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heather leather Nov 2015
he is not heaven. he is not a deep breath of fresh air after being
trapped inside for so long he is suffocation. when his saturated fingers
touch me I am filled with a never ending fire that keeps me
awake until two a.m. and makes me question everything I've
ever believed. he likes to swear up and down on the metal cross
around his neck and pretend he is God when he looks at me.
his kisses are never filled with love they are filled with narcotics
and taste like a bittersweet kind of hatred. he smokes quietly and
slowly inhaling every toxic fume and making clouds
big enough to convince you that they are skies. everything about him
screams shades of cool he is blue he is black his smile is gold
his eyes are grey and he is the color spectrum at its darkest.
he speaks quietly and laughs loudly and cries silently when
he thinks nobody can hear him. I wake up every morning to the
sound of tiny bullets of water scorching his back but he
likes the burn so I do not say a thing. he loves the way I sing
and teases me endlessly and whispers ****** things when
our friends are around because he is an exhibitionist.
I do not know what this is. I do not know who he is.
but at the same time I do not know who I am either,
we are cataclysmic together and wreak havoc wherever we go
but there is something so beautiful about what a disaster
we are together that i do not want to say goodbye.
he is the lover I never have to worry about loving back
and that if nothing else matters

(h.l.)

11.25.15
"oh **** i think i'm falling in love again. someone pass me the *****, this is going to be one helluva year"

colors by halsey
Amber Orange May 2016
I am exhibitionist
I lay myself out
butchered pig
sliced down the middle
perfect half
organs laid out

won’t you look?

