Date: Sun, 22 Jul 2007 04:54:16 +0930 From: Simon Archard Subject: My Fearful Walk on the Street (BM, teen1, true, mast, exhib, voy) My Fearful Walk on the Street (B, teen1, true, mast, exhib, voy) by Simon Archard (C) Copyright Simon Archard Writing mailto:simonarchardwriting@gmail.com Notes: This story is as true as I can make it to actual fact. Between the ages of 15 and 24, I was a serial exhibitionist. This is the opening account of how it all started, except that for story brevity, I have combined my first three exhibitionism attempts into a single night. In actuality my first two attempts were very exciting but very uneventful. My exhibitionist habit really started on the third episode, which is the final scene in this story, and ended abruptly at age 24 when I went too far and was apprehended by the police. My real name is not Simon Archard, and in this and if you want to hear them, the following accounts, I have changed all the names. I do not advise anyone to follow in my footsteps with exhibitionism, but in a lot of ways, I do not regret it -- well maybe the last bit at age 24. Let me know if you are interested in hearing more. All comments gladly received. Love Simon (pseudonym). My Fearful Walk on the Street (B, teen1, true, mast, exhib, voy) One night when I was fifteen I had the uncontrollable urge to walk around outside totally naked - not just a quick sneak out into the back yard of the family home, but a mountainous impulse to walk down the street and be seen. This was not a conscious decision or a dare. It was a force that held both a violently possessive sexual urge and a paralysing fear of being caught. My rational brain was disconnected and my body was awash with an electric charge. It was strange and scary because I was not a narcissistic kid, rather the opposite. I was a good kid, a nice kid, and this was a detestable sensation. The first few times I repressed the urge and stayed shaking fearfully in my bed, aroused, charged, and frustrated. I joylessly masturbated to try and subdue the desire and ended up with a restless night full of thoughts of self-loathing. The light of morning brought on physically illness from the guilt and shame. I remember when at age 12 when I had a weird dream in the dead of night imagining I was an animal, either a deer or a burro I cannot remember, but I do remember dreaming I had an abnormally huge penis. Quite an irony considering the peanut sized willy I had at age 12. The next morning I woke up with my bed saturated with urine. This was the last time I wet the bed and gave me a deep sense of depravity and shame. While my mother dismissed the incident as a loss of bladder control caused by forgetting to go for a pee before bed, I knew the truth about my loathsome dream. This new naked exhibitionism urge was worse a worse abasement than that. It said more about who I was becoming than the kid I had been. When I was turned fifteen I felt pretty inadequate. I wore unfashionable clothes, not jeans but corduroy pants and western plaid shirts, which may have been okay if I lived in an outback town, but for a city kid it made me feel a total misfit. I remember one time my mother buying slip-on shoes for me -- not lace up or even Velcro, but faggoty slip-on shoes, and as they were brown not black, they were painted with a special shoe-colouring die that half peeled off in a few weeks. I was the only kid in school who wore shoes shaped like ballet slippers with a surface like a malting hyena. This was not just unattractive but unacceptable. At fifteen I did play guitar, but not modern rock and roll. My dad caught me masturbating at 13 and decided and, after a few of the many beers he'd drink each night, told everyone within listening distance, that I needed a diversion. The lewd way he repeatedly told this story left no one in doubt that I needed diverting from pulling my pud all the time. This might have been true, but neighbours and relatives didn't need to know. That makes my dad seem unforgivably bad, but he wasn't like that all the time and I did love him. At 15 I didn't have a girlfriend and felt I should. Not many boys my age did have a steady girlfriend but that didn't seem to register with me. They all talked like they were porn stars humping their latest squeeze who was out of Penthouse magazine, and I felt that I was the one and only unique archetype of a dork. At 12 I was friends with a brother and sister, and I liked both Michael and Sally quite a lot. Apart from our very frequent 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours' sessions with both of them, the friendship was pretty platonic. We were just friends, but as puberty came on so did my self-awareness about my inadequacies and shame about my family and we drifted apart. I continued to observe Sally from a distance as we went through school but it was as though our pre-pubescent fumblings broke something that could be fixed when I crossed the early teen transition. I have often thought since, and others friends have told me as much, that if you were going to choose a wife from any of our school friends then Sally was about as good as they could possibly get. Also at 15 I was plagued by another frightening sense of guilt. I had harboured feelings of attraction to certain boys at school. I felt attracted to some but not all of my school friends both girls and boys. It was embarrassing but okay to be attracted to a girl, but unforgivable and unrecoverable to be a queer attracted to a boy. Rationalising that didn't help when your heart melts and hormones explode. Sports events were the worst of times because I new that all it would take was one of the graceful fawn-eyed boys to glance at me and my attraction