(Mid 1990s) I was startled as a man came around the corner to find me standing bottomless, smoking a cigarette, on the sidewalk next to my apartment building. My breasts were covered by a thin silky camisole, but I was nude from the waist down. We both jumped with surprise. Knowing I was busted, I quickly attempted to compose myself, hoping to appear casual. I am, and have found others to be, more comfortable in these situations when I act as though nothing is out of place.
“Good morning,” I offered with an involuntary giggle that recognized our mutual surprise, and my vulnerable condition.
I felt my attempt to imply that nothing was wrong with my being half naked and having a smoke outside was betrayed by my red face and tightly crossed legs. It was a reflex to the wide embarrassed grin he carried while passing me closely on the sidewalk. Clearly unsure of what to say, his eyes stayed with me until he continued around the next corner and out of sight.
I then nearly burst. A stifled scream, and nervous jig, helped release some of the overwhelming tension. I was proud that I didn’t run. He had truly caught me off guard, sending so many thoughts through my mind, and sensations through both the covered and exposed parts of my body. My want to scurry back inside was equal to my hope he would walk by again. But I knew that no matter where this settled, I absolutely could not leave this spot on the sidewalk until the cigarette was finished.
I didn’t really smoke. My cigarette was just an excuse and a timer. I pretended to smoke it for a reason to be standing outside, and the dare was to stay there until the cigarette was done. The situation came about due to a roll of the dice – literally.
The dice became necessary in my life many years earlier. It was the solution I found for dealing with challenges for fully committing to satisfying my urges in extreme circumstances. I find it difficult to clearly explain. The concept is full of inconsistencies. But that is exactly why I needed the dice.
For as long as I can remember, I have been inundated with wild erotic thoughts and ideas. I love to imagine myself in various outrageous scenarios, and often let these fantasies grow until I become obsessed with bringing them to life. However, many of these ideas are so far out there – much too wild and daring for me to follow through with them. My more sensible self rejects the ideas to put these notions into action. But there is something within me that insists on pushing everything to the extreme. This results in endless internal arguments between me and what I describe as “my little voice.” Her ideas have always been extreme. Nearly all are sexual, and excessively perverse. And it is all I can do to resist her.
She is most vocal at night, and in the early morning, taking advantage of me when I am in that sleepy state of waking, and my inhibitions are at their lowest. In those hours she makes the most daring suggestions, if not demands.
“Get up now and go right out the front door – naked. Take a walk around the neighborhood. Maybe go for a bike ride?”
“You should whisper in that stranger’s ear that you are not wearing panties. Better yet, you should show him.”
“Why don’t you see how much of that porcelain pineapple on the front porch could fit inside you?”
These and so many other suggestions have been her relentless influence in my life. Although more in the late or early hours, but also throughout each day. It is often too much, as these suggestions feed my urges, which are endless and exceedingly lascivious. The conflicts come with my serious concern, but certain pleasure, for committing to these ideas – many of which can land me in significant trouble.
When I was young, I usually did not follow through with her suggestions. They were so crazy. I just refused from the beginning or chickened out at some point during the execution of her dares. But this dramatically diminished the thrills – even those I felt just imagining myself in a scenario, as I knew I could back out.
I don’t know if it is the same for all exhibitionists, but for me, being trapped – entirely at the mercy of a situation – is far more thrilling. For example, I love to frolic naked in my yard and do this voluntarily. But being locked out of my house naked is so much more exciting. Whenever I walk outside nude, my little voice demands I lock the door behind me. When I feel I have no choice, my pleasure, even before following through, is intense. But the thrills become lost when I know I can refuse.
I needed something to be that thing I could not refuse. I wanted to be able to filter the most insane ideas of my little voice, and what remained to have the added thrill of chance. I tried several methods, including just flipping a coin, but this did not work very well.
I found the solution on the top shelf of the hall closet of my family home. To my rescue came Milton Bradley, and our now incomplete game of Yahtzee. I know it does not make much sense, but somehow I was able to obey the dice. I would still filter out the truly impossible suggestions from my little voice but put her other ideas to the dice.
Prior to each roll, I assigned meaning to the various outcomes. No matter the outcome of any roll, I would always follow through with whatever the dice determined. This was challenging at times when a roll came out against something I knew I really wanted, or when it confirmed a more extreme idea I let slip from my little voice. But, I absolutely could not refuse the dice or I would again lose the thrills to which I had become addicted. Finding myself at the mercy of the dice became my greatest pleasure. Nothing equaled the thrills of knowing that there could be no turning back.
