Here's an excerpt of another piece I'm working on:
Nasty Girl: The Making of an Exhibitionist Slut
Chapter One
What is worse? A life of outright misery, or one which is merely dull, routine?
I had never been sick, really sick, nor hungry, but I had experienced the misery of routine, of living to pay bills, of talk filled with the unremarkable occurrences of daily life, of the drift toward marriage and children.
Even sex was dull. I had been sleeping with my dates since i'd graduated high school and I had yet to find out what all the shouting was about. I had read about orgasms, discussed them with my girlfriends, but hadn't had one myself.
I was fascinated when I read of Jim Morrison's public lewdity bust at a Miami concert. He was a rock star; he was devestatingly handsome; he had a voice so deep and masculine, some women orgasmed just from hearing him sing -- I'd read.
Morrison's act was revolting. I talked with my girlfriends about it, and it made us all shiver in disgust.
So why did he do it? I wondered. He could have any woman. He could have me.
It wasn't inconceivable. I was just 22, and I attracted my fair share of men.
None of them were him, though. At the time, I felt grateful for that.
****
l was on a bus, on my way back from Dallas to Fort Worth. I'd had to file papers at the Dallas courthouse for my boss, a lawyer.
There weren't all that many other riders, maybe five or six. I took a seat about halfway towards the back of the bus, across the aisle from an unremarkable-looking guy about my age. I took a paperback novel from my purse and started reading; I knew how deadly dull the hour-long ride back to Fort Worth would be otherwise.
About ten minutes into the trip, I heard the guy across the aisle from me clear his throat.
I glanced over at him. He had his erect cock out of his pants and he was stroking it! I quickly looked at his face, and saw a gleam in his eye.
This was the Sixties; you didn't do something like that casually, as happens today. Back then, you had to be a real pervert to do something like that. Reading about Jim Morrison doing that in Miami, thousands of miles away, was one thing. This was scary! This was three feet away!
My heart raced. My face flushed. Was I in danger? Would this guy try to rape me?
My voice stuck in my throat, else I would have screamed, alerting the bus driver and the other passengers. In a panic, I looked into the guy's eyes again, looled for a clue as to his intentions: still the same gleam in his eyes, and a smarmy little smile. Other than stroking himself, though, he hadn't moved.
I sat there transfixed, staring. My mind raced. Why was this guy doing this? What possible satisfaction could he get from exposing himself to me? Was it worth risking jail?
The guy continued to pump his cock, his head titled a little to the side, staring at me as fixedly as I stared at him. This went on for a few minutes, and then he nodded his head toward me.
What was he trying to signal?
He nodded at me again, and then he took his hand off his cock and mimed pulling up a skirt. He put the fingers of both hands at his knees, the little pinkies stretched out, and mimed picking up the hem of a skirt, pulling it back.
I looked down at my own knees. Miniskirts had been introduced only a couple of years before, and I dressed fashionably.
I looked back in his face and he smiled, and nodded his head again. He wanted me to pull my skirt up!
My first thought was: That's disgusting. My second thought was: What have I got to lose? Even if I were arrested -- unlikely -- at least it wouldn't be part of the dull routine of my life that seemed to be killing my spirit.
I schooched my back to the window of the bus, twisted my knees toward the other seat, and lifted my skirt as high as it would go, showing the guy the crotch of my pink panties.
I looked up into his eyes. He looked straight into mine and nodded his head toward me again.
No smile. He'd gotten me to flash my panties at him, yet he wasn't smiling. He seemed to be trying to signal something else to me.
Then I got it. He wanted me to show him my pussy!
These days, if some strange guy on a bus asks a girl to doff her panties, he won't just nod his head; he'll say, "Show me your hole, bee-atch!" And like as not, she'll pull down her pants right there, and maybe take a picture of her bare crotch with her phone and send it to all her friends.
You didn't do that back then. But by now, I was getting excited. My nipples pushed against the material of my bra, as if they'd been sucked; I felt a stirring between my legs, faint, but it was a feeling I hadn't even achieved during sex.
I realized -- with a shock -- that I wanted to show this disgusting pervert my pussy! If Jim Morrison could show his wanger to a whole crowd of people, cops included, I could surely show myself to just one guy.
But like I said, you didn't just casually pull off your panties in public back then. Fortunately, this was an inter-city bus, equipped with a toilet. I decided to put that toilet to a use it's designers had never imagined.
I let the hem of my skirt drop, held up an index finger to my pervert, and mouthed the words: "Back in a second."
I picked my purse off the seat next to me, stood, and made my way to the toilet at the back of the bus.
Once I closed the door behind me, I made sure it was locked; I would have died if someone had walked in on me while I was pulling my panties down my legs.
The air inside the toilet was hot and the place smelled as if it hadn't been serviced at the Dallas terminal. It was dirty, too. A piece of soiled toilet paper had dropped on the floor; I almost stepped on it. Had I sunk so low that I'd put up with such sights and smells so I could take off my pants? So I could copycat the actions of so low a creature as a flasher?
Before I left the toilet, I brushed my hair, fixed my lipstick and mascara, and lifted the hem of my skirt to see how my pussy looked in the mirror. Girls didn't shave their crotches back then, but we did trim for bikinis. I decided I was happy with the way my pussy looked. I remember hoping the pervert felt the same way, shocking myself again. I stuffed my panties into my purse and opened the toilet's door.
I felt the cool air of the bus' air conditioning bathe my crotch as I walked back down the aisle toward my seat. It made me feel alive in a way I had never felt before. And somehow, that cool air made my crotch warmer.
The pervert was still pumping away on his cock when I got back to my seat. I settled in, my back up against the window, knees twisted in his direction, but I didn't make any move at first, just let a sly smile settle on my face. I waited a few moments more. The pervert crinkled his brow, slightly nodded his head in the direction of my crotch. I let a couple of more minutes slide past, then placed my fingers at the hem of my skirt, pinkies out, imiating the move he'd made. Briefly, I checked up and down the aisle of the bus. No one was paying me any attention; they were all in their own little worlds. I had been in one of those dull, little worlds only minutes before. Now I was somewhere else completely. I fixed my eyes on the perv's face, which showed the beginning of a smile.
Slowly, I pulled up the hem, and watched as the smile got a little broader with each inch the skirt crawled up my legs.
Finally, I had drawn the skirt up far enough that my pussy was exposed to the man across the aisle. The smile stayed fixed on the man's face for a few moments, then it disappeared and his brow began to crinkle again. Not what I expected, not at all!
The pervert took his hand of his cock again and made another movement, one I didn't understand. He made a cirlce with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, and made like he was scratching the circle with the forefinger of the other.
I had no idea what he was trying to signal me, and I crinkled my own brow. The perv persisted with his finger movements for a while, then gave up. He leaned his head slightly in his direction and mouthed silent words at me.
Finally, I understood those words: "You do it."
He wanted me to masturbate! Me! A woman! And right there on the bus!
Most women didn't even move during sex back in those days, the dawning of the Sexual Revolution. We lay there in the missionary position and trusted to luck that we'd have orgasms. The thought of inducing them ourselves didn't even occur to most of us. I had Cosmo to thank for knowing anything at all about female masturbation.
My heart raced even more. I felt a lump grow in my throat. What this pervert was asking me to do would put me on his level for sure. It was dirty. It was sinful. It was disgusting.
"If I do this," I thought, "I'll be...I'll be...I don't know. I'll be...QUEER!" Those were the only words I had for it.
Almost of its own volition, it seemed, my right hand crept beneath my skirt and found its way to my snatch.
