Last emails

I’m a literary exhibitionist too. Below are the final emails between myself and Art Girl – Wow, I’ve got it bad, I feel terrible! I’m attempting to turn it into some anthroporphic observational thing – To step outside of myself and examine my emotions, rather than remaining locked in this sad place. I’ll remind you once more, we went on three measly dates.

Anyway, the emails from last night and this afternoon are below. I’ve noticed today how I’m subtly trying to regain control of the split, make it for my reasons, when in fact I was just plain dumped:
On 10/31/07, <The London Exhibitionist> wrote:

Truths:
About me:

1) I’d like to meet someone who’d see me as a priority
2) I commit totally to the women in my life – which only works if its loosely reciprocated
3) I’m exactly as emotional as I suggested in our early emails
4) I’m a lot older than you. Nearly 8 years and half a generation I’d guess
5) I thought you were absolutely lovely

About you:

1) You’re 17 years younger than my last girlfriend
2) You’re sexy as hell
3) You’re pursuing something noble
4) You should only be with someone who complements that
5) You’re absolutely lovely

At least half of those are enough to skewer a relationship on their own,
but they all apply simultaneously. So that’s it then. I’ve got to go back to
my instincts. I checked our early emails and I didn’t want to speak to you
because you were too young for me – But you turned me around with the
totally unfair technique of charm! Good luck with it all gorgeous <Art Girl>.

<The London Exhibitionist>
P.S. About me number 6. I feel better after writing this. x

She responded:

Dear <The London Exhibitionist> 
I’m glad you sent me this. I can’t comment on many of these truths,
they are mostly yours. You are so grown up and straight forward about
everything. I feel like I’ve been a very silly girl in many ways, and
you are kind not to point this out.I just wanted to make sure you knew that I loved meeting you. I think
you have an inspiring view on the world. You have a funny mix of a big
open mind and such clear, dignified views on what you want. (And I’ve
never felt so physically attracted to anyone so quickly.) I can’t
believe how odd it feels to know that I won’t see you now, when I’ve
known you for such a short time.So age does matter. I hope you don’t regret I barged past your good instincts.
Lots and lots of luck to you, most especially in your writing. God,
can’t believe I forgot to badger you about that when I was in your
yard..you never showed me any snippets of your autobiographical writing.
One day the truth will out!
 
<Art Girl>
xxxxx

Peaking Out

Something rather more light-hearted than the sex and self-flagellation in my previous post…

Sex on Sunday… is a disappointment

I’ve broken my sex fast. 

I’m calling her Finance Girl. I met up with her on Sunday night. We had a romantic meal in a smart Italian restaurant in Mayfair. She looked very pretty and was warm company. We chatted for ages, over champagne I couldn’t really afford. I spoke about my mum too much for a second date. She sent self-consciously smouldering eyes in my direction, and rubbed my leg under the table. She has a knowing, confident sexuality, and it’s appealing.

The flirting got more explicit, until I suggested we “skip desert, find a quiet street lamp to kiss under, then go discover her apartment”. She agreed. 

We wandered the quiet Sunday streets back to her place. She lives at Picadilly Circus. Literally. To non-Londoners, no-one lives at Picadilly circus. It’s an absurdity. But she really does live there. On the whole top floor of a rather splendid grey mansion block, complete with sooty roof terrace. She did a quick tour of her apartment, excluding the bedroom – “maybe I’ll show you later”.

We kissed in her kitchen, me pinning her to the wall, gently biting her bottom lip. I wore skinny jeans, and my hard penis was crushed and prominant. She looked, but didn’t touch or comment. I lied that I like rosé and we retired to the living room sofa, glasses in hand. Once sitting, we kissed deeply and passionately, and soon I was lying full length on top of her. Feeling constricted by clothes and harsh light, we moved to her bedroom. Still standing, without breaking the kiss, we undressed each other. She gave an unexpected intake of breath when she freed my penis, but didn’t grasp it, instead feathering her fingers over it, as though it were bone china. In bed we kissed and touched, but without momentum, without narrative. She was inert and I was tentative. The confident temptress schtick was revealed as an act. She was nervous and unsure, not unlike everyone else. I rescued the fraying condom from my wallet, giving that poignant totem some unexpected significance in it’s old age. Although she was reassuringly moist I asked her to ease me in – My size sometimes makes it difficult just to ’slip it in’ – I didn’t spell this point out to her. The sex, an unchanging missionary thing, felt nice, but after about 10 minutes she whispered in my ear “maybe you could come now baby”. I did.

