Exhibitionism Lite (or the thrill of getting caught)

nails, door knob, fetish

Photo by Archbishop Tutu.

C has his own website at The Kink Studio these days and has been blogging there about some of our adventures. He recently wrote about one of our summer trysts and my penchant for … not exactly exhibitionism … but doing things in public places, where the thrill or fear of getting caught makes it feel all the more exciting and deviant (though I don’t actually want to get caught). What do you call this? Exhibitionism lite?

I know I did plenty of things in the past few years that looked like “exhibitionism full throttle,” what with all the fucking at sex parties and the like, but I don’t think I was ever into exhibitionism per se. Before, at the parties, I was just trying something new on for size. If there was someone at a sex party that I wanted to play with, I’d do it regardless of who was or wasn’t watching. These days, I seem to have less of a desire to do anything at play parties, for whatever reason. But discreetly playing in (inappropriate) public places remains to be one of my guilty pleasures.

I was thinking, the other day, about how kinks come about and develop in the first place. Do you fantasize about something first, try it and then confirm it’s indeed something that turns you on? Or do you try something you may never have thought about and realize that it’s really hot? It’s probably a mixture of both. Conversely, there have been sexual experiences that I’ve fantasized about in theory but didn’t find enjoyable in practice. There’ve also been things I didn’t understand or think about much until I experimented with them and found them to be a huge turn on (ahem… did someone say rope?)

With respect to exhibitionism lite, I think it goes back to my relationship with M some seven years ago. He lived in Philadelphia, while I still lived at home with my parents, so whenever he was in town, he’d only be here for a few hours, I couldn’t take him home to my parents’ house and he’d usually drive back to Philly afterwards, so for a while we got by on discreetly playing with each other in dimly lit bars and lounges, which I found very hot. We had sex in the bathrooms of bars, in his car, in some dark corners. I loved it. And I wasn’t the only one. When we fucked at the bathroom of the 2A bar in the East Village, the bartender had apparently noticed we were gone for a while, as the place was sparsely attended that night. When we came back out, she pretty much knew what we had been up to. She thought it was awesome and gave us shots to celebrate. There may or may not have been high fives involved…

One of the watchtowers in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

One of the watchtowers in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico.

And, later, when M and I no longer had to do things in public (I had practically moved into his house in PA later on), it just became “a thing” and we retained our mutual fondness for the subversive little shenanigans. When we went to Puerto Rico, we fucked everywhere: in the bathrooms of bars and clubs, in a watchtower at night, at a playground at night, on the beach, you name it. (I’ve been to Puerto Rico since then, and seeing those watchtowers always reminds me of a fun night we enjoyed there).

And we still did these things in New York, even though we no longer needed to (I had a room in my own apartment here later). There is just something incredibly thrilling about having somebody finger you under the table in the middle of a loud, crowded bar, while you try to remain calm and poised, try not to make too much noise, try not to give yourself away while you’re looking around the room and wondering if anyone notices.

In an attempt to psychoanalyze myself (yes, I do this often, probably too often), having grown up Catholic, I was especially drawn to sex particularly because it was depicted as something deviant and forbidden. And when I started having sex, I initially started doing it in the context of a loving relationship and thought, “this couldn’t possibly be wrong! God can’t disapprove of this.” Later, of course, I started having casual sex, kinky sex, sex with multiple partners, etc., and found that I kept trying to push the envelope further because I still wanted things to feel deviant, I wanted to “be bad.” I adjusted my beliefs along the way, accordingly, of course and no longer believed that sex is actually wrong, but it was (and still is) inspiring and sexy for me to imagine that these things were “bad” and “deviant,” so I kept seeking out experiences that still had that sense. (Speaking of sense, am I making any?)

I’m definitely more turned on by doing things in public places, where you’re not supposed to, rather than ones where it’s expected, allowed and even encouraged (like sex parties). And that’s probably because the allowance in the latter situation takes the thrill out of it for me. I recently went out with someone I met on FetLife and asked him if he was on any of these scenes or had gone to some of the parties and he said no, also explaining that “when it’s all out in the open and allowed, it’s not fun anymore.” He went to a Catholic all boys high school. Heh, go figure. I find a lot of kinky people, on scenes or not, are “recovering Catholics.”

Photo by Archbishop Tutu.

Photo by Archbishop Tutu.

But, in any case, I’m rather pleased that C entertains my inklings for “exhibitionism lite” these days. This summer he fucked me out on the 16th floor balcony of a friend’s gorgeous apartment on the Williamsburg waterfront overlooking the East River and the Manhattan skyline. Early in the morning, while the sun was still coming up and he had me tied up in a rope harness. It was so pretty and so filthy. Two of my favorite things, especially when combined…

Lately, we’ve also gotten into the tradition of getting each other off in his car while driving long distances. I love watching him slide his hand between my legs, feeling me getting wet, the way he makes me yelp and scream and moan. Turning my gaze from his hands to the open road, the cars and drivers next to us, wondering if anyone’s looking. Wondering if they notice. And then the way he makes me writhe and shake and break out in orgasmic spasms. Did anyone notice? I don’t know. I don’t care. Or I kind of do. And I kind of like it.