Exhibitionist Quotes

As some find picking on people a treasured entertainment, ‘recreational bullying’ has become their devious tool, to satisfy an exhibitionist urge to outdo themselves, by dredging up acerbic stories for score-settling and airing dirty laundry. ("On a doggy day")

The woman rolled her eyes. “DarkRiver males are damn possessive and complete exhibitionists during the mating dance.” Sascha ran through her dictionary of changeling terminology and could find no fit. “Mating dance?” Mercy whistled. Dorian winced. Tamsyn suddenly got interested in her dough. Clay and Vaughn mysteriously disappeared. Behind her, Lucas’s body was a hard wall of heat. “I think we need to discuss this upstairs.

God, what a ghastly enterprise to be in, though--and what an odd way to achieve success. I'm an exhibitionist who wants to hide, but is unsuccessful at hiding; therefore, somehow I succeed.

We tell ourselves stories in order to live. The princess is caged in the consulate. The man with the candy will lead the children into the sea. The naked woman on the ledge outside the window on the sixteenth floor is a victim of accidie, or the naked woman is an exhibitionist, and it would be 'interesting' to know which. We tell ourselves that it makes some difference whether the naked woman is about to commit a mortal sin or is about to register a political protest or is about to be, the Aristophanic view, snatched back to the human condition by the fireman in priest's clothing just visible in the window behind her, the one smiling at the telephoto lens. We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple choices. We live entirely... by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the 'ideas' with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria — which is our actual experience.

All right, Mortensen, last chance. Are you ready to make the switch from voyeur to exhibitionist?” He inclined his head toward me curiously. “Are we still talking about dancing?” “Well, that depends, I suppose. I heard someone once say that men dance the same way they have sex. So, if you want everyone here to think you’re the kind of guy who just sits around and—” He stood up. “Let’s dance.

Every writer, without exception, is a masochist, a sadist, a peeping Tom, an exhibitionist, a narcissist, an 'injustice collector' and a depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductivity.

...simply moderate giftedness has been made worthless by the printing press and radio and television and satellites and all that. A moderately gifted person who would have been a community treasure a thousand years ago has to give up, has to go into some other line of work, since modern communications put him or her into daily competition with nothing but world's champions.... A moderately gifted person has to keep his or her gifts all bottled up until, in a manner of speaking, he or she gets drunk at a wedding and tap-dances on the coffee table like Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers. We have a name for him or her. We call him or her an "exhibitionist." How do we reward such an exhibitionist? We say to him or her the next morning, "Wow! Were you ever drunk last night!

I am not an exhibitionist anymore. I don't need to show of my beautiful body to anyone. I'm sexy and I know it, and I don't give a shit if anyone else knows it.  

In a world ordered by sexual imbalance, pleasure in looking has been split between active/male and passive/female. The determining male gaze projects its phantasy on to the female form which is styled accordingly. In their traditional exhibitionist role women are simultaneously looked at and displayed, with their appearance coded for strong visual and erotic impact so that they can be said to connote to-be-looked-at-ness.

Women's liberation and empowerment are terms feminists started using to talk about casting off the limitations imposed upon women and demanding equality. We have perverted these words. The freedom to be sexually provocative or promiscuous is not enough freedom; it is not the only 'women's issue' worth paying attention to. And we are not even free in the sexual arena. We have simply adopted a new norm, a new role to play: lusty, busty exhibitionist. There are other choices. If we are really going to be sexually liberated, we need to make room for a range of options as wide as the variety of human desire. We need to allow ourselves the freedom to figure out what we internally want from sex instead of mimicking whatever popular culture holds up to us as sexy. That would be liberation.

We skipped over the part where we just accept and respect that some women like to seem exhibitionistic and lickerish, and decided instead that everyone who is sexually liberated ought to be imitating strippers and porn stars.

Appalling numbers of youth have been led into a cynical ultra-sophisticated attitude which regards drinking as a badge of social aptitude, which makes a fetish of sport and professes eroticism as a way of life. A perverted and insane pictorial art, lewd exhibitionistic dancing and jungle music form the spiritual norm of this sector of America's youth.

