Exhibitionism and fabulism

In the context of my now long-ago contest with L, I placed some Craigslist ads in a variety of cities. The ads varied, but basically said, “Check out my blog and let me know if you see any fun ways to participate or contribute.”

For a while, I got zero responses of note, but it had an immediate impact on my readership: evidently a not-insignificant portion of you readers found this blog as a result of one of those ads. As I’ve said before, welcome. And thanks. Bringing you here was my primary reason for posting the ads (though I did hope someone might find a way to tickle my fancy).

In recent days, though, I’ve had two interesting exchanges. One seemed briefly promising – a guy wrote of his and his wife’s adventures, and included a couple of (hot) pictures, ostensibly of his wife, first . But he disappeared.

The other is more intriguing: the guy wrote, telling me that his wife and he have recently discovered the joys of her being fucked by well hung guys (which, I take it, our correspondent is not – at least relatively speaking). He dangled some details before me and then followed with some genuinely hot photos – the best, featuring her in jeans and a wifebeater, another showing her admirable waist-to-hip ratio in a bikini.

The photos purportedly are of his wife, and the second set purportedly shows her wearing the lingerie she was wearing on a night about which he has been writing to me.

He writes no more than a sentence or two, and waits.  He calls himself “Slow.” He needs encouragement from me to continue.  Not much encouragement – just “Oooh, hot.”  Or, “And then?”

I’m not sure what to make of all this: I’m not entirely convinced, on so many levels: that the guy has a wife, that his wife is indeed as he describes, that the pictures are of her (or even are all of the same woman), that she’s o.k. with his sharing the pictures with me, that the lingerie is even the same in the two pictures he sent of her in it (I’m pretty sure it’s not), that the story he’s unfolding for me is real, not a fantasy.  (If you’re reading this, Slow, help me out – give me some evidence you’re real, your wife’s real, this story’s real.)  I’d also love to publish those sexy photos he sent, but wouldn’t dream of it unless (a) I had more confidence they were real, and (b) I had something I believed was her permission.

What’s most interesting to me, though, is this:  what’s in it for ME? Do I care if she’s real, if the story happened anywhere other than in his mind?  Why do I keep coming back, answering his e-mails with e-mails, asking for more?

I like the idea that the pictures he sends correspond to one person, and, ideally, that this one person knows, and is turned on by the fact, that he’s sharing them with me. And where I really begin to get turned on is when I imagine having some power: send me a picture of x. When that happens, when there’s been a merger of desire – he, she, they are turned on in part by the fact that they are turning me on – that’s a rich moment.

But once again, it’s a testament to my heterosexuality that I’m entirely uninterested in his desire. That’s why I crave some indication she’s real, and not just real, but involved.  Without that, I know I’ll lose interest very quickly.

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