It was the dice that assigned meaning to the random circumstances that led to my smoking bottomless outside my apartment with no choice but to stay there no matter who or how many people I encountered.
As covered in earlier parts of my story, while going through my divorce from my first husband, I was living in an apartment that my friends, Mark and Brandon, were using as a workspace for their small business. They generally worked at night, leaving me alone in the apartment for most daytime hours.
Having recently left a restrictive marriage, I was making the most of my new life of freedom. My days alone in the apartment, and around the complex, were filled with unrestrained experimentation.
This complex consisted of one-story buildings separated by parking areas. Each were identical with a privacy fence surrounding a small patio in front of each unit. My fence blocked the view of my front door from all but two apartments across the way, and a good bit of parking lot. Through the months I lived there, I never saw much activity at the units across from mine. So, I ignored them, and the possibly that anyone there could see me at my front door. This gave me the confidence to come and go as I pleased. And what often pleased me was to go nude.
My apartment was at the very end of the building. I could step out from my front door and turn right into a large area of grass next to the windowless side of my building. This small field was mostly blocked from the view of the apartments. On the far side of the field was a thin line of trees that shaded a small creek beyond. This was my playground. Aside from an occasional dog walker or landscaper, it was rare for anyone to come through this area.
I spent hours in the field, and at the creek, almost every day. Sometimes I didn’t know what to do, I just wanted to be out there. Sunbathing, doing cartwheels, splashing in the creek, dancing in the inexplicably random sprinklers, were some of the things I did regularly. But, as always, my little voice had ideas too.
Almost every morning I would wake to the voice trying to convince me to do something, like go stand outside naked until I was discovered. Or go to the mailbox, which was in view of dozens of apartments. Or go out to the road and flag down a ride to see where the adventure may take me. I wanted to do everything she suggested, but most were unrealistic, and I knew the other decisions were better left to the dice.
However, she was relentless and often quite convincing. And she didn’t see the need for the dice. So, sometimes I would surrender to the voice while still half asleep and find myself standing out on the sidewalk completely nude. But with no real plan or activity to keep me focused and committed, I would quickly retreat. Although nerve-wracking, I loved being out there, so I turned to the dice to help make this work.
My friend and landlord, Brandon, was a smoker. Occasionally he would leave a pack of cigarettes on the desk that I would find in the morning, after he had gone. One morning, when I saw he had left a pack, the voice spoke… Yahtzee! The dice ordered that if he left a pack on the desk, I had to stand outside on the sidewalk. How many cigarettes were left in the pack dictated how I would be dressed, if at all. And I had to be there for as long as it took me to smoke one of the cigarettes – or rather pretend to smoke. I only puffed on them enough to keep them burning at a pace dictated by my nerves.
The importance I maintained for not betraying the dice, combined with the randomness of the cigarettes, resulted in such exciting fun for me. This is what kept me from running away that morning when I was caught bottomless. I did suck harder on the cigarette while wondering if my discoverer would return, or possibly report me. But I held my ground until the cigarette reached the point I considered finished. Then I moved back around the corner to my front door to find a familiar golf cart parked in the lot. I was struck with worry, realizing I had been caught by the maintenance man. We had never met, but I knew his golf cart. It had significant damage to the front, which was partly my fault.
Over the recent weeks, Brandon and I had been growing close. We were having a lot of fun together. It started with our making videos in which he recorded me posing and playing in the nude. But more recently we started spending other time together.
One night, after a little too much wine, Brandon got an idea and told me to follow him as he went out the door. I was wearing only a pair of shorts and my bra as I followed him through the apartment complex. We ended up “borrowing” the golf cart that was parked outside the complex maintenance shed. Brandon knew how to start it, and he drove us up the road next to the apartments while I flashed oncoming cars. It was great fun until he didn’t see a drainage ditch and we dropped off the sidewalk slamming into a large concrete pipe.
I was relieved to hear Brandon laughing along with me as I lay topless in the wet grass assessing if I were really injured. Knowing he was okay allowed me to continue to lie there at the side of the road and appreciate the stars above and the cool night air on my breasts, along with a strange peace found in the middle of such a moment. We had been speeding along the sidewalk with the noise of the cart and wind, then a crash before a sudden quiet calm.
