I have an exhibitionist streak, but not in the way most people imagine. When people hear “exhibitionist,” they think of someone flashing strangers in a park at midnight, desperate for a cheap thrill. That’s not me. I’m not the type to leap out at someone and scare them. What I crave is much simpler, yet more complicated—I like being seen. I enjoy the rush of knowing my body is out there for someone’s eyes, and if there’s a compliment or even a hungry look, the heat in my chest only grows stronger.
For a long time, I hated this side of myself. I thought it made me some sort of freak. I didn’t dare tell anyone—not my friends, not my parents, not even early boyfriends—because I was terrified of being judged. The more I tried to bury it, the sharper it clawed at me from the inside. I grew up in a small American town, where everyone knew everyone, and modesty was practically drilled into us. “Good girls don’t show too much,” my mom always said. But I had questions even as a teenager: what’s “too much”? Who decides that? And why did the thought of being seen—really seen—send little sparks of excitement through me?
I still remember one of the first moments I realized how different I was. I was a teenager living at home, and one night after a shower, the bathroom lock didn’t catch. My cousin barged in, saw me naked under the water, and froze. Any normal girl might’ve screamed, covered up, begged him to leave. I didn’t. I just stood there, staring back, letting him take in more than he probably should’ve. He left in a rush, embarrassed, but I was left buzzing—half guilty, half thrilled. That mix of fear and desire never really left me.
When I moved out on my own after college, I discovered freedom. I’d strip down in my apartment, walk from the kitchen to the living room with nothing on, maybe linger at the window longer than I should. Some nights, I’d step onto the balcony with nothing but a thin tank top, heart pounding, wondering if anyone down below could see. That danger, that maybe-someone’s-watching edge, drove me crazy in the best way. And soon I started testing boundaries outside—skipping underwear under a sundress, letting my nipples show through a tight shirt on a summer day. Nobody knew but me, and that secret made me walk taller.
Eventually, I started taking pictures—my breasts, my ass, sometimes full nudes—and sharing them on anonymous apps. The comments, whether filthy or flattering, gave me a rush. Strangers wanted me, strangers saw me. I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t a nobody. I was the girl they couldn’t stop staring at.
When I had my first serious boyfriend, I confessed it all. I thought he’d dump me instantly, but instead he played along—balcony sex, long drives that ended in parking lots with fogged-up windows, quick touches in places where discovery was one wrong move away. I thought I’d found someone who got me. But over time, he used my secret as leverage, a way to control me. And when we finally fell apart, he told people. Friends, family. Suddenly my private kink was dirty gossip, and I felt exposed in the worst way.
I swore I’d never let another man see that side of me. Then I met Daniel. He was older, calmer, the kind of man who listened before he spoke. He made me feel safe, like I didn’t need to hide. For a while, I kept my mask on—sweet, proper, the “good girlfriend.” But secrets always find cracks. He found one of my burner accounts, saw the pictures I posted. Instead of shaming me, he researched. He asked questions. He held me when I panicked and tried to run. And eventually, he said the words that undid me: “I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to be real.”
Now, Daniel gets late-night snapshots of me—half naked in the kitchen, sprawled across our bed with nothing on, biting my lip with that look he loves. Sometimes we play risky games together, testing just how close we can get to being caught. He doesn’t judge me. He makes me feel like my wild, flawed self is still worth love. And that changes everything.
I still struggle with the word “exhibitionist.” I know it scares people. But what I’ve learned is that it’s not about being reckless or sick—it’s about being seen, being wanted, being alive in someone else’s eyes. And with the right man holding my hand, I’ve finally stopped apologizing for who I am.