes on me—only me—as I sort through the kind of person I am.

And then I just do it. I just do it. Because I’m her. That person who stays in this kind of situation because she’s turned on by it. Because she’s sick in more ways than one. And she doesn’t even care.

Why live anymore? Why live if you’re just gonna deny yourself everything? Everything. The music, the people, the pleasures.

There is no point to life if that’s all there is.

Both hands reach for my hem and the sweater comes up. I have my eyes trained on the camera directly in front of me. I only break contact for a moment when the sweater goes over my head, but my eyes return as I toss it to the floor.

I exhale as I stand up, my fingers reaching for the button on my gray slacks, and a moment later, down they fall. Pooling in a puddle of fabric at my feet. I kick off my shoes and step out. Stand there for his inspection. Looking at the faceless, blank lens like I might find answers in there.

The intercom crackles, as if to say, Keep going.

So I do. And I do it all slowly, just like he asked. Fingertips on the strap of my bra as I slide it over my shoulder. Then the other side, until the straps are loose on my upper arms and my breasts are heavy in the black lace, begging to be released.

I want to close my eyes now. Pretend I’m in the darkness and not illuminated by the glow of the child’s moon light on the bedside table. I reach behind for the clasp and then they are free. The lace drops to the floor on top of my pants, next to my sweater. My nipples are peaking rigid in the coolness, my heart thumping now. Not sharp staccato, but the hard banging of a percussionist hitting a bass drum.

I swallow hard as my fingertips find the edge of lace on my black panties and ease them over my hips.

The spot between my legs—the one that’s been neglected for so long—throbs. So much faster than my heart. A deep-seated longing that wants what it wants so badly, I’ve gone far, far past the point of no return.

I bend down, step out, never taking my gaze off his black stare from the lens, and let him look.

“Like this?” I ask, my body so ready for more, I feel a climax coming even though no one is touching me. Even though I’m not even touching myself.

It’s the watching that turns me on.