But my peace was soon washed out by the headlights of a truck that pulled over to help. I hurriedly searched for my bra, in the dark shadows of the ditch, made worse by the blinding light from the truck. I would have somewhat enjoyed my predicament on the roadside, with my bare breasts bathed in the light as the driver walked toward us – but I was quite distracted with the possible consequences of having drunkenly crashed a stolen golf cart.
“This looks like a good time gone bad,” the driver recognized, as I stood in his headlights holding my boobs.
I found my bra and had it on before having to help Brandon and the truck driver push the cart back onto the sidewalk. There I realized Brandon was bleeding from his lip, but the cart got the worst of it. The front was severely cracked with a chunk hanging off. But we managed to secure it and return the cart to the apartment complex.
Knowing it was an employee of the complex that had caught me smoking half-naked next to my apartment building concerned me. I enjoy almost any kind of attention but worry about being confronted in a negative way. And I feared bringing trouble to my friends who were letting me live in their apartment.
I spent a while pacing and peeking through the blinds, wondering if someone would come knocking. I watched as the maintenance man returned to his cart and drove off. He then came and went several times over the next hour. My nerves began to settle. I didn’t know if he was working on something at an apartment behind mine, or if he was hoping to see me again. I wanted to find out and considered having another smoke out on the sidewalk, but knew I shouldn’t push my luck.
Brandon came to work on one of his projects again that night, and I took special notice each time he went out for a smoke. I wondered if he would leave the pack again, and if his addiction, paired with my own, would get us evicted.
When I woke the next morning, I stayed in bed a while trying to decide how I would feel if cigarettes were left on the desk again today. I just wasn’t sure. But when I got up to find a pack waiting for me there, I was relieved. This time the number of cigarettes dictated that I would have to go out and smoke while completely naked. The fear returned, but the rules are the rules, and I could not break them.
No matter how many times it has happened, I am always amazed how quickly I can go from fearing a thing to hoping for a thing. My worries after yesterday’s encounter added great concern, but also increased excitement. The longer I stood naked in the cool morning air, the more I was stimulated and wished to be caught again today. With no sign of anyone, I started to wander from around the secluded side of the building toward the parking lot. I knew I was now in view of a few apartments. This was titillating, but my cigarette burned out along with my hope of being caught this time. I went back inside feeling a great desire to take more risks.
The next morning, no pack was left on the desk. I could still go play outside in the field, or at the creek, but that would only bring mild thrills compared to being forced to obey the dice. Disappointed, I opened the door to have a stretch and feel the day on my body, while I considered what to do. Stepping out onto the porch, I peeked around the privacy fence to see the parking lot was mostly empty.
“Keep going.” I heard my little voice. “Grab the mailbox key and go check the mail.”
This was not the first time she had this idea. But this was one of those extreme and terrifying scenarios that I feared would one day make it past my filter and be confirmed by the dice. The mailbox was very exposed in the middle of the complex, in view of dozens of apartments and several parking areas. I had before hurriedly run to the mailbox at night, but I only fantasized going to the mailbox in the day. Walking completely naked past so many apartments, in broad daylight, to the most visible spot in the complex was ludicrous. This is something I just couldn’t do, so I never put the idea to the dice.
Leaving the door open, which I liked to do during the day, I turned back inside while arguing with my little voice as she adamantly campaigned for me to get the mailbox key. I began to think I might actually consult the dice about it. But I couldn’t stop imagining all the possible consequences of being caught walking naked around my complex in the middle of the day. Then I noticed something that quickly registered as a possible compromise.
Brandon had not left his cigarettes, but he had left a shirt on the back of the desk chair. It was a white long-sleeve button-up. It seemed Brandon had solved the problem. My little voice and I immediately agreed. I didn’t even put the idea to the dice, afraid the roll would not go my way. I wanted this to happen.
The shirt seemed so bright and clean, and carried something of Brandon that I wanted close to me. I could have this with me and wear his shirt to the mailbox. This seemed the perfect scenario. Leaving it unbuttoned to flow behind me in the breeze – or closing it around me with a protective hug, if I felt the need.
While picturing myself going through with it, which is often one of the best parts for me, I became distracted at the mirror. Turning this way and that, I enjoyed the cool clean feeling brought on by the shirt and the anticipation of my adventure ahead. I love to play out the possibilities in my mind, over and over and in different ways. Soon I was lost in a memory from many years ago. I had witnessed a beautiful woman walk to her mailbox, and I came to believe this a significant factor in my becoming an exhibitionist.