Nick was still looking at him sideways, but a flush began to appear on his cheeks. Kelly swallowed hard, growing warmer. “You remember that night?” “Yeah, I do.” “You . . . you were, um . . . impressive.” “I knew you were watching,” Nick murmured. “Exhibitionist.” “Voyeur.

Exhibitionists have no friends, no friends at all.

She pulled away from Eric's grasp, knelt before Brian and looked up at him. "Let me suck you off," she said. "Please.

I was obviously born to draw better than most people, just as the widow Berman and Paul Slazinger were obviously born to tell stories better than most people can. Other people are obviously born to sing and dance or explain the stars in the sky or do magic tricks or be great leaders or athletes, and so on. I think that could go back to the time when people had to live in small groups of relatives -- maybe fifty or a hundred people at the most. And evolution or God or whatever arranged things genetically to keep the little families going, to cheer them up, so that they could all have somebody to tell stories around the campfire at night, and somebody else to paint pictures on the walls of the caves, and somebody else who wasn't afraid of anything and so on. That's what I think. And of course a scheme like that doesn't make sense anymore, because simply moderate giftedness has been made worthless by the printing press and radio and television and satellites and all that. A moderately gifted person who would have been a community treasure a thousand years ago has to give up, has to go into some other line of work, since modern communications put him or her into daily competition with nothing but the world's champions. The entire planet can get along nicely now with maybe a dozen champion performers in each area of human giftedness. A moderately gifted person has to keep his or her gifts all bottled up until, in a manner of speaking, he or she gets drunk at a wedding and tapdances on the coffee table like Fred Astair or Ginger Rogers. We have a name for him or her. We call him or her an 'exhibitionist.' How do we reward such an exhibitionist? We say to him or her the next morning, 'Wow! Were you ever _drunk_ last night!

Ohmigod,” I moan, clutching my stomach. I’m sure I’m going to be sick. I’m going to become an exhibitionist vomiter. My heart is back to beating—racing, actually—as a new level beyond mortification slams into me. I sounded just like the actress in that awful video of Ben’s that Kacey made me watch over the summer. Literally. I accidently walked in on those weirdos watching it one night. Kacey took that as an opportunity to pin me down on the couch while Trent, Dan, and Ben howled with laughter at my flaming cheeks and horrified shrieks. My sister is the Antichrist. This is all her fault. Hers and Stayner’s. And those stupid Jell-O shooters.

There's the imperative to keep secrets, and the imperative to have them known. How do you know that you're a person, distinct from other people? By keeping certain things to yourself. You guard them inside you, because, if you don't, there's no distinction between inside and outside. Secrets are the way you know you even have an inside. A radical exhibitionist is a person who has forfeited his identity. But identity in a vacuum is also meaningless. Sooner or later, the inside of you needs a witness. Otherwise you're just a cow, a cat, a stone, a thing in the world, trapped in your thingness. To have an identity, you have to believe that other identities equally exist. You need closeness with other people. And how is closeness built? By sharing secrets. . . . Your identity exists at the intersection of these lines of trust.

I don't want to be looked at and grab attention, that's exhibitionism.. I would rather be seen more for my intelligence, for my elegance, for not being just another girl seeking attention. I don't want to catch someone's eyes because those kind of attention spans are short and easily shifted to the next exhibitionist, I would rather stay in the memory as someone who refused to be a performer yet made an impact.

When we image borders, we fail at imaging God.

you’re a writer when we (I) know what you truly are: a performer, an exhibitionist.

Tessa was sincere but shallow; she was loving but mercurial; she was an exhibitionist without enough confidence to be an actor. While Fiona displayed all the characteristics of elder children: stability, confidence, intellect in abundance, and that cold reserve with which to judge all the shortcomings of the world.