Take the cut you want
I don’t need my flesh

I am exhibitionist
I give this
readily
to everyone
but

I am not my flesh
I am not my organs
I am not my bones
I am not what is
laid bare
5/6/00 3:49 PM
I am transcribing this mornings’ writings.
It is 11 a.m. I have been naked all day.  So many windows to look through, both physically and in the mind.  
I have been near silent the whole time I have been in this house.  I find it so strangely familiar here.  It fits; it all fits in the mysterious cosmic way I have yet to discover.
*I am a person who visits ‘his house when he is on trips.  And here I find myself on a trip or two indeedy.  The house, thought 1, I love his style.
It makes me think of what I want for myself.  There is fantasy and reality to indulge in here.
Reality is the space and freedom.  Space for all things special and ordinary.  I miss space and order.  He has all the thought provoking areas of interest of a real home.  The colors are rich, deep blue, burgundy, and browns, all used in an artful mix of styles.  Oddly pondering here because I would choose many of the same pieces myself.  Every room has space for dancing, which I have done naked a few times here now.
Everyone else is watching big screen movies.  I am in the other living room on a big brown leather couch; still naked, touching all of ‘his things with my body.  
I awoke this morning to the sound of the modem.  I swear it is the perfect alarm clock for me!  You know I get excited every time I here the perfect connection.  
My dreams were vivid awake and asleep because ‘he is on a trip and I am sleeping naked in the master bedroom.  There is the possibility he could have come home at anytime.  I had spent 6 hours already that night naked in his home without his knowledge.  Everyone is used to me being naked when we come stay here.  I don’t want to put clothes on here, in this house.
It is not the people around seeing me naked in the yard sunbathing, or running around the big house with big windows which have no coverings btw.
It is the space and atmosphere that draws out my facets.  This space sparks my exhibitionist in a feisty way. * All the ***** massages for me to relax and enjoy, just being papered to highs. *  
The white leather couch and a 60-inch screen for movies- others are sitting in the chairs and on the floor.
One joins me on the sofa.  Everyone is watching a movie, so am I when my eyes are open.  I am on the couch on my stomach, with a pillow under my hips and my head.  My legs spread wide, there I am being touched inside and out constantly.  I moan, open my eyes and see the many eyes on me and the ’s.  I close my eyes and smile and say “watch the movie you guys geez”, giggle, wiggle and moan again.  The surround sound covers some of my whimpers.  
As soon as the movie was over I walked to the master bedroom and turned on the light.  HIS clothes, files, and suitcases were still on the bed.  WoW he really could come home.  I wanted that bed!
-We- cleared the bed and I jumped in the middle and put ‘his pillow under my ***.  I don’t know ‘him, but I love his style and I wanted to *** on his bed and pillows.  The fact that I come here and stay naked all over his things excites me, and he has no idea.  And yes, I came all over the master bed, we ****** madly!  I know the others heard my bells and chains clinking at a feverish pace.  I listened to the sounds ‘his bed made.  I fully enjoyed his headboard, grabbing his oak poles, feeling each one up and down, as I was getting closer to coming.  Ahhh my hand finds a broken bar, I think how it must have been broken by ‘him doing what I was at that moment.  That moment I came.
My mind was so in this “space”, that after we were spent I jumped up and ran to the pool.  Everyone else was still wake and followed me outside.  Skinny-dipping after hours of pleasure is the best recovery!  Wooo Hooo!  
I was the only one naked – still, I didn’t mind and neither did anyone else.  They were announcing to me when the pool jets came on, giggles, they wanted me sitting on them.  A wind picked up and I went inside, everyone followed me in.  
We all watched Eyes Wide Shut, and then everyone went to his or her separate rooms.  
I took ‘his room, I love the big space, the many doors and windows all left open, so nice and free.  I stood beside ‘his bed and slowly dropped my chains and bells beside his slippers on the floor.  I sprawled about on his sheet and fell into a light sleep.
I was dreaming that there was a camera taking pictures of me, while I was replaying in my dream the real conversation I had with ‘him the night before.  He was asleep on the phone, I called and he never fully woke up to give my message to his roommate.  I listened to him breath, and I spoke quietly to him, softly and sweetly, he spoke back a few times and then I hung up.  But in the dream I was having it was *******, and I was talking in my sleep, in ‘his bed.  What a twist of cosmic ways.  With all the dreams: of the snap shots and the discovery of me in his bed, ****, alone and moaning **** me.   In my dream I was saying it, and I know the other people in the other rooms could hear me speaking my mind in my sleep.  The rooms are close by indeed.
Awoke by the modem with 5 hours of sleep, I was stiff bodied, yet excited to wake up in ‘his bed.  It was 8:30 a.m. I rolled over and moaned loud enough to draw attention to myself, knowing it would work .
I kept my eyes closed and softly said how sore my ribs and back were.  The hands of the night before returned to rub my body once again.  After a few minutes of morning massage, I smiled, giggled and rolled off the bed and darted to the pool.
Naked morning sunshine, I love it, jump in the pool and by the time I got fully wet the coffee came to me.  Everyone was eating breakfast poolside while I skinny-dipped my body into a limber state.  After breakfast everyone jumped in the pool with me, but I was the only one naked.  We all swam for 30 minutes or so.  I spotted the lounge chair and decided to sunbathe Seconds after my body reclined, the hands and oil came to pamper me once again.  I was spread out in full view of all in the pool, getting slicked up al over, with oil and such.  It felt great inside and out, I didn’t care that everyone was watching me get my ***** satisfied.  I was vividly aware of where I was, out in the open space and the freedom of space, as I thought my *** rose in the air and my body twitched repeatedly.  I heard the voices in the pool, and felt the sun on me as I came hard, right there in front of everyone.  Hell, I needed help getting up off that chair, and an oiled hand took mine, and led me to the master bedroom.
The master’s bed now has oil on the sheets and the headboard, and the wall.  I left myself all over his things.  He will know some of my essence whether he knows it or not, I will.  Here I sit naked in his den loving every naked minute of it.
I am back from being oil girl.  Being bent over people spreading glistening oil on nakedness, my *** got a lil bit to much sun!  I go to the master bedroom again, everyone is still poolside.  I try on things, because they are left out on the bed.  You know how I always ask what a mans' favorite pair of pants are?  Well there was 501’s in my size, I couldn’t resist sliding him on me, loving how they fit my ***.  I went back outside and paraded around showing how good ‘his pants fit me.  “Do you have underwear on?” I was asked, I laughed and said no.  I got an odd look from the people.  I danced off to the bedroom and put them back, knowing how he fit was enough.
Right now I am sitting outside writing and a camera is pointed right at my *****.  So I shall stand up for a few shots.  I got up and stood on the table and spread for some close ups, ****, ok enough sun, my **** are red.
After delivering a few drinks poolside, I return to ‘his bed, laying on my belly, thinking, pen in hand.
I hear the shower turn off and I close my legs, I feel the wet drops hit my back, as he sits on my legs.  He is holding them together with his weight.  I feel the oil hit my back, sliding down the crack of my ***.
The lower back massage becomes two bodies sliding against each other.  At first his hands slide between my tightly pressed thighs.  My hips grabbed and lightly lifted, raising my *** in the air, yet tightly holding my legs together.
A breath on my neck touched me at the same time he entered my ***** once again.  My pen never left my hand.  I was focused.
I go for a smoke and jump back into the pool, knowing its time for me to leave soon.  As I enter the main room, in just *******, I pick up my lotion and start putting it on my arms.  Hands from behind gently take the lotion and begin putting it on my sunburned back.  I defiantly feel the fact that I have ******* on as the hands reach my lower back and slowly pull them off……
This was my first husbands last attempt to keep me as his wife by taking me on a weekend to his friends house with a pool.
The story is very telling that my mind is truly not on present, but on what is not there. By saying this I almost ruin the erotica of it..but the psychology of the the story is rich too..
I wrote that day and the next paragraph by paragraph, each hour or so.
Who else was present is everyone who always saw me naked and saw it as no big deal. I was a nudist, they knew it. Its all very true...
betterdays Apr 2017
we create worlds
here on the internet
connecting we those
we will never see

