I am no better than the men who expose themselves to young women walking through a park. This is what I think as I write the first blog post and release it out into the world. At one time in my life I would have sex in public places. I enjoyed the thrill of being caught, A flash of breast perhaps, a glimpse of thigh. The possibility of someone watching only increased the pleasure I felt from that heady mix of sex and terror.
Now I write about sex. I expose my genitals to the world, I press myself against the one way glass of the Internet and imagine that people are watching me.
I do it because of Christopher. For 50 days he has been writing a short story every night and presenting it to the world, posting it on the Internet under the title ‘Furious Horses’. I became furiously jealous of his discipline. I read the posts every evening, and I watched him working every day. His quiet dignity. His underrated charm.
The Furious Horses posts began awkwardly, self conscious nods to television shows or genre pieces. There were a lot of stories about war. Despite the erratic quality he was solid and true to his word and he posted every day without fail. The posts got better. Some of them edged towards beautiful. Sometimes I wept after reading them. Sometimes I raged.
I began my own blog. Furious Vaginas I called it. A true story about my sexual experiences every day. Nothing would be secret, nothing sacred. I described my anatomy in detail. I stripped myself naked and stood in front of the world and found that I was excited by the process. I refused to romanticise the sex. It is visceral. It is all smells and tastes and the ugliness of flesh too long hidden from the light of day. I relived every one of my adventures. I detailed them in ways that would make an audience uncomfortable.
What is the difference between me, hiding in my room at night, cradling a glass of scotch and opening myself more completely, evening after evening, and the bleary-breathed miscreant letting his pants fall open beside a young girl on the train, the pathetic worm of flesh peeping out into the cold night air?
Katherine sips at her coffee and races me for the last bite of the cake.
“Your blog posts make me sad,” she tells me. “Sometimes I read them and I just want to hug you.”
It suddenly worries me. I wonder if I have given more of myself than intended.
I spend the evening writing posts that are all about anal penetration, oral sex, the mechanics of it, the wet sounds of cunnilingus, the taste of my cunt on a lover’s lips. I am careful not to speak of love or loss or longing. The more extreme the act, the less likely that I will be visible.
The man in his long black coat is careful not to reveal anything of himself, even as his fat little finger of a penis strains towards the terrified young girl. Exposing everything. Exposing nothing. Straining upward like a talisman of invisibility.