So what if sometimes Sam was an emotional exhibitionist, going up and down all the time? She could be a storm. But she could be a soft candle lighting up a dark room. So what if she made me a little crazy? All of it—​all her emotional stuff, her ever-changing moods and tones of voice—​it made her seem so incredibly alive.

Scientists became “moral exhibitionists” in the lecture hall as they demonized fellow scientists and urged their students to evaluate ideas not for their truth but for their consistency with progressive ideals such as racial and gender equality.14

It's not just the kind of work you do; I wouldn't care, if you were an exhibitionist who's being different as a stunt, as a lark, just to attract attention to himself. It's a smart racket, to oppose the crowd and amuse it and collect admission to the side show. If you did that, I wouldn't worry. But it's not that. You love your work. God help you, you love it! And that's the curse. That's the brand on your forehead for all of them to see. You love it, and they know it, and they know they have you. Do you ever look at the people in the street? Aren't you afraid of them? I am. They move past you and they wear hats and they carry bundles. But that's not the substance of them. The substance of them is hatred for any man who loves his work. That's the only kind they fear.

Since most sexual abuse begins well before puberty, preventive education, if it is to have any effect at all, should begin early in grade school. Ideally, information on sexual abuse should be integrated into a general curriculum of sex education. In those communities where the experiment has been tried, it has been shown conclusively that children can learn what they most need to know about sexual abuse, without becoming unduly frightened or developing generally negative sexual attitudes. In Minneapolis, Minnesota, for example, the Hennepin County Attorney's office developed an education program on sexual assault for elementary school children. The program was presented to all age groups in four different schools, some eight hundred children in all. The presentation opened with a performance by a children’s theater group, illustrating the difference between affectionate touching, and exploitative touching. The children’s responses to the skits indicated that they understood the distinction very well indeed. Following the presentation, about one child in six disclosed a sexual experience with an adult, ranging from an encounter with an exhibitionist to involvement in incest. Most of the children, both boys and girls, had not told anyone prior to the classroom discussion. In addition to basic information on sexual relations and sexual assault, children need to know that they have the right to their own bodily integity.

Like my maestro, Juan Ribero, she believed that photography and painting are not competing arts but basically different: the painter interpets reality, and the camera captures it. In the former everything is fiction, while the second is the sum of the real plus the sensibility of the photographer. Ribero never allowed me sentimental or exhibitionist tricks-none of this arranging objects or models to look like paintings. He was the enemy of artificial compostion; he did not let me manipulate negatives or prints, and in general he scorned effects of spots or diffuse lighting: he wanted the honest and simple image, although clear in the most minute details.

That's how it is: even in the throes of death, man is always on stage. And even 'the plainest' of them, the least exhibitionist, because it's not always the man himself who climbs on stage. If he doesn't do it, someone will put him there. That is his fate as a man.

Is it the part of the police department to harass me when this city is a flagrant vice capital of the civilized world?" Ignatius bellowed over the crowd in front of the store. "This city is famous for its gamblers, prostitutes, exhibitionists, anti-Christs, alcoholics, sodomites, drug addicts, fetishists, onanists, pornographers, frauds, jades, litterbugs, and lesbians, all of whom are only too well protected by graft. If you have a moment, I shall endeavor to discuss the crime problems with you, but don't make the mistake of bothering me.

Often, her mate is the child of a narcissist, already indoctrinated to regard exploitation and disregard as love. Others lured by the narcissistic aura are those in whom healthy childhood exhibitionism has been repressed. . . . If the parent puts the child to shame for showing off, the need for attention gets repressed into the unconscious. Repression means that the need is not satisfied and continues to press for expression in the adult without her being aware of it. The repressed adult may select an exhibitionistic mate to achieve vicarious satisfaction.

The magic here is not spectacular courage in one or two battles but the glamour of commitment to death at the peak of youth and beauty: the poignancy of the exhib-itionistic narcissism of youth determined once and for all on magnificent expenditure rather than slow wasting and remorseless physical deterioration.

