It seems that I’ve hit an unlucky streak lately when it comes to other people’s public displays of kink. First there was the fiasco at Club Sin, and now this: A couple of weeks ago, right before that blistering heat wave settled over city, I was flashed on my way to the metro.
Here’s what happened: It was close to midday. I had just walked passed a grade school and a construction site in a quiet (i.e., deserted) residential neighborhood when I noticed a thin guy of average height up ahead of me. In another part of the city his worn-in sweats, dark checkered shirt concealing a faded hoodie, and mesh-back baseball cap would hardly merit mention.
Here, however, his ragtag street clothes stood in stark contrast to the ostentatious fortresses lining the street. As he hovered by an immaculate, wrought iron “peek-a-pool” fence that punctuated the monolithic stone battlement surrounding a house the size of a walled-in castle, he looked like the village idiot begging for scraps.
Instinctively, I start to pay closer attention to him. Something about his hesitant, seemingly indecisive gait alarms me. I’ve been followed by enough creeps in my life to recognize this M.O. My gut churns. I feel a rush of adrenaline surge through me as I consider taking a turn down a different street to avoid him. “No way,” I say to myself. I’m already running late. I scan the area for a safe place to turn into. No luck. Nothing but big, empty houses. I consider the risk. He looks small – about my height. I think I can handle him...
Fists clenched, I square my shoulders and pick up my pace. As he is about to veer off into a side street he notices me, does a double take, and, slowing down considerably, turns back towards the main road. Shit. I walk faster, in the hopes that my haste will keep him from trying to talk to me. I make my way past him. Falling in behind me, he mumbles something in an effort to get my attention. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry,” I answer, turning my head towards him, without making eye contact. Even under duress I can’t help but be polite.
That’s when I see it: With one hand gripping his balls, he waves his semi-erect cock in my face with his free hand. At first, the shock of this spectacle fills me with rage. As I march off, I imagine myself kicking him in the crotch, and then crushing his testicles with under the heel of my boot. Suddenly, I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare back at him. He returns my gaze. I point my finger at him like a woman on a witch-hunt, pull out my cell phone from my purse, and dial PC. “Call the cops – some douche bag just flashed me!” I breathe into the phone. (Why did I call PC instead of dialing 911? I’m still not sure.)
I resume my walk, comforted by the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. My thoughts take a strange turn at this point. I start to feel sorry for Mr. Flasher. I begin to wonder why he has to express his sexuality by exposing his genitals to non-consenting strangers.
He had a nice, well-shaped cock, I think to myself....
And that’s the most disturbing part of the whole incident. Once he was gone, once I had done “the right thing” by reporting him, once I felt safe and in control again, I realized that I was turned on.
I am still disgusted by my reaction, and I still don't know what to make of it.