chatting over virtual
back fences about
children, cats, recipes

we meet those who
have similar views
and those who don't
discuss things of import
show sympathy with
sad faced emoticons

we wish each others pets
happy birthdays with
cartoon characters

we share our art, music
and photography
then there are us poets
who write our hearts
for others to see

it is a melting ***
of thought and culture
of the full spectrum
of ability.....

it is a place of secrets
or exhibitionist excess

it is in many ways a wonder
and many ways a curse

the internet, really
just like the bottom
of an old ladies purse
full of useless lint and
used tissues, but if you
ferret arond long enough
you will find a dollar
or a hard candy
Ben  Nov 2014
Addict/Asshole
Ben Nov 2014
Addict.
electrifying
steel to skin, metal caress
most intimate touch
intoxicating
pleasure and pain mixing bold
sketching hearts on sleeves
exhibitionist
walking canvas, ****** art
permanent war paint

*******.
unhireable
regrettable decisions
just wait till you sag
appropriation
tribal skull, rose indian
meaningless symbols
rebellious act
futureless punk ***** loser
nine to five. conform.
perspective
sincerity
irony
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
. like some pop canadian psychiatrist might, lecturing males about *******, unlike some lars von trier... let's just say that i can understand of jerking off having been mutilated, oh, sorry, circumcised, having an improved impetus for the opposite partner... sure... love the lecture... a male's missing ******* is compensated by a couch with extra pillows of a woman's ******... i get it... one problem... one thing lecturing males on the dreaded degeneracy of *******... could this famous canadian psychiatrist, cool off, and lecture females about their exhibitionism? no? not real? ****... i took the alternative route jerking off... took to fine art nudes, and selfies women take of their cleavage... i might be a sore jerking off loser... but she's the ******* exhibitionist.

ever walked down a desolate road,
with only cars whizzing past.
and no pedestrians?

ever walk and stop,
under a street lamp,
exasperated by the stealth of rainfall,
slow...
   airy, almost floating,
like a myopic cloud covering
your eyes?

ever walk into an alley beside
a baptist church...
ease up, take a ****...
and then drench your hair in
rain (water)?

ever glide over the sheen of
concrete covered in
wetness that soil would
otherwise, hide, and ingest?

the temperature is still there,
can't get sparkles,
guess i have to settle
for squid liquid glee of
the cement...
give it three months...
the paparazzi will glitter
the mundane cement gore...

and then walking down
a road, downhill...

             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

i might have been drunk...
but i was going / left to right,
nd \ right to left,
spectating the rainfall
under each street-lamp...