would be physically obvious and undeniable. An erection tenting your sports shorts would be bad enough but the showers were worse. It was almost impossible to have the self-discipline not to stand in dreamy wonder while the water cascaded over the naked curves of my latest male object of desire. Fearing my body would irrevocably betray the true loathsome me, I avoided school sports, but constantly longed to admire water rolling down the backs and over the orbed buttocks of my few heartbreakers. The risks were just off the Richter scale. I felt that every disgusting joke about poofters and faggots felt like personal condemnations against me. There was no middle ground, no acceptable bisexuality, you were either okay or a faggot. Above all else, a young teenage boy at my school didn't want to be a queer -- a bed-wetter would have been more socially acceptable. Half of the boys in my school class may have been entertaining similar thoughts but I had no idea of that and contrary to much of the gay fantasy literature, the main characteristic of a teenage gay boy is confusion and loneliness. Enough to say that at fifteen I didn't rationally feel like an ivory carve Adonis wanting to parade myself as God's gift to the human race, which is why my new-found urges were both out of character and frightfully disgusting. This new urge to abandon everything and walk naked through the suburban streets exposed everything I hid inside -- puberty, sexuality, inadequacy, self-hate, and homosexuality because though I tried to rationalise my desire as indiscriminate, deep down I knew that my desire to parade myself was not to women or girls, and not even boys my own age, but to frighteningly to men. I have read comments saying that teen boys don't desire adult men, and this may be true for most, but for me it was the attention of much older boys and men that I sought. My urges to exhibit myself also coincided with the start of an anal fetish. More often my masturbatory romps which took place at night, or in a number of daytime secret places, involved inserting improvised dildos into my rectum. At fifteen these were long and thin objects, a lacquered wooden dowel being my first, but soon I found that the need to retain the makeshift dildo inside me needed a change and the handle of a long thin electrical screwdriver became my regular toy. While my anal play started as an experimental play, after a couple of months I found my exhibitionist urges could best, but only partially, suppressed by masturbation with that fine screwdriver inserted handle-first into my backside. Using such a device only increased guilt and shame and the conviction that I was uniquely perverted. The first night I actually walked naked in public was initially un-eventful, but a final caution-to-the-wind exhibition was so spectacular that it defined a key part of my sexuality for the next 8 years. My family lived in an older suburb in an Australian city with a network of straight roads forming a cross-hatch pattern, rather than the more modern design of a network of cul de sacs. The street our house faced was not a main road, though did carry some through traffic for drivers who wanted to avoid the risk of alcohol breath-testing stations on the main roads. This I calculated was ideal for me as the average 2am to 3am driver on our street would not be the puritanical churchman driving home, but those wanting to avoid the authorities. Quite a bazaar rationalisation, but my brain was not operating on a normal plane. Additionally, I rationalised that the two houses that could view the length of the driveway that ran down the side of our house were not people who would be awake at that hour. At age 23, I found out with some shock that this was not the case and that the husband of the couple who lived opposite our house saw me one night and used to wait up and watch out for me, but never said anything for fear my naked jaunts would stop. He told me his wife of that time, had no idea of the early morning entertainment I was giving him. It was a warm Autumn night the first time I walked naked publicly. The now familiar sexual urge had risen and I had without relief attempted to roll face-down in bed and dry-root one of my balled up wind-cheaters, which was my preferred technique at the time. My body was so on edge it was as if I was a super-charged battery that was buzzing with excitement. My desire was so powerful and strong that I couldn't even achieve masturbatory orgasm. I wore a tee-shirt and pyjama pants to bed and decided I would wear them outside and hide them in the driveway alongside our house. In that way, if needed, I could run back and be dressed within seconds. I also had a secondary, but equally feeble, safety mechanism. I carried a pair of sports shorts with me, screwed up, and carried like a over-sized tennis ball in my hand. I would carry these all the time, so if I needed to escape or recover, I could quickly hide somewhere and slip the shorts on to claim I was out for a run. The fact that I would have already been sprung by the time I needed to use any of these alleged security options didn't seem to register. I sneaked quietly from my bedroom, down the passage way, through the kitchen and out to the laundry door at the back of our house. I eased the key and opening the door felt the first thrill of the still warm autumn air. I took the key that was always left inside the laundry and slipped outside. I was shaking like a leaf, but the action of succumbing to my urge had both relieved the pain and increased the desire. I was determined to go through with it that night. After listening and then looking to see that none of our three immediate neighbours were awake, the