As an existentialist, I believe that the revealing of my private escapades and fantasies is very much like an exhibitionist revealing the parts of themselves that society has deemed…uh, inappropriate.  Instead of exposing my flesh for my own excitement, I expose my readers to my thoughts and fantasies.  I tickle the tongue of titillation and stroke the senses with descriptions and evoke self-created images that recall your experiences, but which are framed within mine.  I am painting the picture, but you are choosing the colors; I am teasing you out of the hallway of your own mind and tempting you to step inside and take a peek into the room where I exist.   Would you say that is accurate?

For example, picture a strikingly beautiful woman.  She turns heads wherever she goes; not because she is extraordinarily, physically perfect but because she carries herself with a sense of confidence and style.  Now picture this same sophisticated creature at a bistro, sitting down near enough for you to smell her perfume and see the naked sleekness of her legs.  You can almost imagine what that clean, polished skin must feel like if you were lightly stroking its bare smoothness with your fingertips.  Now imagine that she is wearing a very low-cut, form-fitting red sweater.  You run your eyes over her, you notice her shapeliness and the way that she sits with her back straight, her bare legs crossed, revealing a nice glimpse of her knees as they peek out beneath her tailored skirt.  You imagine her sitting there wearing a red bra and panties underneath; you are fairly certain that  she has noticed you and your eyes lingered upon one another for a second longer than is normally polite.  You feel your heart begin to race as she looks your way and holds you spellbound with her uninhibited gaze.  Without saying a word, she rises from the table next to yours and gives a glance to the dark corner where the powder room is located and then looks back at you.  She begins to walk away, her hips moving with a confident stride and you know that she knows you are watching.  She stops for a moment and looks over her shoulder; catching your eye,  you are aware that she wants you to follow her…you stand and instinctively lock onto the scent of her perfume, floating within its magnetizing pull.  You know what is about to happen and you can almost see her nakedness underneath and feel the wetness in her secret places…

To be continued…