I am many things, but an exhibitionist is not one of them.” He gestures at a recess down the hall that I’m starting to recognize as a ship door. “This is where our mess is. Come. You can eat and I can tell you all about how I won’t touch you without your permission.” “You keep adding that ‘your permission’ thing,” I point out. He glances down at me, and his eyes are warm, his smile inviting. “That is because, my sweet Fran, I plan on having your permission. Just not today.

You are always afraid that somebody may think you a fool. You are afraid that if others think you to be a fool, you will start suspecting it. If so many people think you a fool your self-confidence will be lost. And if everybody goes on repeating that you are a fool, sooner or later you will come to believe it. Only a wise man cannot be deceived, he can appear as a fool. Have you observed yourself? You are always trying to exhibit your wisdom, always in search of a victim to whom you can show your knowledge, just searching, hunting for somebody weaker than you – then you will jump in and you will show your wisdom. A wise man need not be an exhibitionist. Whatsoever is, is. He is not aware of it, he is not in any hurry to show it. If you want to find it, you will have to make efforts. If you have to know whether he is gentle or not, that is going to be your discovery.

He wasn’t an exhibitionist. He was a sadist, and the only thing better than causing someone physical pain was causing emotional discomfort.

In a threesome, there are always two exhibitionists and a voyeur.

I don't want to be looked at and grab attention, that's exhibitionism. I would rather be seen more for my intelligence, for my elegance, for not being just another girl seeking attention. I don't want to catch someone's eyes because those kind of attention spans are short and easily shifted to the next exhibitionist, I would rather stay in the memory as someone who refused to be a performer yet made an impact.

Introducing these people to our friends and family is, in a way, more heedlessly exhibitionistic than posting nude photos or sex tapes of ourselves online; it’s like letting everyone watch our uncensored dreams.

Think of this: Hundreds of people today are doing things that not a single one of the them would have dared to do at the beginning of the Seventies. We are now living in a truly new and different situation. This is not because the government has become more tolerant; it simply had to get used to the new situation. It has had to yield to continuing pressure from below, which means pressure from all those apparently suicidal or exhibitionistic civic acts.

There's the imperative to keep secrets, and the imperative to have them known. How do you know that you're a person, distinct from other people? By keeping certain things to yourself. You guard them inside you, because, if you don't, there's no distinction between inside and outside. Secrets are the way you know you even have an inside. A radical exhibitionist is a person who has forfeited his identity. But identity in a vacuum is also meaningless. Sooner or later, the inside of you needs a witness. Otherwise you're just a cow, a cat, a stone, a thing in the world, trapped in your thingness. To have an identity, you have to believe that other identities equally exist. You need closeness with other people. And how is closeness built? By sharing secrets. Colleen knows what you secretly think of Willow. You know what Colleen secretly thinks of Flor. Your identity exists at the intersection of these lines of trust.

Bands of Apollonian lightness and Dionysian darkness fill my inscrutable chamber. Apollo represents harmony, progress, clarity, and logic, whereas Dionysus represents disorder, intoxication, emotion, and ecstasy. Manchurian opposites of good and evil tug at me. My lifelong state of confusion manufactured a gray fog that engulfs me. Multilayers of misgiving line my impenetrable soul. Secret tunnels, coagulation’s of light and dense waves of incomprehensible silence, wend through me. I am constantly surprised to see slivers of myself. At times, I am utterly devoid of ambition. At other times, radical surges of energy convulse within me. Guilt, pleasure, anger, joy, impulsivity, watchfulness, sensual longings, and exhibitionist tendencies tumble within.

But now, when the shameless fools and the advocates of Communism try to hold pacifist meetings — why, my friends, in the past five months, since January first, no less than seventy-six such exhibitionistic orgies have been raided by their fellow students,

I just brought myself to orgasm to the soundtrack of the exhibitionists getting it on. I’m a pervert. Kelly would be so proud. As great as my impromptu little porno was, it did contain one glaring flaw: if a man ever slapped me on the ass, I’d whirl around and punch him in the face.

