Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

There’s nothing I enjoy quite so much as sitting in a public place writing about sex. It’s one of the ways I embrace my exhibitionism. Anyone who looks over my shoulder while I’m writing has no cause to be shocked at what they read.

Why does it matter? I don’t think it’s polite to impose my sexuality on others - at least not outside of reasonable bounds. Making out with my girlfriend, at night in the park is fine. Kneeling in obedience in a public place, unless it is so disguised as a vanilla action that only my partner and I know what’s going on, is not. This is one reason why, despite my fantasies about public sex, I’ve never had it. I don’t like to non-consensually involve passersby in my sex life, no matter how hot I might find it.* Only where there’s a reasonable expectation of privacy… like in my notebook.

I’ve been sitting in the local diner eating lunch and writing about sex. Most of it has been for work, but some of it has been for fun. Yes, fun. It turns me on to sit here in my shorts and tank top, secret grin on my face, and write about the things I would rather be doing.

I have this persistent fantasy, you see, that the things that I write might turn on other people. That they might, even, turn them on to me and get me what I want. That I might, for example, be sitting on the sofa writing out my smutty thoughts about sex, submission, and pain when the person I’ve been waiting for walks in…

“What are you working on?” he’d ask and I’d show him.

Then, instead of looking at me askance, stopping calling, treating me like an alien instead of the girl he had said he found so “hot” he’d thing for a second, smile, and say,

“Really? This is what you want?”

I’d nod.

“Huh. I never would have asked you for any of this, but I find myself strangely intrigued and rather turned on. You’d really enjoy if I just took? Used you for my own pleasure instead of thinking about yours? Told you want I wanted you to do and expected you to do it? That would be a turn on for you? Really? You’d enjoy that?”

“Oh yes,” I’d respond. “I think I’d enjoy that very much.”

And then we’d both find out.

All because I share my desires with the world not through short skirts and loud voices, but through long sentences and quiet sighs.
–
*my sex life, not shocking strangers. The exception to this is that I feel like I should be able to do anything I would do in public with a boy with a girl. And if that shocks people… well tough noogies. If they wouldn’t be surprised by heterosexual PDAs they should be able to suck up homosexual PDAs as easily.

Because my weekend plans just crashed and burned*, I just stopped my massive push to complete my manuscript edits by the end of the day in favor of taking a bath. After all, if I have an extra three days to get the work done I should be able to take an hour out to attempt to convert my muscles from knotted steel to spaghetti-like goo.

I don’t take baths all that often. I don’t really know why. They always feel so incredibly decadent to me while I’m lying in my coconut scented bubbles, letting the heat soak into my skin. I think part of that is the nudity. I’m not a casual nudist around the house**, and wandering about naked before, during, and after the bath tends to feel very sensual, or even downright sexual.

I like my body better without clothing than I do with. I may not be the skinniest person on the planet, not by far, but I’m strong and fit and when I’m naked I can see the curves and hollows that my hard work has won me***. I like my two current tattoos, and I like thinking of the next few I’m planning and picturing how their designs will adorn my skin. My body is far from perfect, but when it’s all out there, exposed to the air and light, I’m generally relatively pleased with what I see.

The other thing about bathing is that it brings out my imaginary exhibitionist streak. Throughout my life I’ve always had exhibitionist fantasies. Many of my early masturbatory fantasies were enhanced by my pretending that someone had hidden a camera in the light fixture or the shower. It used to turn me on enormously to imagine someone watching me and telling me what to do****. I never really got past that. It’s rare that I can make it out of the bathtub without hiding my face from the imaginary camera let alone with what little remains of my virtue intact.

So that was my shameless self indulgence for the day. After nearly 36 hours straight of doing nothing but researching depressing statistics on rape for the book I’m revising, it was a lovely break. I’m tempted to follow it up by some private musing on rape fantasies, just to further balance everything out. It would be good to get those out of my system before I start working on the facts again.

*And I had so been looking forward to having people beat the crap out of me this weekend! Sadly, sick pet needs to take priority. The one silver lining? Not having to deal with the 5+ hour drive on one of the heaviest travel weekends of the year… when the main freeway is under construction. Still, no beatings is terribly disappointing. I’ll have to see if I can manage to at least shake up a local date for some making out and biting.

**Self preservation. It’s bad enough when the dog gets a hankering to lick between my toes. Cold nose on the back of a kneecap? *shudder*

*** I can also catalog the bruises. My weekly exercise in group masochism left me, this time, with a solid green left inner thigh and a giant black spot on the back of my right knee. There are also several inexplicable bruises on my calves that I’m going to blame on attack shrubbery. I have an epidemic of attack shrubbery. I swear to gods that someday soon I will walk the neighborhood with pruning shears and an evil grin.