two at each side and the one at the back fence, I decided to walk, at first fully clothed, around the side of the house up the driveway and to the front gate. I remember only two sensations from that first walk, the coolness of the concrete driveway on my feet, and that I was shaking so much that I could hardly walk straight. To my surprise, our street was totally empty, with the glow of the sodium vapour street lights disappearing into the distance without so much as a single car. Somewhat disheartened and equally relieved I sat on our front fence. I scanned each of the houses visible from our front gate and saw no signs of movement or anyone being awake. After about 15 minutes the headlights of a car swept into view as it turned into our street about 200 yards up the road. My heart thumped and I nervously stood. Whether fear or a feeble amount of wisdom, I decided that I would make the first attempt at 'my show', as I decided to call it, to be reasonably safe and excusable. I had no idea how the car would react. What if they slammed the brakes on and skidded to a halt while bleating their car horn. Neighbours house lights would light up like the closing scene of the Flintstones cartoon and I would be stranded naked in the street. This of course could have happened on any subsequent time, but for the first time I decided to play it safe. I strolled out to the kerbside where the car lights would clearly illuminate me and stood in what I imagined was a very provocative position. I arranged my pose with my arms folded behind my head and my hips thrust sideways to accentuation the curve of my buttocks. The car accelerated, but with my heart pounding violently, the few seconds seemed to take an age. With astonishing anti-climax the increasing whine of the vehicle dropped in pitch as it whistled by without so much as a wave, flash of the lights, or a blast of the horn. I felt cheated but inwardly relieved. I recovered my position to my improvised seat on the front fence. After gaining my composure I decided that standing at he kerbside fully clothed, albeit in tee-shirt and pyjama bottoms, was not going to excite anyone. It was about a further 10 minutes until the next set of lights appeared, also turning from the same street, and began to whine its way up the road. I dropped the balled up running short and pulled the tee-shirt over my head. The coolish breeze against my naked chest and stomach added to my trembling. Flinging the tee-shirt to the ground I waited till the car was about fifty yards from me and then strolled to the kerbside stood, like what I imaged a streetwalker would, with one hand on my hip and the other behind my neck. The car immediately slowed, gave two short beeps of the horn, and then accelerated past. The thrill was like a detonation inside me. My plan had worked. Not a great reaction but enough that a surge of wild excitement overtook me. Finally realising that I was half-naked on the street with the silence of the night broken by a car-horn, I literally leapt inside our driveway and crouched down behind the fence. With as much stealth as I could muster, I raised my head and surveyed our neighbourhood houses. Everything was still quiet. My sensual and sexual excitement was now peaked higher than I could have ever imagined possible. I was literally shaking with nervousness as I eased out from behind the fence and peered each way down the street. Summoning courage I decided that the next vehicle would be presented my full naked body. I really had no idea how the driver of each car would react to a mid-teen male exposing himself and I don't recall it being part of my thinking. Still partly concealed by the fenceline, I eased my pyjama pants to a bunch around my ankles. I began to nervously stroke my flaccid penis. Within five minutes lights appeared in the distance from the opposite direction. I knew that from the direction this vehicle was approaching I would be even more visible, being fully illuminated by the orange sodium vapour lights. I would be almost assured of a reaction. When the vehicle was about 70 yards away I gingerly stepped from out of my lowered pyjama pants and casually walked to the kerbside. I to this day I don't know why, but instead of stopping at the kerb, I stepped out onto the road until clearly illuminated by the oncoming car's headlights before easing back to the kerb. The car instantly braked and I head the thrum of loud music. As the vehicle continued to slow as it approached I clearly saw four astonished faces fixed on my naked pose. There was no skid or honking horn, just staggered amazement at my audacity. Wide-eyed I stared back at the car as it almost stopped directly opposite me and the loud music was turned off. It was only then that I realised the car windows were down and I could hear the occupants hushed talking amongst themselves. "It's only a kid," I heard one say. "A guy," said another. Somewhat disappointed the car didn't stop but slowly cruised past. I slowly walked backwards so that I was within the line of the front fence posts and watched the car, still crawling, eased further away. The excitement within me was unbelievable, but I was disappointed that my obviously non-aggressive, and possibly appreciative audience was driving away. I was about to completely recover my position inside our property when I noticed the red brake-lights illuminate on the departing vehicle. It had stopped about 100 yards away. I watched as the vehicle headlights went out and then heard the whine of the engine and notice that the unlit vehicle was now turning back towards me. I decided that I would stay within the confines of my family driveway, but again offer myself to full view. I stood