I spend the rest of the evening in my room and, uncharacteristically for me, I keep the door closed. I don't want to admit that I was rattled, but that's basically the gist of it. The thing is, I feel like I shouldn't be bothered by what transpired. After all, hasn't it been my goal to get to the point where my roommate accepts that I walk around the apartment in my underwear so I don't have to sweat out the summer heat and humidity in soaked, sticky clothes? So why, when Mitch finally engages me in a "normal" roommate interaction while I'm wearing nothing but a thong, do I freak out?
I don't think this through carefully in the moment. I'm just glad to have some space and privacy after the encounter. If I had, I might have gotten a premonition of what's coming. But I don't. And, looking back, I'm almost glad that I didn't. It certainly made the story more interesting.
The next day is Saturday. I wake up slowly, rolling out of bed at around 9. Mitch sleeps in even longer, typically, so I'm not surprised to find the apartment quiet and Mitch's door closed. I take a shower to cool off and, back in my room, contemplate what to wear. Part of me is still scared from yesterday. Maybe I'm actually just as scared of being seen naked as Mitch is (in my imagination, at least) uncomfortable at seeing me naked. Maybe I've taken this experiment too far, and now's the perfect time to put some clothes on like a normal person.
But you can't, the academic voice cries out. You've established not wearing clothes as the norm. If you suddenly start covering up it will seem weird!
I ponder this a moment. Am I locked into wearing nothing but a thong while at the apartment for the foreseeable future? At least until I get a natural excuse to walk back my exhibitionism, like cooler temperatures? If so, I'm gonna be naked for a long time--cool weather doesn't usually hit New York City until October. That's three months away.
Body shame quails at the prospect of being so exposed for so long. Even the exhibitionist pauses a moment to consider that one. I mean, it's one thing to experience the thrill of unexpected, momentary exposure; it's another to be exposed for months at a time.
Maybe I could slowly start wearing more 'substantial' underwear, the rationalist offers. Put on one of our skimpiest briefs instead of a thong, then move to boxer briefs from there...
It sounds reasonable. And part of me really would like to cover my ass, at least. Maybe that's the line for me, I think to myself. Maybe the torso and legs are fair game, but a bare ass just feels too... I don't know, sensual? Or maybe just too vulnerable? In any case, the thought of having my ass freely scrutinized for extended periods again by my roommate made something churn in my stomach. In a tantalizing, do I dare sort of way, but churn nonetheless.
But you can't afford to back down now! the academic insists. That will seem like you're caving, and it will prove to our roommate that this was an experiment all along! You can wear something less revealing later, but today you have to go right back out there in a thong.
This makes sense, and the exhibitionist is all for it. I stand there for a moment in indecision, naked and freshly towel-dry. Then I grab another thong and step into it. The moment I feel the strap slide snugly up in between my ass cheeks I feel a surge of the vulnerability I felt yesterday in the kitchen. I feel so vulnerable, knowing that nothing back there is covered. It doesn't help that I can feel the strap pressing up against my ass hole. I know that Mitch won't know this, but being seen by him without anything on while feeling this makes the whole thing that much more exposing. I sense an erection start to bloom in the thin pouch of fabric that is the only part of my body covered by anything.
Just great.
I heave a sigh, rally my courage, open my room door and stride out into the entryway. The ancient wood floors creak loudly in the hot morning stillness as I pad down the hall toward the kitchen. The dishes I hadn't finished last night when Mitch interrupted me are still there.
Good, I try to encourage myself. Coming right back here and finishing these is a great way to show I'm unfazed by yesterday. Nevermind that as soon as a lull in the conversation occurred yesterday I seized it and fled to my room like a rabbit darting through a hole in a net. Now that I think about it, Mitch may have noticed that I totally abandoned my dishes in the sink. I may not be putting on as convincing an act as I think.
Doing the dishes is almost a zen activity for me. It's soothing, repetitive, and I love the act of scrubbing something clean. It leaves the feeling of gentle productivity in its wake, and at times I forget that I'm standing at the sink utterly exposed, my back towards the door, my entire body naked but for a thin, black strap around my hips and the little "T" of fabric at the top of my ass. The occasional accidental flick of water or suds onto my stomach or thighs brings me back, however, that I'm basically naked.
I'm in one of those zen moments, working on a greasy pot I'd used to cook pasta for lunch yesterday when Mitch's voice behind me startles me, and I jump.
"Put your hands in the air and turn around."
Mitch's voice isn't loud, but the deadly, serious calm makes it sound as if he is. I'm about to turn around and say good morning to try and get the pleasantries out of the way, make everything seem normal, when what he has just said hits me. I pause.
What did he just say?
Confused and nervous, I turn my head to look at Mitch over my shoulder. What I see makes me flinch again.
He's holding a gun.
"It's just an airsoft gun," Mitch assures me when my gaze locks onto the sleek, black pistol in his hand. "But," he continues, "it's capable of firing up to 400 rounds a minute and it hurts like a bitch to get hit by one."
At this point I've set the pot down in the sink, I'm holding the scrub brush in my other hand, and I've backed up into the corner where the kitchen counter meets the window next to the sink. I'm staring at the gun, flicking my gaze up to Mitch's face, then back down to the gun. He's holding it in both hands like police in a cop show, and it's trained on me. Mitch's face is calm--rather blank, actually. Devoid of emotion. I have no idea what he's thinking, or where this is going.
"It hurts quite a bit through a shirt or jeans even," he continues. "But it leaves a welt like you wouldn't believe when it strikes bare skin." An ominous pause ensues. "Which is, like, all of you right now."
I let out a pent up breath that I try to pass off as a chuckle. "I didn't know you were into airsoft. That's cool." I'm hoping he just wants to show me his cool gear and give me a scare while he's at it. Or that I can bluff my way to that outcome, somehow.
"Drop the brush and put your hands behind your head." It's not a suggestion, nor does it betray the insecurity that inevitably accompanies screaming or yelling. It's an order, spoken with certainty of being obeyed.
"Whoooa!" I say, raising my hands in a sign of conflict-avoidance. I'm trying desperately to feign confidence in a situation quickly spiraling out of control. "Ok, I mean... what's going on?"
"Do you want to feel how it much it hurts to get hit on bare skin? It's not like I could miss."
"No! Geeze! What are you, crazy?!" I protest, bringing my arms down to cover my torso and turning my hips so that my junk isn't as directly exposed. I instinctively know to take the hit on the shoulder, arm, or thigh rather than the belly or the crotch.
