Showoff By redhead_812@hotmail.com
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 45. Bother you?"
"Hell no. I'm 43. 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 the real-time shyness these fellows get.
I started the drinking regime at six: a beer followed by two twenty-ounce glasses of ice water. I started the mental preparation, as well: in addition to my regular porn favorites, I had rented three new titles, each box regaling some preferred perversion, vanilla though it all remains. I had wadded up a few odd pieces of clothing-a cropped tee shirt, my oldest pair of torn thin nylon running shorts, jockstrap, and thong, and placed them out of view. I might not even need them, I thought/hoped. I stacked leather and metal cock rings totem-style on top of the television. Two new bottles and two opened bottles of poppers were positioned beside the pole.
Six-thirty, six-forty five, I have never been patient about anything. The time crawled. My mind heatedly fantasized and discounted the evening at the same time. Yes he would, no he wouldn't, yes we would, no, we wouldn't.
Unlocking the front door and walking out into the courtyard in front of my house, I took my first breath of the summer air. Hot and heavy, it hung like the aftereffect of a strong hit of poppers. I paced about the courtyard and checked the audio porn cassettes in the car stereo. My body tensed, my cock grew and completely filled out. I walked out into the front yard; my pale skin seemed to glow in the darkness. I dropped a hand and lifted my cock, then I ran a finger along the purple vein that rivers from my groin across the top to the edge of the mushroom head. When I sliced across my piss slit with an index finger, hot sticky goo clung to it then stretched like chewing gum as I lifted the finger towards my mouth and drug it across my tongue: sweet.
I strode purposely back into the courtyard area, my cock was swinging; my ass was bouncing. Unscrewing the top of one of the already-opened bottles of poppers made that "it's still fresh" sound. Raising the nasal shot glass to my nose, I breathed in slow and long before I settled back onto the side of the car. As the fantasy I desired to come to life this evening poured through my mind, my cock see-sawed up and down, my ass tingled, and I slipped a finger to its puckered hole to feel heat waves pouring from within.
The car headlights crisscrossed the front yard like ground level klieg lights at a movie premiere. My heart raced as the car came to a stop, its headlights aimed away from the house. Shit. He didn't park up close to the house like I told him. He parked the car all the way out at the street. He won't be stripped and hard; I knew it. I considered walking back into the house and simply turning out the lights. Another bust on the fantasy fulfillment meter, I thought. But I stood there leaning back on the car, cock jutting straight out, ankles crossed making it seem even longer than it is. I waited to hear the car door slam before I braced myself for whatever with one last long, slow snort of old poppers. I can probably throw these away in the few minutes, I thought, ready for the disappointment.
Even though they were already open, the black wrought iron gates to the courtyard swung open as the guy walked in, looking to find what I said he would find. As pale as mine, his shaved-from-head-to-toe buff skin shown in the void of light. When he turned and saw me, a huge grin spread across his face. My cock jumped and oozed; he fell to his knees in front of me and swallowed me whole. Mouth full, his eyes cut upwards to me and he tried to say "thanks." My right hand automatically moved to the back of his shaved head and held it in place. He simply impaled his face onto my cock deeper. I reopened the old poppers and handed them to him before I took a relieved and rejuvenated series of hits myself. Those few odd "poppered" minutes passed as I felt the heavy, hot summer air envelope my body, and as this stranger's heated mouth and throat enveloped my throbbing cock.
He came up for air; I let loose a steaming stream of piss onto his chest. It traveled down through this hairless crotch, where I saw his cock for the first time, bonded in the throes of elastic "rope" tying it up and aiming it--small but taut--parallel to the ground. He simply reached down for the grocery bag he had left behind in the initial "cock shake" hello.
"Let's go in," I said.
"Sure."
Twenty-four almost frozen cans of beer, a liter of Jack Daniel's, and a bottle of cactus juice (margarita schnapps) came out of the bag in sequence. The cactus juice went in the freezer first, followed by four cans of beer. Shot glasses were scattered across the bar; we set the Southern bourbon in the middle of them all, just after we both took full hits of the warm amber liquor. I walked to the television and handed him one of the two new bottles of poppers. I turned up the sound on the video; Anthony Gallo was getting his fat cock sucked through a glory hole in a public restroom in the hugely debated "Tijuana Toilet Tramps." "I love for a fellow to suck my penis," he managed, as he flung sweat from his forehead and pumped his ass thus forcing his crotch and cock deeper into the other guy's face.
We had both decided that we wanted to have no names; the point of this evening was simply, as he had said: "pushing the boundaries of social acceptance." We did verbally size each other up, laugh about our nervousness leading up to the scheduled eight o'clock meeting, and outwardly appreciate the others' willingness to follow through on what was promised.
"I didn't really think it would happen," was the now-discarded sentiment.
"Oh, you stay hard all the time," he said, as if in a question. Head first, he dove back into my hard throbbing crotch.
