“Je suis exhibitionniste,” I told him.
“Some women say that,” he said, “but when the opportunity arises, they don’t act like one.”
“Have you forgotten the lap dance I gave you?” I asked. “Of course not,” he said coyly. “But that’s not what I mean by exhibitionist.”
What’s the difference between saying you’re an exhibitionist and being one? Plenty of women would perform a lap dance, whether it’s an act of foreplay with her partner, or an entertaining thrill at a party. But how many of these women would spread her legs to be ravished in front of an audience? Even those who strip for a living might not cross that line, especially if she isn’t getting paid to display her goods in the vulnerable haze of genuine pleasure.
A true exhibitionist has no inhibitions, or at least, she feels no moral or psychological restraint about sexually exposing herself in public. Of course it depends on the context; to masturbate before tourists in Times Square is not the fantasy of most exhibitionists. Those who enjoy huge crowds—stadium streakers, for instance, are more into the thrill of breaking the rules than the sexual arousal of indecent exposure. A sex club or party, however, is a haven for exhibitionist behavior. In a sexually open community, you can indulge in the buzz of physical unveilings without the threat of getting arrested. Furthermore, it’s encouraging to know you’re not the only one showing off.
I haven’t always been an exhibitionist, but my tendency to show off was definitely an early sign, especially as a shy child and awkward adolescent. Dressing up as someone else or performing in a dance recital or play liberated me from my self-conscious self. It validated my existence to know that people were paying attention to me, even though the girl they saw on stage was not the person I was presenting to the world 90 percent of the time. This leads me to believe that exhibitionism often serves as a form of compensation for people who are inhibited in other areas of life. Just think about how many performers you know who are quiet off stage … the same role reversal translates to the erotic arena.
When the shy exhibitionist steps on stage, the imperious voyeur takes a seat. The people who work in the spotlight all day … the CEOs, the politicians and even some performers, yearn to blend into the background, to spy from the sideline, to be the observer for a change, unnoticed. The reasons behind exhibitionism and voyeurism are diverse; some may be drawn to the opposite of their day-to-day role while others are show-offs or wallflowers through and through. For some exhibitionists, life is a show and sex is just one act.
As a writer I’m inclined to unassumingly observe the antics of the world’s stage. As a performer, I want to be noticed and admired. But my sexual “performance” is not born out of a need for attention. Perhaps, in the beginning, that’s what it was about. Now my erotic exposure is an extension of nonchalant confidence, akin to the feeling I have when I’m truly in the moment of a performance, caught up in the frisson of a lyric or lost in the feeling of a character—I forget there’s an audience or a camera. I transcend the fourth wall. The eyes in the darkness are part of me, yet they are unseen. And though they may know my name, I’m anonymous in the mask of my body, invisible in the cloak of published words.
Here I am. My physical self has nothing to hide. I like to be watched, but I don’t care if it arouses you. If you do feel a tingle, it only confirms my power as a sexual being. I don’t feel more aroused by your gaze, only more elevated, more influential, more me. But no matter how much I expose, no matter how much I may squirm with pleasure, no matter how loud I may moan, know that I’m not doing it for you. It’s just that you’re there, and I don’t care. But if my erotic presence brings you pleasure, if my writhing makes you come, then so be it. That’s my unintended gift to you, like when I buy something and 10 percent of the profit ends up in someone’s paycheck.
You may see me come, and think, that’s so hot, or she’s that type, but you don’t know my secrets. You don’t know how I am when I’m in love or when I’m in pain. You don’t know the poetry of my greatest intimacies, the moments that define me, the passions that drive me, the delicacies reserved for the few who inspire me—things that require greater courage to reveal. You don’t know me. That’s why I’m here: l’exhibitionniste.
