The Exhibitionist

[Namb]

As a big fan of CFNM, this is out of character for me. However, the character in my story is also acting out of character.

The Exhibitionist

I remember the nuns at Catherine McCaulley High School. They were a remarkable group of women, and although when I was a student there I just couldn’t connect with them, I have to admit that the education they provided me paved my way to college, a degree and a career. Without them I would not be the successful woman I am now.

But there is one area in which the good nuns had neither the experience, nor the inclination to teach, and that was sex education. Oh, they taught the biology of it well enough and gave us girls enough to think about the changes going on in our own bodies, but when it came to female-male relationships, they were worse than mute.

The nuns assured us that the boys were the enemy. They were out to exploit us girls at every turn. Our good Catholic Girl virtue must be preserved until the wedding night! So they went into great detail describing how to defend our honor from those evil, testosterone-laden creatures. We were told not to wear makeup, to wear our hair conservatively, to sit, walk, and talk like a lady, and especially how to dress.

If the nuns had their way, we would be wearing clothing more conservative than their habits. They drove home the point that girls who dress provocatively give the boys who see them lustful thoughts and that girls who gave boys lustful thoughts were virtually prostitutes.

I was a good girl and did as I was told. I kept my skirts below the knee. My blouses always buttoned way up so that a boy couldn’t “look down and get a free show,” and I never wore patent leather shoes lest a boy be able to see up my skirt in the reflection. I never broke the rules, and always did and acted like what was expected of me.

None of this went away when I graduated and went out into the world.

My modesty took me to the extremes. I never went naked other than for the brief times either side of and during my shower. I would put on a robe to get a forgotten bottle of shampoo even though the blinds were drawn, and I was the only one who lived in my apartment. There was just something that made me uneasy about being naked in a “public” part of the house.

But deep down inside, there was a evil woman waiting to get out. I often wondered, what would happen if I didn’t obey the rules? Suppose I took that tag off the mattress? Suppose I walked when I should have “Don’t Walked?” Suppose I squeezed the toothpaste from other than the end of the tube? What was it like living life on the edge? Would the world come to an end? What would happen to me?

On a more serious note as I thought back on my life, I realized that there was something missing. I knew girls who dated what the nuns called “dangerous” boys. I knew girls who went to great lengths to tease and torment boys with their bodies. Secretly, I envied these girls. They had a power to give boys an erection and feature them at night in their masturbational fantasies and they did it all without even look at the boys. These girls knew a thrill that my sheltered life never encountered. I decided to do something about it.

I arranged to have a weekday off but got up early and got dressed anyway. Instead of my normal conservative business dress, I wore a very loose blouse, short skirt and no underwear. Having the skirt on, but not having underwear made me feel more than naked, but it also made me feel like a different woman: a dangerous and mysterious woman. It felt evil, and it felt good.

I felt like a cub, the first time out of her den as I walked the block and a half to my car. What kind of predators could be stalking me? I drove several miles to a subway line that I don’t normally take. I didn't want to chance running into someone I might know. Maybe I’d be ready for that later, but for my first experience, I wanted it to be anonymous.

When the train arrived, I rushed on because I knew the exact seat that I wanted. It was one of those seats that face sideways into an open area in the train. If I was going to do it, I was going to do it right and go for maximum exposure. Once seated in my special seat I took a book out of my bag and pretended to read. I experimented with leaning forward enough so that my top would fall away from my body and expose my breasts to anyone standing in front of me. I had to experiment with doing this until I could get it right without being obvious about it. Once I figured out my position I sat back and waited. The cub had now become a predator setting her own trap.

Two stops later and all the seats were full. People were standing around me. I found myself feeling really embarrassed. There was a little Catholic School girl voice in my head that told me not to do this. However, her older, evil sister told me I HAD to do this.

I opened the book and got myself back into position. I pretended to read but in reality I couldn't concentrate knowing that I was on display with my shirt open for anyone to see down.

At first nobody seemed to notice, and I was disappointed. However in a couple of stops, the crowd changed and a man in a business suit took his position holding the rail right in front of me. I stayed in position and continued to pretend to read. Surreptitiously, I would peek up. . Every time I looked up I caught him looking away. That is when I knew it was happening. He was looking straight down my shirt!

His crotch was eye level with me. I looked at it to see if I was exciting him. The perceivable bulge told me of my success. I felt both vulnerable at being on display like this, but at the same time I felt powerful knowing that I had this power over this man, and who knows how many other strange men who might also be looking.