Despite its dislike of fame and its evasiveness, the Chronicler's virtual persona was loved on the psychic network. The Champions Alter-ego was an exhibitionist personality who fearlessly put its wits to the test against rather bizarre creatures, calling themselves human, in a form of combat based on interview with the contestants.

The general conception that all actors are born exhibitionists is far from the truth. They are quite the opposite. They are shy, frightened people in hiding from themselves- people who have found a way of concealing their secret by footlights, make up and the parts they play. Their own self rejection is what has made most of them actors.

Exchanging Hats Unfunny uncles who insist in trying on a lady's hat, --oh, even if the joke falls flat, we share your slight transvestite twist in spite of our embarrassment. Costume and custom are complex. The headgear of the other sex inspires us to experiment. Anandrous aunts, who, at the beach with paper plates upon your laps, keep putting on the yachtsmen's caps with exhibitionistic screech, the visors hanging o'er the ear so that the golden anchors drag, --the tides of fashion never lag. Such caps may not be worn next year. Or you who don the paper plate itself, and put some grapes upon it, or sport the Indian's feather bonnet, --perversities may aggravate the natural madness of the hatter. And if the opera hats collapse and crowns grow draughty, then, perhaps, he thinks what might a miter matter? Unfunny uncle, you who wore a hat too big, or one too many, tell us, can't you, are there any stars inside your black fedora? Aunt exemplary and slim, with avernal eyes, we wonder what slow changes they see under their vast, shady, turned-down brim.

Beauty, brains and a brazen attitude, she was everything he'd never realized he was looking for until he'd found her.

Jesus helps us to see when people break the second and third commandments.

BEAUTY. The visionary authority of Childs’s work resides, in part, in its lack of rhetoric. Her strict avoidance of cliché, and of anything that would make the work disjunctive, fragmented. The refusal of humor, self-mockery, flirtation with the audience, cult of personality. The distaste for the exhibitionistic: movement calling attention to itself, isolatable “effects.” Beauty as, first of all, an art of refusal.

As he teased her lips with his tongue, she palmed his erection. “Want to do something about this while we wait for the cleanup crew to arrive?” She sure as hell did. She didn’t know if it was the adrenaline still coursing through her veins or just knowing that he wanted her, but she was already wet for him, her body tingling and desperate for his touch. “That depends ,” he whispered against her lips, leaning into her. “How do you feel about making love in front of an audience?” “That’s not my thing either,” she admitted. She had never been an exhibitionist. A throat cleared. “Then you might want to step away from my brother,” Richart drawled behind them, “so I won’t get an eyeful.” Krysta yanked her hand away so fast you’d think Étienne’s crotch had caught fire. Spinning around, she found Richart standing there with one eyebrow raised.

One modern academic lists Rousseau’s shortcomings as follows: he was a ‘masochist, exhibitionist, neurasthenic, hypochondriac, onanist, latent homosexual afflicted by the typical urge for repeated displacements, incapable of normal or parental affection, incipient paranoiac, narcissistic introvert rendered unsocial by his illness, filled with guilt feelings, pathologically timid, a kleptomaniac, infantilist, irritable and miserly’.

Keep your ideals with you and seek help from them. These are useless for me. Your shoe do not fit mine. I am done with the exhibitionist of yours. You are professing of something that is even worthless for you. You are so insecure and coward to accept the truth. Dnt make me as miserable as you are. Let me explore myself. Let me unlearn the lie this world has given to me . Let me just undo al the data which is being engraved on my mind. Let me be a child who is just born.

I have to admit, that part of me is a sexual exhibisionist." She said, "I don't hesitate to show my real self, completely naked, without pretense, without shame. I enjoy being myself. There is nothing wrong with people when they share in enjoying what I feel.

Coriolanus thought it was quite a display for Arachne, disproportionate to both her life and death, the latter of which could have been avoided if she'd refrained from being such an exhibitionist. So many people had died heroically in the war, with so little recognition, that it grated on him. He was relieved that he was singing instead of having to praise her talents, which, if memory served, were limited to being loud enough to fill the school auditorium without a mic and the ability to balance a spoon on her nose.