****Used to? Who am I kidding. Anyway… Part of this is an inherent enjoyment of being subjugated to someone else’s will “Do this. Show me that” and part of it is just pure bliss at the thought of being able to turn off my brain for a while and let someone else make the decisions.

I got my camera back the other day, and I am suffused by an overwhelming desire to rip off my clothes in front of it. Spend enough of your life being the good girl, and the desire to be bad becomes almost irresistible. Spend enough time being ignored, and all you want in the world is to be looked at. I set the tripod up tonight in the guest bedroom, hooked the camera to the computer, and started taking off my clothes. I discovered once again that just having the camera recording is an enormous turn on, even when there’s nobody on the other end to see. I don’t know how I ever questioned having an exhibitionist side. I have these intense fantasies about fulfilling anonymous strangers’ sexual desires. Doing anything they ask of me, while they watch, safely, from miles away. I think about the things they’d have me do, and wish that I wasn’t quite so concerned about propriety. Dream that I could make some random person’s night by giving them exactly what they want.

and yet, in a week when my libido is low at any other time of day, that’s when I can be counted on to be thinking about sex. Part of it, I suppose, is that I wake up stimulated by the remnants of dreams which often tend to be either terrifying or sexual, both emotions that arouse. Last night, in my dreams, I was once again an exhibitionist. Parading in front of open shades in white lace bra, panties, and garter belt, I was pretending I didn’t think anyone could see while desperately hoping someone was watching.

I can’t quite figure out whether the origin of my exhibitionist fantasies is truly in a desire to be watched, or whether it comes from a desire to be naughty. “What will they think of me?” is less an exclamation of dismay than a hope that just for once instead of being the brain I’ll be the body. I enjoy being whistled at or cat-called by men on the street; it’s a form of attention I didn’t get when I was young and still don’t often get one-on-one. A lot of that is due to presentation, I can be an attractive girl, but most of the time I feel like a mouse and what you feel like has a powerful effect on how others see you (except for gas station attendants 20 years my senior… who have regularly been hitting on me since I was 17.)

The times, therefore, when I do feel like a gypsy princess or just a saucy New York girl striding the streets in my tall boots and short skirts, I am torn between feeling beautiful and feeling like the ugly duckling playing dress-up in the swan’s white feather boa. What, I think, would someone think if they met me today, but saw me tomorrow? Stripped of glamour, standing in my skin, I need my brain and tongue to be enough. Cleverness is my version of cute, which is why sometimes I try too hard to show it off. I think, sometimes, it must be far more simple to be a swan, they seem to thrive without a thought of anything but preening in their heads. Simpler, though, has never been what I’ve sought. While it would be nice to be the beautiful girl who draws every eye when she walks through the door, I value my mind far more.

Still, if you catch a glimpse of a girl through open shades. Naked, or dressed in the briefest lingerie. Head turned as though to deny the presence of the world, but with back straight and hair tossed back, you should wonder, “Is this a show for me?” Because, if it’s my window, it very well might be. Just for once, look but don’t listen. I want to be desired for what you see. Not for the essence of what is me.

A few months ago, I had my first experience with web-cam sex. Technological malfunctions aside, it was one of the hottest things I’ve ever done in my life. For most of my adult years, I’ve had exhibitionist fantasies, and fantasies about public sex. However, my belief that it’s rude to impose your sexuality on others means that I never have indulged those desires. Then, out of the blue, I started corresponding with a man from an online personals site, and one night, while he was telling me about his web cam adventures, I thought “I want to do that.” So I did. I set up a tripod in my bedroom and took off my clothes for the camera. I didn’t want my face splashed across the internet along with my naked body, but that was okay with him, because what he wanted was a hardcore shot. He wanted my cunt, up close, and in detail, so that he could tell me what to do to my body, and make certain I was following instructions. I felt both embarrassed and aroused by the things he asked for, but such is my personality that the embarrassment mostly served to turn me on more. I would willingly, no happily, do it again. Excitedly open my legs, and my body, for the camera. Touch myself only by instruction, deny myself what I want, and give my watcher exactly what (s)he requests. I don’t think I’ve ever found it so easy to orgasm by my own hand as I did that night when it was directed by someone else’s words.

I think that part of the appeal of cam sex is that, for me, it is the ultimate in safe sex. I’m rather profoundly sexually submissive, so being told what to do to myself is an enormous turn-on, and the fact that I get to follow someone else’s desires without risking my health or wellbeing in any way is rather nice. I don’t entirely understand what the director/viewer gets out of it, but I would welcome insight, and I have to admit that it’s nice to feel free to be selfish in my pleasure.

I devoutly want to do it again. Preferably with fewer technological problems, because having to reboot the window every 5 minutes was a bit of a mood killer. I wish I was nervy enough to be that open in person. In person, I’m far more comfortable receiving pain from someone than sexual pleasure. No matter how much I might want the latter. The safety I feel from being on the other side of a computer screen is difficult to replicate in person.