I Like Being Watched

"But there are cameras too. Hidden cameras."

"Not too well hidden if you found them."

"I used to work as a nanny. I know a hidden camera when I see them. And, you know, when you are literally solely responsible for the life of someone else's offspring, a hidden camera is expected. But what the heck does he need cameras for?"

"He's rich. Rich people have expensive things."

Perry, having grown up in the humblest of humble households, sometimes struggled understanding how the one-percent lived. And, really, who could understand the dick-measuring contest that was buying bigger and bigger yachts just to show up some other guy in the marina?

The rich were as incomprehensible to me as people who willingly gave up carbs.

"I guess. Maybe. I just didn't like it. It freaked me out. I mean, what if he was sitting in his fancy office in the city staring at me while I wiped down his kitchen counters? It was just creepy."

That right there was one way Perry and I differed.

She heard hidden cameras and men watching from behind screens and she thought freaky and creepy, got goosebumps down her arms and across the back of her neck.

I got goosebumps too.

But of a completely different kind.

The kind that positively shivered across my skin, that set my nerve endings up in cold flames, that sank in and warmed up as they moved through flesh and tendon and muscle, as they settled down into my very bones. Burning hot. A blazing inferno. Lighting my whole body on fire.

I'd briefly dated a psych major in my freshmen year who had decided to shrink me. In his case, shrink me down, though he liked to call it 'helping' me.

You're an exhibitionist, Wynnie.

One couldn't argue against that when there was clearly a lot of evidence to support the claim.

It's a disorder. It's a paraphilia.

One could say I was not a fan of being lumped in with pedophiles and people who wanted to fuck animals.

I drew a line in the sand at that. One where I was on one side and that asshole was on the other.

I mean, really, who was he to judge me on my fetish when he got off playing a stern teacher who whipped my ass with a ruler before jerking off on my tits?

People in glass houses shouldn't pull out their BDSM gear then call their furry neighbors 'freaks' at the block party.

I'd maybe gone ahead after that breakup—and a dozen or so drinks with Perry to celebrate my newfound singledom—and looked up my so-called 'disorder.'

It took about two pages before I decided it didn't apply to me. Since I had no childhood trauma or sexual abuse or even hyper-sexuality. I mean, I liked a good tour of the sheets as much as any other healthy, red-blooded, twenty-something, but it wasn't like I was rubbing one out every twenty minutes just to be able to think straight.

I just liked being watched.

I liked the power of that.

I got off on the idea of someone sitting there somewhere private and seeing me bend over, seeing my shirt spill open in the front, and getting off on me.

I liked it.

And I had as long as I could remember.

Way back to my high school days when I had left my curtains open so my next-door neighbor who was a grade higher than me could see me from his desk in front of the window as I slipped out of my clothes and walked around my room in nothing but a barely-there thong.

I could feel his eyes on me as I pretended to innocently move around my room, shifting objects here and there, checking my phone, dancing around to some music.

It had turned my body molten to see his hand slide under the desk, to see his arm jerking up and down.

It was my thing.

And I refused to be ashamed of it.

Even if it wasn't exactly common knowledge about me.

Perry didn't know. Because, well, when it came to sexual preferences, I was a bit old-school in that I thought that was the business of you and your sexual partners only. It was in the vault. Along with cock size and shameful personal confessions. I firmly believed the world would be a better place if more people respected the sanctity of the interpersonal vault.

"Perry, for that kind of money, I would let him sit in the room and watch me as I cooked him dinner bare-ass naked in high heels."

To that, her nose wrinkled up. "I mean, I am going to miss the money," she admitted. "But I stashed a lot of it away to hold me over while I look around. I think Sly's place is hiring."

Sly was her on-again-off-again boyfriend who thought rolling his own cigarettes made him cool, and claimed any music made after the nineties was complete and utter shit. I didn't care for Sly. And by 'didn't care for,' I meant that I had called him a 'useless, unfaithful, dickwad' to his face on more than one occasion. Yes, dickwad. I was bringing out the big guns for that particular animal. Aim, cock, shoot. Unfortunately, he seemed to have nine lives, and Perry loved each one of them.