Marco, her first boyfriend in LA, called her an exhibitionist, said she should get a job in a strip club if she liked it that much, it paid better. She did like it, but it wasn't what people thought - a sex job. It was the opposite - a statement, personal, frank, without intention to please. Here I am. This is me. My fact. I can do this, can you? Callie with her stretch marks, Frank, who was almost a dwarf. Each body held some truth the baby artists needed to see. Even that of a seventeen-year-old dropout from Bakersfield.

But the high play of witty conversation can degenerate into exhibitionistic banter if it is not tempered by an opposite and perhaps even more important virtue, which is the capacity to hold one's peace, to wait to pause for thought, to consent to shared silence. Words need space. Witty, weighty, well-chosen words need more space than others to be received rightly, reckoned with, and responded to. That space, the silence between words, is as important a part of good conversation as rests are a part of a pleasing, coherent musical line.

My theory is that identity consists of two contradictory imperatives. There's the imperative to keep secrets, and the imperative to have them known. How do you know that you're a person, distinct from other people? By keeping certain things to yourself. You guard them inside you, because, if you don't, there's no distinction between inside and outside. Secrets are the way to know you even have an inside. A radical exhibitionist is a person who has forfeited his identity. But identity in a vacuum is also meaningless. Sooner or later, the inside of you needs a witness. Otherwise you're just a cow, a cat, a stone, a thing in the world, trapped in your thingness.

How do you know that you're a person, distinct from other people? By keeping certain things to yourself. You guard them inside you, because, if you don't, there's no distinction between inside and outside. Secrets are the way you know you even have an inside. A radical exhibitionist is a person who has forfeited his identity. But identity in a vacuum is also meaningless. Sooner or later, the inside of you needs a witness. Otherwise you're just a cow, a cat, a stone, a thing in the world, trapped in your thingness. To have an identity, you have to believe that other identities equally exist. You need closeness with other people. And how is closeness built? By sharing secrets.

Some of these arrangements involve an exhibitionist Narcissist and a partner who is “in the closet.” The closet Narcissist is an unassuming type who has her feelers out for someone she can idealize. She needs to put the love object on a pedestal in order to hold herself together, because if her partner is wonderful and she can have him, then all the insecurities inside her will go away. In the Narcissist-closet Narcissist couple, it is actually the latter who is in control, feeding the grandiosity of the love object in order to inflate herself via osmosis. These relationships can be quite successful, as long as the idealizations and illusions can be sustained. But when unpleasant reality intrudes, love implodes.

And I've got good news for you! This gospel of clean and aggressive strength is spreading everywhere in this country among the finest type of youth. Why today, in 1936, there's less than 7 per cent of collegiate institutions that do not have military-training units under discipline as rigorous as the Nazis, and where once it was forced upon them by the authorities, now it is the strong young men and women who themselves demand the right to be trained in warlike virtues and skill—for, mark you, the girls, with their instruction in nursing and the manufacture of gas masks and the like, are becoming every whit as zealous as their brothers. And all the really thinking type of professors are right with 'em! "Why, here, as recently as three years ago, a sickeningly big percentage of students were blatant pacifists, wanting to knife their own native land in the dark. But now, when the shameless fools and the advocates of Communism try to hold pacifist meetings—why, my friends, in the past five months, since January first, no less than seventy-six such exhibitionistic orgies have been raided by their fellow students, and no less than fifty-nine disloyal Red students have received their just deserts by being beaten up so severely that never again will they raise in this free country the bloodstained banner of anarchism! That, my friends, is NEWS!