about a three or four yards inside the fence line on the grassed medium strip that rand down the centre of the driveway. I could hear the vehicle slowly approaching. In a determination not to chicken-out, I quickly threw my pyjama pants, tee shirt, and short sports pants behind me with full force. I would now not be able to totally weasel-out of my thrill. I heard the scuffing brakes of the car being applied as it was within a few yards of the driveway. I decide to strike a confident pose and faced the open driveway and thrusting my shoulders back put both hands, palms flat, on my buttock cheeks. I pushed the knee of my left wide revealing my inner thigh and fullness of my balls. I quickly glanced down and noticed my previously limp penis was firming. The car eased to a halt right in front of our driveway. The windows were down and four faces stared the few yards between us. "Do you believe that," I heard one guy say. "He's young," said an older voice, "and horny by the looks of it." "It's weird," said a girls voice in a somewhat sarcastic tone that was followed by the older voice telling her to shut up. I took my penis in hand and feeling it pleasingly thicker than it's usual weedy size, started to stroke it. "Shit, look at him," said the third person in the car, obviously another older teen guy. "He's strokin'" "What you up to?" asked the older voice who I now noticed was the driver. "How come you are outside wanking off?" I didn't answer, not sure what to say. "It's okay," the older voice said in an almost chuckle, "we certainly don't mind watchin'. Do you want to talk to us?" I kept stroking my penis slowly. Not sure what to say, but glad they seemed to be appreciating my display. The effect it was having on my was pleasing. I had stopped shaking and felt tingling urges between my scrotum and anus -- the usual precursor to getting really horny. They four in the car were just now quietly watching, though the girl, who appeared younger then the others, probably not much older than me, seemed disconcerted and not so reluctant to calmly watch me. I guess the almost blatant homosexuality of me showing off and masturbating for the other three guys didn't sit well with her. I decided I had better say something. "I'm just," I hesitated as my voice almost squeaked. "I'm just feeling horny. Really horny." "We can see that," said the older voice. "Just go for it and enjoy yourself. Hell I wish I could." "How gross," said the girl to the driver, which was followed by a shut-the-fuck-up comment from one of the other younger guys. "I don't think your girlfriend likes me," I said, with increasing bravado. "She's my sister," said the other guy in the back seat with her. "This guy's a bigger fag than you are", whined the girl at full volume. I tried to ignore the girl and continued to more rhythmically stroke and thrust my hips forward with each hand movement, even though, I could feel that nerves were going to prevent this from building to a fast orgasm. "Go for it," said the older guy. "Hey, I'm Jerry. What's your name?" "Andy," I lied. "You're a horny guy Andy," said Jerry. I slowly began to sink to my knees and sat on my heels. Realising that nervousness meant my penis wasn't going to give me anything more, I began to stroke my hands over my thighs, up my chest around my neck. I eased myself around so my back faced the car and lifted my hips so that balanced on my spread knees and forearms, presenting the viewers my bottom and dangling balls. I heard some appreciative expletives from the car peppered by sarcasm from the girl. It was then that a light went on in our house and I realised one of my parents must be awake. Looked up and noticed that now the front porch light of the house was on. I quickly scrambled forward and grabbed my pyjama pants and tee shirt, spinning on my backside on the cold concrete as I threaded the pants and shirt on as I heard the front door to the house open. "Simon?" said my Dad followed by a pause, "Simon? What are you doing out here Simon? It's 3 in the morning now get back inside." The car hadn't moved and I was petrified with fear. The guys in the car could get me in real trouble now. "Is that your Dad Simon?" came Jerry's voice from the car. "Who's that?" my Dad asked in an accusing tone. "My name's Jerry. I'm one of Simon's friends from school." I could hear sniggers from the others in the car. "Well," my dad hesitated, "make it quick. And Simon, get back to bed with in five minutes." The front door shut again and the porch light went out. "Thanks," I said. "So it's Simon eh?" I nodded. "You nearly got sprung. You need to be more careful." "Thanks for covering for me." Jerry chucked and made some comment about me uncovering for him. "I'd better go in now." "We're friends okay, Simon. Friends." I nodded again. "We'll be back..." Jerry said. I was not sure if it was a question or a statement. "Will you be... you know." My heart raced and I said sure. "Tomorrow?" "Okay, but more quietly. Will you be back then?" "I won't be," said the churlish girl with stinging sarcasm. "You're fuckin' right about that," said the other younger guy in the front. "Stupid bitch." "Gotta go," said Jerry and I nodded. "I mean you've gotta go." I nodded, waved, and turned to go. I heard the car finally pull away when I turned around the back of the house. end. If you are interested in hearing about the following key episodes in my formative exhibitionist and homosexual life, then email me and I will submit more. The next main scene involves Jerry and three other guys in the car again, but without the pain-in-the-ass sister who plagued my first real time and, as you can tell, who's mouthy whinging nearly got me in trouble with my dad.