One summer morning, when I was much younger, I had ridden my bike over to a girlfriend’s house to ask if she wanted to go for a ride. I sat on my bike in her apartment’s parking lot while she got ready. Across the street from her complex were several houses. From one of these, this beautiful woman emerged. I could not help but notice. Not only because she was so beautiful, but she wore only a small sheer robe that is better described as lingerie. It was brilliantly blue, mostly lace, and open in the front.
There on my bike, I watched this woman walk down the driveway to her mailbox. Her otherwise naked body was completely exposed as her robe fluttered behind her in the wind, much as I imagined how Brandon’s shirt would play when I walked to my mailbox.
She stood there at the side of the considerably busy road for some time, looking through her mail with such calm confidence, seemingly oblivious to me, the passing cars, and a jogger who paused with dismay. She could not have been more exposed, or seemingly more at peace, as the wind turned her frilly little robe into nothing more than a cape. I had never been so amazed by anything. She was sexy, confident, and so elegant.
Eventually she sashayed back up the driveway and into her house. When my friend came out with her bike, I asked about her neighbor, but she didn’t know what I was talking about. I decided that beautiful woman must have been on drugs. But through the years of my remembering her, and dreaming of experiencing for myself something like she did that day, I am not so sure. Without any drugs, I find myself regularly seeking such experiences.
After a while of playing in Brandon’s shirt, dancing, daydreaming, and reminiscing in the mirror, I grabbed the mailbox key and walked out the front door of the apartment. At first, I boldly let the shirt flow open, but as I moved farther into the parking lot, in view of many apartments, fear took over and I hugged the shirt closed around me. Although the parking lot was somewhat empty, with most people off to work, I was quite aware of the likelihood I would be seen by some neighbors. I feared this, and was hoping for it, as I let the shirt fall open just to close it again while arguing with my little voice.
Soon I came in sight of the large silver monstrosity that held the collection of little mailboxes for the complex, and I saw something that severely challenged my resolve. The mailman was there. He and his truck were on the back side of the box, where he had open the large panel that allowed access to all the boxes. I froze in my tracks, still securing the shirt around me with my arms. Many thoughts ran through me. I thought I should have rolled the dice, as I was sure to chicken out now. Although, my little voice was cheering me on. I thought again of the woman I watched walking so beautifully to her mailbox. I knew I was not now exuding such confidence and graceful elegance as she.
Already feeling my disappointment from just the idea of turning back, I continued forward. Coming closer to the cover of the box, I began to relax, even though it seemed the mailman was sure to see me, if not also my neighbors. I knew I could be reported to the apartment complex administration, or even the police. But my little voice asked a significant question. One that has often helped me through intense situations.
“What would really happen?”
Even with the possible trouble, I wanted this so much more than the disappointment of retreating to my apartment. I knew I would survive, and with an amazing experience. So, I let the shirt fall open again, as I slowly approached the box, feeling that calm confidence of which I dreamed.
The mailman was busy filling the mailboxes as I opened mine and removed the mail. My box was at chest level, so I leaned down to peer through for what I could see of him through the porthole of my box. As is common with many of my adventures, my emotions were swirling. I felt the shirt draped over me, hanging down beside the exposed parts of my body. But I was unsure of just how exposed I was to the neighboring apartments and the mailman, if he could see me through my box.
“Good morning,” I said, hoping to capture his attention.
He leaned down to peer back through my box, and we caught eyes.
“Good morning, young lady,” he answered.
I was warmed by his smiling face and pleasant demeanor. I kept my eyes locked to his as I felt the cool morning air move across my body, which highlighted for me just how exposed I was. I did not know how much of me he could see through the narrow mail slot, but I felt such erotic, nearly orgasmic, sensations being so exposed out in the open, in broad daylight, looking into his eyes with our faces not two feet apart.
I knew if I stood up now he would surely see my breasts through the box.
“Do it,” the voice demanded.
I nearly complied, but the mailman’s eyes moved away as he continued his work filling the other boxes. With his attention no longer on me, I stood up with my boobs visible to him if he peered through my mailbox again.
“Let the shirt fall to ground. Stuff it in the mailbox and walk away,” my little voice insisted.
I thought of him long telling the story of the naked woman at the mailbox, just as I often thought of the beautiful woman in her driveway years ago.
I couldn’t do it. That was still beyond my daring. But I wasn’t ready to leave. I knew I wanted to be seen and appreciated like that woman I had seen. I stood there flipping through the mail to delay leaving.
“Have a nice day,” I said, taking a few steps back to be better exposed, hoping he would look back through the box at me.