Lying naked on her bed, she admitted she’s scared of penises, calling mine ”your giant phallus” – a ball shrinking phrase meant in jest. Later we kissed and hugged up close. i touched between her legs and she was very moist – More moist than I’ve ever known. I gently rubbed her, never reading from her signs if I was being too gentle, too rough or hitting the spot. After a minute or two she turned her head into my shoulder and tightened her body, coming in waves, before curling into me. The first and only moment of intimacy. Later still, as we dozed, she reached round to touch my penis, I got hard, but this was forensic manual examination rather than mutual pleasure and my erection soon subsided. I drifted to sleep.

The next morning a cruel buzzer woke us at 7am. We both had work. I wandered her apartment naked, enjoying the exhibitionism. She cupped my bottom each time she passed. At the undergound station she loudly complained that she’d lost her Oyster card so would have to stand in line with the tourists. I neglected to mention I don’t even have an Oyster card.

On the train to the office I thought back fondly to the intimacy I shared with my ex – The sexiest and most impossible woman on this earth. I won’t be going back, but nights like these make it tough.

Requests

Here am I, exhibitionist by nature, lying on the sofa with camera in hand. Several hundred people daily are coming by this humble page – So let’s get some interaction going here. What would you like to see? Any requests?

This is me

This is me. That’s my stomach, and the hair around it. That’s my fist. That’s me penis. And I like that you’re looking at it.

I went shopping today

I went shopping today, in Kingston Upon Thames, which is on the South West tip of London. I quite like Kingston, it has perfectly adequate shops, winking their neon in a drab suburban kind of way. I went in existential mood, feeling a little lonely. 

Before I go on I should say that I’m a deeply conflicted man – I know material acquisition won’t make me happy, because it never has, and I know that fashion, technology toys, magazines and so on, are all selling an unattainable myth – Some ersatz material nirvana. I know all this, yet I’m the most grasping material fucker I know. I’m legendary amongst my friends for my prodigious accumulation of expensive stuff. I earn quite a lot of money, and with no children, mortgage or fear for the future to reign me in, I piss it all away, month after month, year after year.  

But back to today, I walked through the main shopping centre doing some of my best people watching. Attractive couples walked arm in arm, gently crushing one another with colossal expectations, while the credit card companies smirk. However my eyes were drawn to the singles, the lone-shoppers, those crushed souls of my age or older, self-medicating with plastic money. They didn’t look well, and neither am I. What was I doing there? As I steadily checked out the pretty ladies, occasionally holding momentary eye contact, I realised that my shopping is nothing more than a sublimation of my sexuality. Not my sex life, but my sexuality. I’m feeling lonesome at the moment. I need a warm someone in my life and in my bed. I miss intimacy and I miss the ex who I myself dumped 2 months ago. I miss flirting, I miss exhibitionism, I miss morning sex, I miss knowing someone who knows me, I miss the smell of female skin. My sexuality is confined to a small masturbatory box and it’s breaking free in unusual ways. I was dragging thrills from the sexiest stuff, gleaming like Amsterdam’s finest, in well lit windows displays. 

I wandered into the Apple shop, a sexual retail experience which puts Ann Summers to shame. Brash teenagers shamelessly caressed the sleek toys. Through a crowded room my eyes fixed on a beautiful model – The Mac Mini. I held back, waiting to be approached. Apple do foreplay. You don’t pick up a box, take it to the counter, pay and leave. Instead a woman, looking not unlike my ex-wife with tired eyes but a certain appeal, appeared to show me the ropes. I made slow and tactile acquaintance with my new special friend. Vaguely aroused, I reached for my wallet and sealed the deal. I felt wonderful for ten minutes. A ‘pick-me-up’ smoothie took care of a further twenty.   

Erection

This is me and mine. I have an unusual foreskin, which doesn’t retract. Women always mention it, usually because they’re scared to force it back (not as scared as me).

The curve is quite pronounced, but it’s only pictures like this which remind me. Women never comment on this and I’ve stopped noticing. Why do you think women never mention it? Are they sparing my feelings? Are all men like this? Do they not care?

On my sofa this evening

Richmond

That’s me, that is. 

It’s in Richmond. My new flat is in Richmond, in West London. I was a little reticent before, but what the hell, I’m an exhibitionist, and you’re welcome to know. My imminent adventures will take place across the greatest metropolis in the world, and I’ll retreat to to the comfort of sunny Richmond Upn Thames.

But all that begins next week. Right now, I’m in Brighton still, with friends and in their spare room. We went to a bar up the road tonight. A couple and me. I’m not a hugely handsome man, but I’ve always managed to punch a little above my weight, possibly because I dress well, smile a lot and flirt with the best of them. My flirting skills have gone neglected in the last two years, so tonight I dusted them off again, flirting with the waitress from the bar. She’s a sexy black-haired Australian woman, with a knowing, intellectual thing going on. What could be better. I edged my ego ever so gently onto the line, and she didn’t meet me in the middle. I retreated, only slightly embarrassed.

I’ll get better at this.

And I’ll record my adventures.

Strange perspective on my penis