  **** me... what a beauty show...
like watching someone
spin candy floss!
  
i squinted my eye...
   un-squinted it...
    mezmo...

              better than an l.s.d. trip...
   auburn come autumn air...
a slight fragrance of decay...
        french puff pastry...

slow rain,
like a postcard enclosed in
an envelope...
    like carbonated water...
a gesticulation of imitating
fizzy, in terms of air...

     pure... magic...
so i did what no other drunk does,
walked down the street,
a ******* zig zag parade:
  
             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

  or Z... x6...
            the linear aspect implying:
i paused, and admired...

              just a little rain,
and all the streets were empty...
what space...

by the way...
   is Budweiser truly the king of beers?
my local supermarket has started
selling
            asahi...
         well, technically liquid amber is
evening sun, not morning sun...
but seriously...
        Budweiser?
the, king, of beers?
   if they stopped milking the Chinese,
injecting rice fermentation...
then... maybe...
         Budweiser is the ******* beer...
yak ****...
         it's akin to the story of
of: pork because of bacon...
   bacon is crap...
       pig head and cranium terrine...
  or pork kabanossi...
         but i give the h'americans
bourbon...
god i can't resist...
   do all brothels "stink" of
Kentucky bourbon?

         every time i open a Kentucky bourbon
i am reminded of having visited
a brothel...
    and the kissing like
oral ***...
                      perfumes! perfumes!
perfumes!

   floral patterns on the lips
that pucker up to vines and needles
leaving them shut...

     **** me... even the *** beer has
a story, rather than a kingly stature
behind it...
   karakuchi...

or as one must summarize:
i got to the brothel for a hard-on,
i go to the cinema for the pseudo-acting...
your chiral female to example...
limp **** and i might as well
be eating ****...

          and then there's Californian Punk
of the 1990s...
           which?
does British politics even exist?
to make a punk mooo-v'eh-ment?
           i brought the cows,
but forgot the cow-bell
for Nazareth's hair of a dog...

     as we know it...
punk died in California in the 1990s...
punk ist tod...

come to think of it...
no one does blogging when testing
alcohol...
  ****... and it would be censored...
if someone should do a social media
type of critique,
getting off his *** when drinking
an asahi beer,
of a whyte & mackay whiskey...

      here's what it could look like...
in writing.
Anjana Rao Oct 2014
I've never been an exhibitionist. Fame and money have never been my goals. If I played music it was for myself, softly so no one could hear. If I made art, it was unassuming doodles on scraps of paper that didn't matter. If I wrote, the final pieces were buried away, whether in journal pages or word documents in neatly organized file folders.

Social media changes everything.

Suddenly, everyone has a voice. Suddenly I'm thinking, why not my voice, what's wrong with my writing?  Sure, I didn't get an English degree, I hold no MFA, but plenty of people write online, after all, it's just the Internet.

"It's just the Internet." What a catch 22 - in my head, it's either "Don't air your ***** laundry, no one wants to know," or, "Go ahead, air your ***** laundry, you're a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, who's going to care?"

I've never been an exhibitionist, but social media changes everything. You have a thought? Tweet it. You like a photo? Pin it. You have an opinion? Post it. Facebook, tumblr, ello, Hello Poetry, wordpress, blogspot - there are so many venues, take your pick. The world is your oyster. Express yourself.

Fame and money have never been my goals. And I don't say this in an attempt to be original. I don't say this with the idea that I'm above anyone who'd want either. Because let's be real, would I say no to being paid to write? Of course not.

No, what I'm really after is something else. Connections. If I unleash my thoughts into that strange universe that is the Internet, maybe, just maybe, I'll get something back, a spark, a "message received." Not a "Hi, how are you," but a "Yes, I understand. Let's share stories."
Home surveillance
accessed by cellphone
as the exhibitionist
walks the halls.

Peek-a-boo.

Multi-camera action,
one of the more positive aspects of your Orwellian achievement.

© S. Wesley Mcgranor
http://imgur.com/LKSYc
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.i somehow found myself in a predicament, i can only read German philosophers in English, and that's my sole exclusion "manifesto"... basically i can't fathom reading the genre of philosophy in the English tongue.... i can't... unless they're German... i have to return to the Slavic intricacies, whereby my consciousness is occupied with a translation perspective... English was never supposed to aim as high as speaking of philosophy, the English were never adept in asking questions: given they always gave the answers in technological, scientific, architectural foundations; the people of practicality... their downfall? tickling Marxism translated out of economics, and into culture... their one downfall... and.. it looks, partially, as it worked.

