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My heart leapt with pride.
“Good girl,” I said, relieved.
CHAPTER TWO
X IS FOR EXPOSURE —
EXHIBITIONISM
Part of me is a sexual exhibitionist.
—KYLIE MINOGUE
Like salt and pepper, cream and sugar, and Harold and Maude, exhibitionism goes hand and hand with voyeurism. I expose myself constantly—in my work, I mean. (Hell, my collection of short stories is actually called Exposed.) I give myself away, tear off my clothes, pull aside my lingerie with every stroke of my fingers on my keyboard. Exhibitionism is the mirror image of voyeurism, and even if you think you might be hesitant to be the one on display, give the concept a second thought. You—adored—it doesn’t get much better than that.
In my story “Pierced”—it’s the excitement from even the teeth of the zipper parting, the knowing what’s going to happen:
He turned her sideways, unzipped the skirt, let the fabric fall. Now she was half-naked, and that felt wrong. He understood, pulled the T-shirt up over her head. This was better. Totally naked, with her silver-ringed tits on display, her belly button decorated, her body so pale and pretty.
At the other end of the fetish is stripping where people might see. In “Wrapping it Up in Public,” which I wrote nearly two decades ago, the narrator describes her girlfriend’s desires:
She needs to be taken in this manner, roughly, in public, exposed. It’s the only way she can really get off. She is the truest exhibitionist I’ve ever met.
What does it take to bring exhibitionism into the bedroom? And isn’t that an oxymoron? How do you expose yourself when you’re all by yourself? Sharon Wachsler has the answer with “The Trick in the Mirror”:
On standing, I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror. The autumn air had wind-swept my hair and put roses in my cheeks. This morning Dana had whispered, “You make my blood run hot,” and I’d scoffed. But now…
I let my hand fall to my full breast, caressing myself. Nobody knows what I’m doing in here, I thought. My clit tingled.
Pulling off my sweater and bra, my breasts hanging heavy, I remembered that party trick that used to drive the college boys wild. What had they seen? What would Dana see?
Staring into the glass, I lifted my breast, tonguing my areola, teasing my nipple until it puckered and glistened. I sucked myself deep, thrilling at the combined sensation of watching and feeling my mouth tug at my nipple. Dana is right outside. She could walk in any moment. I flashed hot all over, imagining her on our couch watching me, groaning, reaching between her legs.
I smelled my wetness. I could smear my own juices on my nipple and suck it off—taste myself—while Dana watched. If Dana was here. I buttoned up and hurried outside. With a quick good-bye, I pulled Dana home, murmuring, “Did I ever show you what I learned in college?”
Start with tiny steps, simply reveling in the way you feel when you undress for yourself before moving on to the watchful eyes of your lover.
In “Performance Anxiety,” a story I wrote for Coupling 2, the main character is nervous, but she works up to the thrill. When you feel safe with only each other as your audience, you can begin to let loose. Really strut. Make the most of every article of clothing that you remove:
I stood and stripped, feeling him watching my every move. Then I slid into the champagne-lace number and tossed my hair back. I was not about to admit this to Josh, but I found myself getting excited.
In The Trade, which is a novel in parts I’m currently writing, the characters discuss what it would feel like to be exposed:
Killian had started by circling the topic slowly, “Do you ever think about having sex while people are watching?” He often slipped the vision into my psyche while we were fucking, murmuring dirty things when we were in the shower, or raising the idea while screwing me on the rooftop. Right now, he was thrusting into me from behind, while I supported myself on the windowsill.
“Maybe people are watching,” I responded, my eyes shut in case I was telling the truth.
“But to know,” he said, breathing against my neck, his cock so hard inside of me. “To know for sure that they were watching, touching themselves, getting off when you reached your limits. Wouldn’t that make you come?”
Many authors understand the base excitement of writing about exposure. Liza Bennet says: “This is a scene between my husband and me, and the setting was an exhibitionist/voyeur’s delight: a sex party. Our interactions were strictly one on one, but the setting made for perfect opportunities for exhibitionists and voyeurs alike.” The piece was originally posted on Liza’s blog: alwayseachother.blogspot.com.
I don’t have to keep quiet. At first I pant, short breaths, sharp inhales. A sound issues from somewhere deep in my chest. As we climb, as he pushes me higher, I don’t stop. He knows I love it, he knows my body has given in completely. If I hold my breath nothing happens. If I roll with it and let out what comes naturally, everything syncs and the roll toward orgasm is unstoppable.
I push into his mouth and hand. I want. Need. Desperation overtakes me. As open as I have become in the moments since we started, I feel the heat bloom in my chest, my groin, my ass. My body is ready to open farther, and in a rare moment of conscious thought I try to let it all go. What I’ve held tight I now relax. Where I’ve clenched, I release. And the bloom rises, flows and explodes from my cunt. But the heat doesn’t stop, continuing out from the center across my body. I flush all over. I gush on his hand. Involuntarily I clench on his fingers, so hard he can’t move them.
He strokes me, calming me. Soothing my swollen pussy. Grazing my goose-bumped skin. He presses to me, warming me with his heat. I feel his cock against my thigh, the crease of my hip. Soon it will be his turn.
I open my eyes and glance to the side. They are watching. They have seen. They have heard. They know now.