Alarms started going off in my head. I could almost hear the nuns shouting at me to sit up. My cheeks felt red and my body tensed but I stayed in my position giving him what I expect was a perfect view. I knew that I was filling him with “lustful thoughts” and it made me feel like the harlot the nuns warned me about.

Eventually he got off the train. I got off a couple of stops later making sure I wasn’t followed. I boarded a train back to my car. My heart was racing. If I had had panties on, they would have been soaked. I was a naughty girl, and it felt great!

That is until that evening. There was an email that came in after dinner. It was from a hotmail account, and after reading it I knew that it was a hastily created account. The subject simply said, “I saw you on the train today.” My heart sank when I read it. Somebody that knew me well enough to know my email address had seen me!

I opened it and read the contents.

“Dear Angela,

I thought it was you. I was wondering why you were dressed like that but mostly why you parked your car at the BMT line when you normally take the IRT. I was still there when I saw you return a little over an hour later.

I don’t know what kind of game you are playing, but I like the costume you selected to play it.

I would very much like to see you to do the same thing this Friday evening. Be outside the McDonalds at the junction at 8 PM. I have your mobile phone number. I will give you further instructions then. Wear the costume.

Anonymous”

Holy crap! Somebody I knew saw me. What’s more, this person has my email address and phone number. How can that be? The McDonalds in question was near to my house: walking distance.

What could I do? I was compromised. Someone knew my secret.

I got home from work on Friday and nibbled at dinner. I didn’t have much of an appetite. At about 7:30, I donned the outfit. I was nervous as I left the apartment. For a lot of people who live in the building with me, Friday night is “date night” and many of the older couples would be coming back from dinner and the younger ones going out for a night on the town. People were likely to see me.

The meeting point was about 10 blocks away. It would be impractical to use my car, I could probably not park it any closer than 10 blocks anyway. I could take the bus, but it would only save me a block or two. Walking was the only reasonable option. I wish I had my sneakers on, but “the outfit” had high heels and it was in those that I had to walk.

I arrived about 5 minutes early. There were several other women in the area also. I took up my position on the corner where the McDonald’s lay and I waited for my call. In the meantime, I was approached by one of the other women.

She said to me, “You’re new here.”

I looked at her blankly.

She repeated, “You’re new here. What are you doing here? You don’t belong here. I suggest you move along.”

I replied, “I’m waiting for someone. We have a date.”

“Sweety, we’re all waiting for someone and we all are ready for a date. This is our corner. Unless you want to join us, I suggest you move along. Our boss doesn’t tolerate freelancers in his territory.”

OMG! The light in my brain came on. These other women were “professionals” and this woman thought I was one of them. If she could think it, then every man walking by could think it.

I felt so cheap.

I looked around and there was no hole into which I could crawl. When will I get my call? I wanted to be out of this place and separate myself from the association with the other women who were there.

After a very tense 15 minutes, I got my reprieve. My phone rang. It was my stalker. He said, “You’ve done well. You can go home now.”

As I left, I heard one of the women exclaim, “Ooh, it looks like somebody got a date tonight! Called her no less. No curbside pickup for this one. Go get him, girl.”

I wanted to tell her, “It’s not like that,” but there was no point to it. She had her mind made up. I was a slut just like the rest of them. I felt bad for these women. They were no less expendable as the Big Macs served at the drive through window except they would be the ones providing the service.

I’m doing this because I want to or at least I think I want to. I wonder what happened in their lives to have to do it.

I made it back home on wobbly legs. I felt like all eyes were on me and those of the men defiled me and those of the women condemned me. As soon as I got in the door, I could not strip off the outfit fast enough. I took a shower until the water ran cold. I could not wash the imaginary filth off me.

I donned the most conservative sleepwear I owned and slipped into bed feeling violated and sexually turned on. I was leaking into my panties and fell asleep with a mixture of shame and excitement.

-=o=-

I got up the following morning and started the coffee. I left my laptop off – I was afraid to open it and see if there was another email.

As I continued to make my breakfast I wondered, “When did this evil woman come to live with me? Why did I listen to her and do what she says? Why does it make me feel so good when I do?”

Fortified with my meal, I developed the courage to check my email.

My mailbox was littered with ads from all the places I’ve ever shopped. I really should unsubscribe from some of these sites. Well, maybe someday.

The mail that I was dreading to see was “beneath the fold” as they used to say in the newspaper business. I had to scroll some crap out of the way before it rose into my field of vision on my screen.

It was a short and terse email that directed me to be at a local park, sitting on a specific bench at a specific time on Saturday. I had two days to think about it.