what, what what have we 'ere?!
   bobby on the beat...
lookie lookie, lookover here,
the jokes runs...
and the priests in Eastern Europe
are known as crows...
krúki...
     as a peoples who weren't
invaded by the Romans?
   looks like i've learned a thing
or two... about orientating myself
with the said letters...
no... St. Cyril didn't come past my parts...

etymology:
   sve-                (self sight /
           swoje         /       my)
  -to-                    (that / this)
    -vid               (widze, i see) -

basically?
the god, "in question"?
                 what i see, myself...
i see, as myself,
and  what is, self,
is what, i see...
detached from anyone else
that sees...
  (i see what i want to see...
i see my own, and as my own,
this is what, i see).

the priests are crows,
the police-officers are dogs...
i love crows...
ever see crows mate in daylight,
akin to pigeons?
  i've never seen crows mate
in daylight, in public...
they leverage their courtship
to the night,
in secluded areas...
             crow knows best...
a crow will to imitate a pigeon...
a crow will mate with a female
at night...
   and notably: in a secluded
march of a land...
a crow is not a pigeon is
not a reverse exhibitionist...
     a crow is a crow is: crow...

just like with the German philosophers...
some, i can actually read in English,
rarely, but i can...
within the confines of the obscure works,
esp. their revisionist texts...
e.g.
               via the variant:
da-ist-sein...
                      there is being...
well not **** Sherlock...
i've just encountered it about
the "second" time for the past 32nd year!
but da-ist-sein...
  well... there's no a priori schematic
to encompass the statement with...

   how the people prance citing Hegel,
while forgetting the basic building
block of Kant... like Beethoven mattered...
when Handel was the orientating
composer to pay attention to...

sure... da-sein can have an a priori
and an a posteriori reality...
but da-ist-sein doesn't have an a priori
contingent plan for rhetoric...
a sophistry...
      mind you..
  we live in the times where
sophistry married solipsism,
and said:
           take some time to reflect
spending time with transitions,
airport banalities of trans-national
transit, in terms of people...
taking a bus trip seems like
a breeze these days...

                 fascinating,
the English educational system involves
the Roman Empire...
oddly or rarely considered luckily am
of a people not conquered by the
pre kilt pansies...
                          and i'm scratching my head,
thinking...
                    but up to a certain year:
i seem to have no past,
just like you...
lost to the vehemency of institutionalizing
Darwinism as a replacement
of whatever history is implied
at that point...
not physics, not geology...
  thank **** that chemistry is not prone
to exert a historiological influence...
where i was born?
a flint-stone colony... half an hour's
worth of a bike-ride...
flit-mining... flit-stones...
   whenever science teases the humanities
by incorporating a "study" of history?
i lose it... chemistry never does this
sort of *******...
but biology with its historical Darwinism,
but physics with its historical Big Bang theory,
these sciences play both science
and a humanism game...
   bad idea...
  chemistry at least affects
the romantic movement...
what is a day in the day of the month
of the year, of a day, within the confines
of james joyce's Ulysses?
           oh look...
the double standard of the maxim:
an insignificant spec of dust that's a worth,
somehow, worth investigating...
nonetheless a spec of dust...
   the larger the universe becomes,
the smaller the human cognitive potential
becomes...
but the smaller the universe becomes,
the larger the human cognitive potential, is.
JG O'Connor Jun 2017
I’ve become  invisible
Maybe it’s a virus and I’ve just got a touch,
The automatic shop door didn’t open so I’m left in a lurch,
Even when  I stood on the spot once blessed by the church.
Then the shop attendant missed me in the queue,
A car nearly knocked me on the footpath too.
Clearly I’m unseen.

As this progresses will my eyelids become translucent?
With my eyes shut how will I sleep?
Maybe I should wear dark glasses and not take a peek.
If I wear clothes will it be funny?
I will definitely get a job as a shop window dummy.
Is that what happens in the invisible limbos,
We become manikins in shop windows,  
Watching the world looking at them,
What we the invisible will be able to tell.

From my shop window I imagine at half past eight,
The people hang out or just walk past straight.
Starting with the kids skipping school,
Uniform tucked in schoolbag to fool,
Shopping bag used for energy joule,
Inhaling glue this hallucinatory fuel.
Each step these children take,
One step closer to heartbreak.

