Showoff Squared

I really never thought of it this way, but Webster says that exhibitionism is a “perversion marked by the tendency to indecent exposure.” And I have always imagined that I enjoy being naked in public just because it feels good.

Especially when I am faithful to my exercise and diet regime, I get quite a rush from either taking off my clothes in public, or simply not bothering to put any on in the first place. Oh, don’t get me wrong; I don’t walk around city streets midday with nothing on but a smile, but at night there is something to be said for getting in my convertible stripped and taking a cruise around the city parks. There’s some kind of release in sitting in my favorite porn movie house and just slipping off the little that I always wear there, anyway. There’s an odd feeling of freedom from taking a 2 a.m. walk across a deserted golf course. And there is an especially great feeling to exercising—whatever the type—wearing as little as possible, or nothing.

Is it a backlash at my puritanical upbringing, or is it, as Webster poses, a “perversion?” Whatever it is termed clinically, it remains for me, one of the best tension-releasing activities in which I engage.
__________________________

“You have twelve messages. Message One, from mail box 856.” Damned idiots. Didn’t they listen to what I said? DELETE. These phone lines are just not worth it. Messages two through seven: DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE. “Message eight, from mail box 132.” “I think we might have many things in common. Call me.” What do you look like, what’s your deal, what the fuck. I write down the number anyway. Besides, it’s in the same area code as mine, so he has to be close by.

“Hello.”

“You answered my ad on the phone line.”

“Oh, yes. Can you hang on a minute?”

“Sure.” (Pissed.)

“Thanks. Yeah. I think we might have a lot in common.”

“Yeah. Like . . .”

“I like to push the boundaries of social acceptance.”

“Cool! What you look like, man.”

“I’m 49. Bother you?”

“Hell no. I’m 47. Not into boys, just men.”

“Great! I’m five-eleven, one seventy, shaved from head to toe. You mind balding guys?”

“Nope. Like I said, I am only interested in men. What’s your deal? What made you answer my ad?”

“Exhibitionism, public scenes, public sex; I like to push boundaries. Beer, poppers, some smoke—you mind? Porn, water sports; you name it, I like to do it.”

(Below the belt response) “Sounds like we really might have lots in common, man. Just to remind you: I’m six-two, one eighty-five, red hair, blue eyes, athletic, eight inches, nice naturally bubbled butt. Obviously you listened to my ad. I like the idea of pushing boundaries. I guess that’s what exhibitionism is really all about, huh?”

“Yeah. I can’t get enough. I like to play for hours.”

The scene was set for the following Friday night at eight, my house. I had the porn and poppers; he was bringing the beer, shooters, and smoke. The convertible had a full tank; the top was down.

“If you park that way out front, you can walk to the house stripped,” I told him. “I’ll be right there, waiting; stripped and hard.” The true test, I always knew, was if they would actually show up stripped. I am never hesitant, but I always seem to be disappointed at