“Can you tell me some of your experiences with girls in public?
What aspects you’ve enjoyed about them?
Where you draw the line?”
When I was in my early twenties, I read The Orton Diaries, the diaries of the dead British playwright, Joe Orton. If you haven’t read (of) him, he’s worth learning about. He wrote farces that were on a par with those of Oscar Wilde, and he was a generation, or two, ahead of his time in terms of his relationship to his own (homo)sexuality. Orton was a flamboyant, unapologetic homosexual in 1960s London. He lived with his maniacally (and ultimately, murderously) envious lover, Kenneth Halliwell, and he spent his days and nights writing, fucking, and fighting with Halliwell. He fucked relentlessly, anonymously. In seemingly every public loo in London. Until Halliwell killed him. With a hammer.
Somehow, Orton’s life affected me in ways I’m only beginning to understand. Of course, I’m straight. But I identified with him powerfully, and envied him terribly. (Not the part where Halliwell killed him, but many of the other parts.) It was a revelation to me that one – straight or gay – could live as Orton did, with his sexuality so front and center, so unapologetic. And that he could fuck so much. That, surely, was part of it. And finally, there was something about just how much of his sex was truly public. In public restrooms, parks, cars, wherever. When I first read him, I thought: what could be better? Endless, easy, sex. (I didn’t really focus on the locus of that sex, which, in my 40s, actually seems frightful. Or on the anonymity of his partners, which doesn’t seem so much frightful as ultimately empty and unsatisfying.)
Fast forward to today, to a part of my life where, for better or worse, I inhabit, and indulge, my appetites a bit more openly and joyously than ever previous. A big part of what I crave, what I command, what I most enjoy, is quasi-sexual interactions in semi-public spaces. I like to watch a woman display her compliance to me in public. I want to see her, to take her, to the edge of her comfort zone, to expose her, just a bit. The truth is, I don’t particularly crave full exposure. I don’t want others to leer too much. Just a little. I want them, ideally, not even to be sure about what they’re seeing. I want them to wonder, to suspect. “Is she really spreading her legs for him? Touching herself for him?”
I want her to feel the burning, stinging, of their eyes, but to know that no one sees quite what I see. No one else knows just what I know: that she is executing my wishes. That she has made the decision to submit to me, to give me what I ask, and to do so even at the cost of considerable personal anxiety, discomfort. Especially at that cost.
The truth is, there hasn’t been that much public sex in my life. During my CPOS days, there was just a little. More recently, there’s been a bit more. If you’ve been reading here, you’ve seen it. (L, in various hotel bars; Maxie, on the street; V, in the same bar over and over). There’ve only been a couple of partners of mine over the last few years about whom I haven’t written here.
There’s a bit of a template in my fantasy: the hottest moment, as I’ve written, is the moment where a woman demonstrates not just her compliance, but her willingness, her wish, to go to bed with me. If this can happen in a public place, that is somehow exponentially more exciting to me than if it’s collected in private.
There’s something in the validation I feel, the normalization of it, that I crave. It’s not the envy or jealousy of others I crave. It’s not even their gaze. No, it’s far more basic: all I crave is confirmation that what I want is ok, that it’s banal, uninteresting. And “closing the deal” in public is a powerfully effective way of giving me this. What I want is so normal that it can be given to me in a bar, in a coffee shop. And, more often than not, no one really notices. And that’s actually ideal. (Being seen isn’t bad, exactly, but it doesn’t really add anything to my experience in the moment.) The fact that my partner often is more on edge in public than she might be in private simply enhances the experience – not because I’m a sadist, but because that “on edge” sensation is hot – to experience, to cause, to witness.
I relish the opportunity to play out this scene. To send a woman to the bathroom, to have her return with her pussy’s scent on her fingers, he panties in her hand, an orgasm having been left behind. To watch her cross, uncross, her legs. To give me just a teasing glimpse of her panties, or her pussy, even when we’re surrounded by others. To see her lick her lips, suck her straw. And to know that while she’s turning me on, while she’s complying with my wishes, the rest of the world is oblivious.
The honest answer to the questions at the top of this page is this: the line, ultimately, is drawn right around the point where people start to notice. Believe that or not….