Then the anxious wife meeting her lover.  
Leaving behind her domestic bliss,
Sealed this morning with a husband’s watery kiss.
Waiting awkwardly in her Totoro dress,
One button behind and a zip does the rest .
Trying hard to be invisible too
This could all end in her being blue.

The rushing shop manager dressed in a suit.
Cuffs worn thin, pens in a group,
Red, blue and black,
A tick for success or none for the lack.
Mumbling along the company mantra,
“Think outside the box” there’s as good fella.
The only box he has ever known,
Are the imaginary boundaries in which he has grown.


A dog and his master trundle along.
He has been dead for years as he moves on,
Wearing a shroud of a used up life,
The dog squats down beside the tree of life.
Observing this stool in the daylight,
He compares to the Hematochezia he did last night.

A husband contemplating murdering his wife,
As the news of her lover has just come to light.  
He looks at the manikin with some delight,
Seduced by its empty invisible soul,  
Only to discover he owns that hole.

Then evening descends the lights are all up,
When work is all over it’s off to the pub.
Not for the invisible manikin though,
Who stays in the window dressed in a bride’s trousseau.
An invisible exhibitionist this poor sod,
So when you walk past it's polite to nod.
Now I’ll take two Aspirin and a cup of coco
And hope to God this invisibility will go go.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.jordan peterson is right, it's unrealistic to watch *******, and even begin to "think" that i might **** these women... correct... absolutely... i get the ones who drink beer, are Thai bisexual, which i find on park benches, invite home, play some Miles Davies, and later **** in the garden... it's unrealistic, for sure... but then... watching modern *******? so... these women are exhibitionist, masochists and nymphomaniacs, bound into one?! no wonder Italian ******* from the 1970s seems more tasteful, compared to all the gagging *******, and impromptu ****... jordan peterson is right, i'll never **** these women... but... there's not obvious reason why i'd want to, either. once upon a time, when ***, was like fine art... and you weren't forced to choke via *******... and **** wasn't exactly an option; but more like a hand-job.

you know that moment when a song,
   that turns you into a human
body drum kit of tapping
along to the beat...
when there's actually a bass guitar
signature reference...
and at some point in
the subtle intermission...
you stop grooving...
slap your thigh...
   grunt out: oomph!
puff! blah la la. oomph!
get your moccasins on...
and... look at the up-side of things...
you won't be *******
with your socks-on during
the one-night stand...
  or for that matter: cocooned
under the bedsheets...
there's nothing worse
than ******* with your socks on...
well... there's *******
under the bed-sheets...
        - p.s. why do people think
the 1980s were a ****** decade
for music?!
     the 1970s were *******...
with all their disco...
                  plus you had the counter
with all the e.m.o. ******* of
Joy Division and the Cure
and what became grunge...
    Phil Collins?! go bro!
w'ooh w'ooh!
            wallaby!
you want bad music?
listen to some krzysztof penderecki...
because i know what these people
are doing... pop music is,
supposed to be infectious...
you can pass on some jazz...
sure... but pop music:
why beat yourself over liking
something you can't exactly control...
no jacket required?
seminal album... no song in particular...
let's face...
genesis is... what genesis is:
not exactly pink floyd of king crimson...
the solo artifacts
of P. Gabriel (Solsbury Hill)...
         P. Collins (take your pick)...
sure... selling England by the pound...
of the women i loved,
i loved to what could best
describe itself as an antithesis
of cinematic romance...
and... for it's worth:
      i returned to myself satisfied...
subsequently,
between Ms. Amber and Mother Death...
the women around me
went around minding their own
business...
     and i went around minding
my own...
                and the sun glowed,
rose in the morning,
and set itself beneath the sea
come the evening...
          and the moon played
peekaboo...
                    and all of what was required
was ingested...
with all the excesses
scattered for others to pick up
and make additions to their lots
of the mortal whole,
otherwise called life,
otherwise called breath and soul...
            mutter tod:
                i am on my way;
fear not, i have no Sylvia Plath tugging
along...
       i never dared to live the kind
of life associated with Ted Hughes...
   just prostitutes, prostitutes, prostitutes
to the best of my accomplished
fathom that constituted memory...
    a love by an hourly rate...
                   and we laughed,
and we cried...
  and we kissed for said hour,
after having forgotten to trim my *****
hair to allow *******.

— The End —