I originally thought it was Jack who was the exhibitionist in our relationship.
It was him who pushed to go on the vacations that would steadily expand our sex life — first the nude beaches, then the swinger resorts, until he finally got me to perform in front of others, culminating but not quelling his desires. It’s his recurring vocalization of this kink that he speaks aloud every so often as he cums in me: “You are so good at this; I want to show you off” or “I want everyone to see what you can do.”
And yet I was the one who found myself empowered as I played nude pool volleyball and learned to finger myself at a tantric sex workshop. Was that empowerment actually arousal? Jack, smirking, likes to point out that we have some of our greatest sex sessions following activities like those, whether they be overtly sexual or quite tame in nature. Perhaps I did like showing myself off, too.
For years, I had cast myself as shy, when in reality it’s actually that I just prefer to have alone time to recharge; I’m a classic introvert, but I’m not timid. I’m no stranger to public speaking; my job as a school librarian frequently finds me delivering lessons to classrooms and sometimes even auditoriums filled with high school students and staff. My cousins and friends often recruit me to give readings at their weddings, and Jack isn’t the only one who marvels at the ease in which I can stand up in front of a crowd and read aloud.
I’m often quiet in groups not because I am afraid to speak, but rather because I’m listening. I gather information and process my thoughts, unwilling to share until I feel like I actually have something to say. I don’t blither and I don’t enjoy small talk. I need my conversations to have substance and depth. Perhaps that’s why I prefer the written word.
I’ll admit that I did once feel quite self conscious about my looks, but I chalk that up to immaturity and a lack of self awareness. Diving deep into wellness — both physical and emotional — has changed my entire vision of myself.
My weight was all over the place for the eleven years that I grew, birthed, and breastfed my four children, but for the past several years it’s held steady and slim around 115 pounds. It’s a healthy weight for my five foot frame, and knowing that I scrutinize my food for optimum health benefits without being too obsessive gives me confidence. Fuck sugar and let’s talk plant-based; what’s your favorite supplement? I’ve traded running sprints on a treadmill for walks outside with my dogs while listening to something inspirational, and that includes deep conversations with my Jack. Yoga helps, too; I am kinder to my body than ever and it repays the favor to my emotions and ego.
Turning forty has been exponentially flattering for me. I get told often that I look like I’m in my twenties and that I haven’t changed since college. The more I get these compliments, the more I’m beginning to take them to heart. It seems that my daily use of sunscreen is paying off, though I don’t ever plan to dye my hair once the grays take over my brown locks.
The best part of being middle aged is that I am learning to give zero fucks of what others think of me. It’s nice to know that people find me attractive and that builds my self confidence, yes, but I’m not going to be youngish and pretty forever. I’m just trying to enjoy looking good while it lasts.
I want my confidence to come from a healthy philosophy on life, so that’s where I’m cashing my chips. I read constantly, always making sure that a self-help book is in the current rotation. My daily writing practice is like a mental workout that strengthens my ideals. I find myself being more deliberate in my relationships and more purposeful in my actions.
I’ve become more confident in my sexuality, too. We opened up our relationship in large part because I wanted to explore the current of bisexuality that has been running through my veins as long as I can remember. I suppressed it for years, at first ashamed and then later feeling that it was no longer an issue, marriage locking me into sex with a man until death do us part.
Discovering that people intentionally and ethically have sex with people outside their marriage changed all that, and after spending some quality time with several women in the past few years, I now feel confident identifying as bisexual. In fact, finding my correct label has been downright empowering.
Having sex with other people, especially in foursome situations, found us another label, too: “kinky.” Time and again, we’ll end a session with new friends only to be told that we’re further along that spectrum than most, and we’ve never even broken out the gag ball with anyone other than each other, so…they haven’t seen the half of it.
It’s true; I’ve always been into BDSM, though it took me time to label that desire, too, and even longer to explain to Jack just what I was wanting. He happily obliged, and over the years we’ve started to dive into exploring that realm of sexual offerings. We were so focused on BDSM props and toys that for years, however, we overlooked the tool that gets me there every time: my mind. Well, his too, but this post is about my perspective.
I’m a submissive through and through. When we first started intentionally practicing BDSM play together, Jack and I focused on making me submissive with bondage, later venturing into props like collars and crops. As of late, though, our sex play has shifted into a mindset that doesn’t require any additional purchases.
We are intentional about our roles during sex. When we come upstairs to our bedroom after saying goodnight to our kids, we’ll dick around for a bit. We get our clothes ready for the next day, maybe take a hit of weed, put away some laundry, brush our teeth and perhaps even rinse off in the shower. I’ll put on some music and adjust the lighting. I might even dance a little for Jack, a combination of yoga poses to stretch things out and some erotic stripper-type moves. We might make out a little, fondle each other a touch.
It’s never long before Jack will get impatient and tell me that he wants me to get started, meaning he wants me to turn the switch to DTF. I like to leave the room to pee one last time, and when I return I’ll say the words that let him know I’m his. “I’m your sub now.” Sometimes the words aren’t even needed; I can give him a Look that says it all.
He’s dominant in ways that don’t require me to be tied up to accept his power over me sexually. Jack has become an expert mindfucker, cultivating the appropriate actions to flip my switch from suburban lady to sexual submissive.
I find that I can easily compartmentalize my mindspace when I’m pinned down on the bed, told how to pose, or slapped in the face with his dick. I used to avoid situations like these, thinking this was “dirty,” degrading. Now, that’s precisely why I enjoy it. I’m finding that I like my boundaries pushed.