"We'll see," I mused. "With you, probably so."
Pacing seemed to be the watchword for the evening as we watched video after video, emptied beer can after beer can, shot bourbon until the cactus juice was frozen, and shared stories of "perversion," all the while, making sure he didn't have to ask for cock very often.
"Ready?" he asked, suddenly and out of the blue. He raised his eyebrows; I knew. A lighted match, a rolled paper passed back and forth, and a few deep inhales between us and suddenly the beer was colder, the shooters more potent, the videos snapped into hyper focus and potential.
I stood and walked back towards the front door, beer can in one hand, poppers in the other. He jumped up and followed. Back outside I turned to face him as he was taking an expanded hit of poppers, and let loose another torrent of piss, this time on his crotch. "Ah," he moaned overloud, surprised at the onslaught. Surprised but not to be outdone, he dropped to his knees and pleaded, "My head." Always pleased to oblige anyone a sexual fantasy experience, I straddled his head, my thighs on either side, rested my cock on his newly shaved head, and relaxed. Piss shot out and drenched his head and back immediately; it took only a few short seconds for it to traverse down the sides of his head onto his chest and then, again, into his crotch. I stepped back to watch the river of my yellow piss stripe the fellow.
And then . . . and then what? What order, how long? Who can, at this point nine months later, really know? But I do know that I followed him through the courtyard gates out into the front yard and to his car, where he sucked me in the front seat. I remember that we laughed as we walked back to my convertible, opened the garage door, then backed it out into the driveway where I sat on the back of the car and watched him hungrily suck me while crouching between the front seats and straddling the gear shift. I remember building a pyramid of beer cans as we emptied them. Then I remember my saying: "Ready to roll?"
These two men, both in their forties, were in the midst of the very type of sexual experience that each always longed for but seldom got-pushing the boundaries of social acceptance.
We each took a fresh can of icy beer from the freezer, secured a bottle of poppers, and took a long, slow toke. We then climbed into my Miata convertible wearing only two old pairs of sneakers between us, and drove off for adventures around the city. It was one in the morning.
First stop: the porn movie house. "Want to go inside and wreck havoc with the audience," we laughed. We forgot money. So we parked in the outside lot and fucked around with each other while men in various stages of sexual satisfaction emerged from inside the theatre and headed to their cars. Some of them stared and tried to understand the grunting and groaning that was coming from the car stereo: old Colt audio tapes of orgies.
Next we drove directly downtown and considered swaggering into the city park and pissing into the gizer-like fountain. "Nah."
Onto the golf course that fans alongside the cruising park for guys. "We could pick up several other men, you know." "They wouldn't be into all this." "Right." But cruise we did, passing vehicle after vehicle, each driven by a man who rubber necked as we passed. At a stop sign, we both stood in the front floorboard and mooned the line of cars and trucks behind us.
"I know." I said. "Let's go play in the park near the house." Back across town to the 'tunes' of "Fuck, yeah," "Eat it," and "Take this big cock," rattling loudly from the stereo. It was two and quiet had settled into the neighborhood. Undaunted and with unflagging enthusiasm, we bounded out of the car and hurled ourselves down into the dug out park.
"Bend over, man," I ordered. "I want to eat that butt."
"Sure." With that, my face was filled with two white moons of muscle, punctuated in the center by a brown crater. At that moment, on that night, it almost called to me. Taking in air as if I was going to blow up a balloon, I smothered my face with the fleshy mounds and blew up into his chute before my tongue unabashedly followed. "To have a picture of this," my mind was flying in too many directions. "Yes. Eat me," was all he could say.
"Oh, yeah. Eat it, man," was what we heard from a distance. We jerked our heads in the direction of the voice and saw two guys walking through the park, hand in hand. "Don't let us bother you, dudes. You come here a lot?" I clamped down on my buddy's butt for one last, long chomping session. When I next came up for air they were gone.
Back in the car, and back in the driveway, I climbed onto the back of the convertible and told my stranger buddy fuck friend to eat me up for all he had in him. Not that either of us had noticed it, but the moon was just past full and was almost illuminating this freeing, yet socially deemed "perverse" scenario.
He absolutely pounded his head up and down my worn out, but unfailing cock. I met his every bob with an opposite pumping of my hips into his face. The bottles of poppers simply rested opened on either side of my sweating and heaving body, ready for each personal inhaling need. All became a blur of bodies, aromas, and fantasy fulfillment, when . . .
"Back off, man!" I ordered, too loudly. He only lifted his head off my crotch when spew after spew of confetti-like cum began flying to either side of his face and landing on the front seat of the car, on the hood of the car, on his shaved head, on me. _____
"Tell me to leave," was all he said. I did, and his white butt-that I could still taste on my tongue and in my mouth-strode to his car and was suddenly gone.
"Thanks," was all his voice message said the next day.