His courteous distracted response told me that he did not look, but his pleasant reaction when he had earlier looked into my eyes was most reassuring and gave me great confidence. I turned and started walking back toward my apartment with no concern that my shirt was open, dancing in the breeze, as my exposed bits bounced and swayed with each peppy step.
I never looked to see if the mailman watched me walk away, but I took the bottom edge of the shirt in my hands swinging it with my arms and lifting it up just enough to reveal my bottom for a lively and sexy show, in case he did watch.
Although I did not see anyone, it was a long walk through the vast parking lot, past many apartments, so I was quite stimulated by the time I got back inside. I left the door open as I laid on the sofa and caressed myself to the thoughts of the day, and my dreamy notions of who may possibly come to my open door and find me there on the sofa. It could be a delivery, a neighbor, Mark, Brandon, the apartment management, perhaps my husband, or the police. But even the more concerning possibilities did not worry me now. I was in such a state that I prayed for someone to come. My thoughts fell to the maintenance man. I knew it was unlikely he would approach my door, but my imagination was busy with the idea. I tried to think of what I could report broken in the apartment, and fantasized about him finding me as I was.
Then someone did arrive at the apartment. I recognized the sound of his car. It was distinct. I never doubted that he would appreciate finding me nearly naked, with the door open, playing with myself on the sofa. But I wasn’t sure what he would think to find me this way while wearing his shirt. Nevertheless, I continued with what I was doing, but with some adjustments. Lying face up, with both hands between my legs, I arched my back and squeezed my boobs together with my arms to make a nice presentation for Brandon when he entered.
I didn’t look, but when I became aware of his presence in the doorway, I pretended not to notice, putting on my show as he watched. He said nothing. I later recognized that this was a turning point for us as several intense minutes passed with him secretly watching me experience a long and powerful orgasm. At what I felt was the right moment, I noticed him and feigned surprise, mixed with embarrassment. I covered myself with his shirt and apologized. Although I was pretending to be caught off guard, I was mostly honest, explaining that I borrowed his shirt to check the mail, and it made me feel so sexy. I admitted to him that I couldn’t help myself.
Brandon shut the door as he entered. My orgasm was amazing but left me wanting the next. I hoped that he would not be able to resist me in this vulnerable state, lose control and take whatever he wanted of me. I laid back, fully exposed, with eyes closed, and prayed he would just have his way. But he did not. Instead, he walked right by me and reached under his desk, retrieving his video camera.
“Keep going,” he ordered, as he began to record.
This was the way we had connected over the recent weeks, but I wanted more. With Brandon hiding behind his camera, I started my usual teasing. But this time I was not teasing the camera, I was teasing him. At least that was my intention.
I used his shirt as a burlesque-style prop from which to slowly reveal myself and hope to appear sexy while giving an erotic performance until eventually reaching another orgasm. But I know it was more of a performance than something real. I think this is revealed in the video we made that day. I do like how sexy and fun I appear, but I think it is obvious I am more performing – not really the raw and unrestrained explosion of pleasure that occurs when I truly surrender.
Most of my playing for the camera was comprised of my own ideas – trying to be erotically beautiful while imagining who might see the video. But Brandon offered directions at times. I love it when people tell me what they want and like. And I have more confidence to do things that I am not just making up myself. But sometimes they ask for something I fear I won’t do well. Brandon asked me to get up from the sofa and dance. I did, but felt silly and self-conscious making up a dance. I really just did a lot of swaying and tried to be cute, but as it went on, I began to feel even more sexy and excited. I was a bit overwhelmed, and even though I knew Brandon had a girlfriend, I just wanted him to put the camera down and take me.
That didn’t happen, but it was during this video session that Brandon touched me for the first time, at least in that way. He had before touched me to adjust my clothes, parts of my body, or bubbles in the bath and such. But he had never just touched me for what I knew was his own pleasure. A few times as I posed and teased in his wonderfully white button-up shirt, he ran his hand across my breasts and down my body as I tingled with delight, and hoped for what his hand might eventually explore. But these caresses were brief as he focused more on recording.
I don’t remember if the battery died, or the tape ran out, but the session ended before I felt we were really finished. Brandon abruptly left, and I continued to play in his shirt for much of the night while hoping he would return.
I was so aroused that night, I put to the dice every suggestion from my little voice. But her most extreme ideas were not confirmed, and I found myself just playing in the sprinklers in the field outside my apartment. It was there, shivering in Brandon’s wet shirt, that I finally accepted the fact that I was in love.