Saturday came and seemingly against my will I donned my outfit. I didn’t feel like I was dressing myself. I almost felt like a doll whose owner was dressing it.

Once again, the park was too close to drive and I had to walk to it. It was one thing to be confined to a subway car, or off to the side at a McDonald’s, but walking on a public street made me feel exceptionally vulnerable. This time, it was daytime, but in spite of my rational thoughts that told me that it was safer, I felt more exposed.

It was as if the sunshine could penetrate my clothes and make me naked to those that viewed me.

I found the park and I found the bench. Once again, I used a book as a prop. I honestly attempted to read it. I’ve lost some sleep with that book since I was reluctant to stop reading it as I lay in bed. However, as I was sitting “in the bullseye” as I thought of the bench, I was not able to concentrate on it.

At least there was this: I had my sunglasses on, and I could at least pretend to read.

I was there about a half hour and watched as people walked through the park, mostly using it as a shortcut to get to the continuation of a street that the park interrupted. These seemed to be people on a mission and they had scant time to stop and ogle over me.

Off to the corner were some mothers watching their children screeching and running and jumping and otherwise making use of the playground equipment.

I was not aware of the line of uniformed boys who approached me from behind my back. They were armed with sticks with points on the end of them and carried large bags hanging off their shoulders. It was apparently a boy scout troop doing their civic duty picking up trash in the park.

Unlike the other casual passers-by, they were combing the area diligently in quest of errant bits of litter.

I became aware that one-by-one, their attention was being diverted to me. A few boys on the periphery of the sweep were notified by their fellows. They, too, joined the search in my immediate area. I heard a man’s voice, assumedly the scout master, yell at them to get back into position. Apparently, the boys were to have fanned out in a military-like formation and these boys were breaking ranks.

They seemed to have spent quite a lot of time in my area, before moving off and continuing their advance across the park.

I saw them again as they returned, however this time they were well off to my left covering an area not previously swept.

I remained in place for about another 30 minutes when I got the call that I could return home.

-=o=-

I checked my mail as soon as I got home. There was his message.

“Dear Angela

You’re doing well. You looked very good in the park. I hope you enjoyed yourself. I am sure that the boy scout troop did.

Think about that tonight as you are laying in bed. They will also be laying in bed tugging on their erections and thinking about you as they do it. Think about all those teen and pre-teen penises going through a boy’s most sacred ritual all for your honor.

Anonymous.”

-=o=-

I was laying in bed. My thoughts were not on the masturbating boys, but on myself. I was their show and somehow that tingled inside my stomach. Then something else tingled in my brain.

Anonymous was not so anonymous. I had one piece of information about him: his phone number. It didn’t show an ID, but at least it was in the same area code as me. That doesn’t mean as much as when phones were geographically tied to a wall by a wire. He could have bought the phone in a local store and then moved to Timbuktu and still have the same number.

However, he had to be local. He knew about businesses and places in my area and he called me off quickly once that he was convinced I was embarrassed enough. He had to have been watching me.

I looked at the 10 digits. I suppose if I were to give them to the police they could figure out who they were assigned to. I still asked myself, did I want to tell the police? What would I tell them: I got some emails asking me to do something? He did not provide any outright pornographic material. I heard about men who sent pictures of their junk to women. He didn’t do that.

He didn’t threaten me and he didn’t try to blackmail me. What kind of a crime was being committed here other than his flattering me and playing up to my fantasy in a way I could never do myself.

Maybe his number would be a dead end anyway; it could be a burner phone. Yet the number looked familiar as if I had seen it before somewhere other than on the display on my phone.

The following day was Sunday. I decided to think about the number some more. I wrote it in big numbers on the white board where I post reminders to myself.

I still struggled with the number until Wednesday when I got a newsletter from my amateur acting group. That gave me an idea. I am a member of several clubs. I had to check the membership lists of them all.

BINGO! There he was. Evan. Evan Robinson. So here’s to you Mr. Robinson. Evan is the director for the acting group. He’s one of the core members. Most of us actors drift in and drift out accepting roles that please us. Being a bit on the shy side and not having a lot of confidence in my acting abilities, I limited myself to minor parts. I also kept busy in the group acting as stagehand and wardrobe (I also belong to a sewing group) and props – small props (I am good with arts and crafts).

But why me? Evan had other actresses he could contact, some of them much better looking than Plain-Jane me.

I called him immediately before fear prevented me from doing it.

He didn’t even say hello. His first words were. “I’m surprised it took you this long.”

My end of the conversation was equally cryptic, “Why?”

