I'm a fantasizing exhibitionist. Nothing excites me more than the thought of showing off my naked body in public places. I often daydream about parading around in the buff downtown during lunch hour or strolling nude through the mall on a Friday night, my fully exposed cock and balls swaying shamelessly to and fro as I sashay my naked, overweight, middle-aged ass past hundreds of bemused, if not shocked, spectators.
Unfortunately, such behavior is against the law. The last thing I want to do is get arrested and jailed, maybe imprisoned, for indecent exposure and then be labeled a sex offender for the rest of my life. So, my forays into outright exhibitionism have been limited to such tame acts as sunbathing at a nude beach, walking naked around a golf course after midnight, and hiking in the nude on a secluded fire road in the nearby mountains.
There was one time, however, when I did work up the nerve to go naked in public. Every year, for seven hours on a Sunday afternoon in late September, city officials in San Francisco, California, close off several blocks in the downtown business district and turn it over to the city's alternative lifestyles community for an open-air festival. After casually perusing the group's website, I concluded that the gala is just an excuse to wander around in public with one's genitalia in full view, without fear of reprisal by local law enforcement authorities. If so, it would be the perfect opportunity for me to prance around naked in broad daylight before a crowd of appreciative onlookers, and so I made plans to attend the Folsom Street Fair.
When the day of the shindig dawned, I was getting ready in a hotel room a few blocks from the entrance to the fair. The picture galleries on the website suggested that the event is one big X-rated costume party, so I decided to wear a costume, too. Mine consisted primarily of a flimsy, see-through G-string. The pink mesh pouch approximated an equilateral triangle. It measured 4-1/2 inches, unstretched, along each side and was barely large enough to hold my flaccid cock and balls. The 1/4-inch pink elastic straps were edged with lace. The waistband was attached to the pouch by two shiny, 3/4-inch-diameter metal rings while the string was sewn to the bottom of the pouch and attached to the waistband by a simple fabric loop. A thin seam running from the bottom of the pouch stopped halfway up the front so as to offer the casual observer an unobstructed view of my circumcised penis. Other than the G-string, I wore a pair of gray calf-length socks with black stripes, a pair of black sneakers with white trim and orange laces, and a San Francisco Giants baseball cap, black with an orange "SF" on the front.
I admired myself in the mirror, being particularly delighted by the way my penis, although completely covered up, was also completely exposed to view. I'm naked but I'm not! I thought excitedly. Reluctantly, I tore my eyes away from the image in the mirror, donned a worn trench coat and headed off for the fair. Ten minutes later, I arrived at the clothing check area and handed over the coat. Soon I was strolling up Folsom Street in all my virtual naked glory.
At that point I realized that I had failed to understand the true nature of the Folsom Street Fair. I had pictured it as some sort of sprawling, open-air paean to exhibitionism, and it certainly was that. But it was also a whole lot more, as the evidence milling about before my astonished gaze so readily testified.
Everywhere I looked I saw people wearing leather, some a lot of it and others hardly any at all. A great deal of it was fetish wear, like harnesses with metal rings around the nipples, pants with cutouts for the genitals or buttocks, bras with cutouts for the breasts, crotchless panties, cock sleeves, dog collars, studded bracelets and necklaces, hoods, and hats of every shape and size. Those fairgoers not wearing leather were bedecked in a dizzying array of fanciful get-ups that included exotic masks, elaborate headpieces, boas, feathers, and lingerie. Some were wearing nothing but body paint, and a few were wearing nothing at all.
And then I noticed the body art. These folks weren't just sporting tattoos on the biceps or forearms like sailors do, oh no. They were festooned from head to toe with what can only be described as works of art, given the vast array of rich colors and ingenious designs displayed before me. More than once I saw a shaved head or a face covered with tattoos, and it was not unusual to see people whose chests, backs, shoulders, arms and legs were tattooed in toto.
I also saw something I had not expected at all, and that was a plethora of body piercings. It was nothing to see folks with pierced nipples, noses, eyelids and lips, not to mention ears and belly buttons. And what can I say about the pierced genitalia? The very sight of them, especially the cocks, made me shudder and look the other way.
How queer this all is, I thought, and then I realized that a great many of the revelers seemed to be either gay or lesbian. Men kissing men and women kissing women appeared to be the order of the day. I even witnessed men in pairs jerking each other off, and as one would ejaculate his place would be taken by another.
But the most shocking thing of all was the pain and degradation that infused the fair. Queer is one thing, but these folks were also into BDSM. Everywhere I looked people, many of them bound and gagged, were being whipped, mostly on the back and buttocks but sometimes on the breasts and genitals. Masters dragged their slaves about by means of a collar and chain, and many slaves sported butt plugs, cock restraints or chastity gear. I saw one lesbian couple where the slave had large vibrating dildos shoved up her cunt and ass, and her master was inviting passersby to "stimulate" her by means of remote controls. The slave's screams, a mix of agony and ecstasy, provided the crowd with much gaiety.