The current BDSM handbook that we’re reading says that this is good for me. It helps me sort out my suppressed emotions, notably shame, that impede my development as a human.
Sure, maybe. I just know that I get so fucking wet when he treats me like his sex doll, when he grabs my face, his thumb shoved in my mouth on top of my tongue, directing me where he wants me. My arousal grows as he thrusts deep into my mouth, his hand holding the back of my head to support my neck, and I recall how well he treats me outside of the bedroom, too.
This perfect combination of rough and loving reminds me that I’m his, his little slut, his to do with as he pleases. I relinquish all control to him. It pleases me to please him, so I listen and intuit what he wants. He wants me to enjoy him, especially his body, and so I free myself from the scoffs of polite society and find deep pleasure in making eye contact with him while he rubs his smooth dick on my face. I know how I must look, like a nasty little whore, as I moan and squirm underneath him, begging. It does it for both of us.
It’s precisely this mindset that frees me from worrying about what others think, myself included, when Jack wants to have sex in front of other people. I’m not shy, as I already said, but I’m still learning to enjoy being the center of attention. I lecture or do readings because it’s part of my job; demanding the focus of others for my personal pleasure is a different story. Jack, however, is helping me to change that game. And why not? Life is short. I might as well be proud of my sexual prowess and show it off while my limbs are still lithe.
We spent a week in Mexico this summer, a split stay between two swinger resorts both owned by Desire, first Pearl and then Riveria Maya, “RM.” Since we’re involved with plenty of people at home, we decided that this trip’s focus would be on erotic experiences with each other, namely spending time basking nude in the sun and having sex in the open, in front of others. I’d already broken the ice on public sex during both of our past two trips to Hedonism in Jamaica, where we frequented the playroom and dabbled on the beach.
Desire RM has a playroom, but sex is also allowed on the rooftop deck situated above a block of rooms, overlooking the Gulf, only accessible up three flights of steep stairs. It contains a pool-sized hot tub with a swim-up bar. Seven or so canopied beds flank the other side of the deck, with a sitting area overlooking the entire scene. I was happy to learn that there were extra towels readily available, and bathrooms up there, too. Middle aged lady in the house, people.
This area opens up to guests every day around 4pm, perfect timing for sex before dinner, and stays open until the wee hours of the night. Jack and I spent our afternoons at RM heading up there shortly after its opening each day, eager for daytime sex, a treat for us as working parents. We were also eager to show off, I suppose.
I could feel my mindset shifting after I used the bathroom and laid down on our chosen bed for the session ahead. I was his submissive now; Jack wanted to fuck me in front of the dozens of people that milled about on the deck, in the hot tub, at the bar, laying on the other beds, sitting on that couch. I wanted to please him. In this way, it was easy for me to embrace exhibitionsim.
I focused on Jack as he mounted his body on top of mine, kindly shielding me in the early stages of our coitus from the eyes of onlookers. I looked him in the eye, consenting and releasing control, allowing him to pin my arms above my head as he bit my nipples, sending waves of pleasure to my pussy. I closed my eyes when he brought his attention downwards, inserting fingers inside me or placing his mouth on my mons. I focused my mind on being his, on existing in that moment for his pleasure first and foremost. He wanted me to be seen; he wanted others to see how he could arouse me. I relaxed into the sensations, and into that satisfying spot in my mind.
I knew that Jack wanted everyone to see me cum, not just once but dozens of times in multiple ways. From fingering, from cunnilingus, from teasing my nipples, and finally from being fucked, in several positions.
I did as I was told, as I knew he wanted. I squirted, I moaned, I let myself open my eyes and see the sky above me, the couple laying on their side two beds over, staring at us while they stroked each other.
When Jack climbed on top of me to send me over the edge with my most ethereal type of orgasm, achieved most often in the missionary position with his body pressing hard against mine, I let my legs flail into the air, shaking as I spasmed. I was in too deep to shy away from climbing on top of him in return, riding him like a cowgirl.
When we finished, I smiled at the accolades from our audience. “That was hot,” several people came up to us afterwards saying. We found ourselves making friends with our onlookers, people who were quick to compliment and eager to connect, without expectations.
They appreciated not only the live porn, but also our openness. Watching us have sex, I think people could see us for who we are. We’re real, confident in our skin, and clearly in love. I found myself happy to engage in conversation with people who recognized this in us, a strange filter for vacation friends found through the act of exhibitionism.
Plus, I’m a recovering perfectionist. I like to be told that I’m doing a good job, and on that vacation, I felt like I’d delivered a good performance. Jack’s compliments mattered most, and he spent the better part of our trip raving about how well I’d done; I had been a good little submissive. We returned to the deck each afternoon and again late at night, our arousal continually fueled by an audience and the open air.
Understanding how submitting frees me sexually helps to liberate me in real life. I sense what I can control, and what I can’t, and how to accept life as it happens. I grow more confident in who I am, both as a sub on display, being fucked in public, and in the woman who blushes but accepts compliments on a job well done. I recognize the sex goddess in me while I concurrently recognize my strengths and limitations as a wife, mother, friend, librarian, and run-of-the-mill, raw human. The satisfaction that we gain from experimenting with sexual scenarios shapes us, forcing us to grow.
It may be Jack who initiated the exhibitionism in our sex life, but I came to embrace it, too. Only Fans, sign me up!
Just kidding.
Maybe.