“Can we meet for some coffee this weekend ... and no, you do not have to wear the outfit. I’ll explain things then.”

-=o=-

I felt better knowing who my stalker / tormentor was and that he was basically harmless and that there was no genuine threat to me.

So it was with a mixture of confidence and excitement that I went to meet him at the coffee shop. Even though I was not wearing “the outfit,” I was still aroused by the thought of meeting the man who caused me so much embarrassment.

He was already there when I arrived. He said, “Order what you want. I have a table for us in the corner where we can speak privately. I figured that he would be picking up the tab, so I ordered expensively.

We dispensed with the pleasantries and got right down to business.

“Why did you do this to me?”

“I had to test you out to see if you had the ‘right stuff.’”

“The right stuff? What right stuff?”

“The right stuff for a lead in a play that I wrote.”

“You want me to be a lead in a play? I’m not that good. You have much prettier actresses than me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen you on stage. You may be playing bit parts, but you make those scenes work! You are ready to take the next step and it’s a giant one.”

“I still don’t get it. Why pick me over a more experienced player?”

“I’ll get right to it. The play will require nudity on your part. Yes, there are other actresses who would be willing to do it, but this part requires that the character be reluctant and embarrassed by these situations. Those actresses, as good as they are, would just be going through the motions. For you it will be real.

I am certain of that! I’ve seen you in action, for real.

You can do this!”

“I’m not sure. You have no idea how those experiences affected me.”

“I have an idea, yet you did them anyway. You had a fear, and you went on in spite of it. Do I dare suggest that you even liked it?

I could feel myself blush. I would not admit it, so I countered with, “That was different. I didn’t get completely naked, and ... well, I don’t think I could do it in front of an entire audience of people.”

“You are a lot braver woman than you think. We can ease into this. I am willing to take a risk on you.

You could start with you getting naked just for me as we read lines. Then move on to cast rehearsals: at first just rehearsals, but eventually undress rehearsals for you.

You know how it is. Once you get in character, the audience doesn’t exist. The stage, to invert Shakespeare’s words, becomes the world. The audience is hidden behind the glare of the stage lights and the fantasy begins.”

“I ... I’m not sure I can do it.”

“I’m sure you can. Try it. Be at my place at 5 PM tonight. I cook a mean lasagna. We will have some wine and then read lines. I’ll go over the outline with you then.”

So commanding was his suggestion that I found myself agreeing. In my mind, it was like my schoolgirl self found a dirty magazine and was looking at the pictures and they were pictures of herself.

He didn’t lie. The meal was delicious as were the trimmings. This man knew how to cook a meal. One good thing about Brooklyn is that there is always an ethnic delicatessen within walking distance and one could always get the freshest ingredients. Everything from the antipasto to dessert was perfect.

We then got down to business. We sipped an after-dinner wine and I was not bashful about keeping the glass full. I deliberately wanted some alcohol to blunt the fear and to put my prudish schoolgirl to bed early.

He explained the basics of the play. It was about a small-town girl who comes to the big city and gets caught up in human trafficking.

“I think this explains why I sent you to McDonald’s the other night. By the way, I talked to some of the women later. They were impressed with you when I explained the situation to them.”

“You actually talked to them?”

“Why not, they are people, too. Also, I needed to understand them if I were to tell their story in this play. I assure you, I paid them well for their time even though I did not use their traditional services.

Although you will be required to get naked for the play, there are no explicit sex acts involved. Oh, they are most definitely implied, and the language is sometimes deliberately crude, but I did not think I needed to take it that far to make my point.”

My mind came to a screeching halt. In my strict Catholic upbringing, I had always looked down upon these sinners as lesser beings: women with loose morals. Perhaps there is another side: women with no choice.

I managed to catch up with Evan’s conversation. He was explaining about some of the character’s “adventures” and how she had been exploited and her eventual redemption by a kind and understanding man: a Platonic “Knight in Shining Armor.” It was a fairy tale of sorts except instead of evil step sisters or witches it had pimps and drug dealers.

He concluded with, “So you see how important your role will be and why I think you’re the best person to carry it out.”

I sat there in silence. My mind had recorded it all, but it was still processing it. What we he asking me to do?

The answer came back, he wants me to sacrifice my body for awareness of evil done to other bodies. It sounded so noble when I thought of it that way. The little Catholic Schoolgirl was to shed her tartan jumper and Mary Janes for a suit of armor and become Joan of Arc.

“I’ll do it,” I heard myself say, “But ...”

He finished the sentence for me.

“But you still have an issue with being nude.

Let’s work with that. First of all, you may have an issue with stripping in front of me while I watch. I understand that. For some illogical reason, getting naked is more difficult than being naked.

So why not remove your clothing in the bathroom and come out when you are ready.

Now please understand me before we go one bit further. I am not going to harm you. I do not wish to take advantage of you sexually. If it ever comes to that, it will be mutually agreeable, but I do not want that now. I need you as an actress and not a lover.

This is going to sound bad, but I at this point, I am only interested in your body and how it looks. It’s like appreciating art at the museum.”

This was the turning point. If I backed out now, I felt that the decision would be irreversible. On the other hand, if I did it, I would be forced into an existence I never believed would be possible for me.

I took a deep sip of wine, stood up and went into his bath.

I could not bring myself to get completely naked. I stripped down to my bra and panties. I never jumped into the cold ocean at the beach; I always eased myself in. Bra and panties were the equivalent of testing the water with my big toe. It would have to do.

I took one more big breath, opened the door and walked down the hall to Evan’s living room. He was seated on the coach sipping his wine.

He tried to comfort me with a calm, “Ah, there you are,” and invited me to sit opposite him. I notice that he had refilled my wine. The low coffee table between us offered little in the way of physical protection but it was of great psychological significance. It was like the stage lights to which he alluded earlier: it separated me from my audience.

“You’ve taken a very big step,” he confirmed. “How long has it been since you’ve been this naked in front of another person.”

I managed a small laugh, “Well, there’s my gynecologist. But even she makes me nervous. Before that was in gym class back in high school. That was a long time ago. I felt ashamed back then. I didn’t think that I was as well developed as some of the other girls.”

“There you go putting yourself down again. I will admit that I have seen other women with much bigger breasts than yours. Some of them look ludicrous. You have a very nice body. It is healthy and trim and as for your endowment, I think it is perfectly the right size for the rest of your body.

I am not going to pressure you into removing the rest of your clothing. You must do that yourself. So please, sit, have some wine and we can talk more about the play.”

I made two attempts to lift my arms behind my back to unclasp my bra and both times, paralysis and fear prevented my limbs from moving. On the third attempt I succeeded. I closed my eyes and let the bra fall away.

When I finally opened them, I saw Evan sitting and smiling. He raised his glass to me in a toast. I picked up mine and returned the gesture.

Getting the panties off was more difficult. This involved a lot more than merely undoing a clasp and letting gravity take over. I had to stand up and deliberately move them down.

Evan was the perfect gentleman. He looked at my whole body, but mostly my face. I was losing track of the reality that I was topless before him. I was able to ask questions about the play and was interested in his answers.

Nonetheless, it still took another half an hour before I was able to convince my legs to elevate my body. This time I did take the plunge into the cold water. Rather than delaying to pull down the panties, I reached down and moved them and stepped out of them in almost a single motion with so much grace that it surprised even me.

I had done it! I was naked before a man. I had at least partially conquered my own body. I was able to disrobe, but the feelings of shame and excitement still surged strong within me. I had to sit down while my legs still had the strength to support me.

We talked a bit more and then he suggested, “You may get dressed anytime you want and go home any time you want.

When you are ready, I will escort you home.”

“I’d like that very much.” I found myself replying. I did not get dressed immediately but lingered for some more conversation and wine. I felt conflicted as I put my clothes back on. I was covering up a very interesting new woman. I wanted to get to know here better.

As we reached my front door, he said softly, “I knew you could do it. Thank you. It’s perfect. All of it. Your body, your acting ability and you!”

I gave him a very chaste kiss on his cheek.

-=o=-

I had a few more private sessions with Evan. Then it was time for rehearsals. It was there that I met the rest of the cast. I already knew some of them from having acted with them before and just generally hanging out with them at the club. Fortunately, they were all nice people and I was very comfortable with them.

The production went on predictably with readings, acting out partial scenes, one-on-one rehearsals, full scenes with full actors, end-to-end production and finally, dress-rehearsals with full costumes or in my case for some scenes, no costume.

I am glad my doctor was not taking my blood pressure when I first had to disrobe in front of the cast; she would have had me in the hospital immediately. I don’t think that the scale on a blood pressure cup goes that high. But I managed and eventually came to accept my nudity in front of my peers.

Finally, it was opening night. The curtain came up and the applause began. It was easy: I was the farm girl from Iowa at this point, by the time the prostitute working the streets of Brooklyn arrived, the audience would be gone and only the world created by the play would exist. I’d be alive as my alter-ego: one of the sinners that the nuns at Catherine McCaulley warned me about.