In Jesus, God deals with our bastardisations. The incarnation was the Creator's means of giving us a multisensory, no-holds-barred, tangible experience of the divine nature. God condescended to the limits of our means of knowing reality and truth. We struggle to put our flesh into words, but God's word--God's self-expression--became flesh and dwelled with us, for us. This is nothing short of an act of love, an act of revelation, and act of transferring the fullness of one's self into a vulnerable form so that it can be felt by another. God chooses to step into the range of our grasp, allowing our awareness of the divine to move from abstract imagination to relational discovery. Such a step certainly doesn't remove the mystery of who or what God is. Questions remain. But it does allow us to enter into that mystery with the whole of our beings. We don't have to stop being human to embrace the mystery of God. By God's invitation, we can poke our doubting and enquiring digits into the opened side of the incomprehensible made manifest. As we do so, we can know what God is like; God is like Jesus, and, to use Pastor Brian Zahnd's oft-quoted summary, God has *always* been like Jesus.

The entire planet can get along nicely now with maybe a dozen champion performers in each area of human giftedness. A moderately gifted person has to keep his or her gifts all bottled up until, in a manner of speaking, he or she gets drunk at a wedding and tap-dances on the coffee table like Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers. We have a name for him or her. We call him or her an exhibitionist.             How do we reward such an exhibitionist? We say to him or her the next morning, Wow! Were you ever drunk last night!

That’s why I’m saying it! Because that’s not what I did! ... Look, Roark, there’s one thing about you, the thing I’m afraid of. It’s not just the kind of work you do; I wouldn’t care, if you were an exhibitionist who’s being different as a stunt, as a lark, just to attract attention to himself. It’s a smart racket, to oppose the crowd and amuse it and collect admission to the side show. If you did that, I wouldn’t worry. But it’s not that. You love your work. God help you, you love it! And that’s the curse. That’s the brand on your forehead for all of them to see. You love it, and they know it, and they know they have you. Do you ever look at the people in the street? Aren’t you afraid of them? I am. They move past you and they wear hats and they carry bundles. But that’s not the substance of them. The substance of them is hatred for any man who loves his work. That’s the only kind they fear. I don’t know why. You’re opening yourself up, Roark, for each and every one of them.

No one’s exploits in the division had glowed more incandescently than those of Douglas MacArthur. He was that rarity, a courageous exhibitionist, a fearless showoff, a man who had done it all and wanted the world to know.

Theories of generational difference make sense if they are expressed as theories of environmental difference rather than of psychological difference. People, especially young people, will respond to incentives because they have much to gain and little to lose from experimentation. To understand why people are spending so much time and energy exploring new forms of connection, you have to overcome the fundamental attribution error and extend to other people the set of explanations that you use to describe your own behavior: you respond to new opportunities, and so does everybody else, and these changes feed on one another, amplifying some kinds of behavior and damping others. People in my generation and older often tut-tut about young people’s disclosing so much of their lives on social networks like Facebook, contrasting that behavior with our own relative virtue in that regard: “You exhibitionists! We didn’t behave like that when we were your age!” This comparison conveniently ignores the fact that we didn’t behave that way because no one offered us the opportunity (and from what I remember of my twenties, I think we would have happily behaved that way if we’d had the chance). The generational explanations of Napster’s success fall apart because of the fundamental attribution error. The recording industry made that error when it became convinced that young people were willing to share because their generation was morally inferior (a complaint with obvious conceptual appeal to the elders). This thesis never made sense. If young people had become generally lawless, we’d expect to see a rise not just in sharing music but also in shoplifting and other forms of theft.

Categories such as Category:Male reproductive system and Category:Penis show that Commons has a large quantity of images relating to human genitalia,” reads the site’s official guidelines on nudity, created in response to the near-​constant torrent of boners. “Commons does not need you to drop your pants and grab a camera.” The exhibitionists, however, seem to think otherwise.

stories

It felt beyond strange to be riding topless in broad daylight, but the exhibitionist inside her—inside every submissive—was deeply aroused.

louder

I like being an exhibitionist with you. Besides, you can't say we don't have the climate for it.” “I don't know, I'd say there's the potential for sunburn in truly terrible places.” “This is true,” Jay said gravely. “In all cases of uncontrollable lust, safety first. Seek shade, apply sunscreen, and only then can you fornicate wildly.

Technically, nothing was better than sex with Sean, but the burger had the edge right now because it wasn’t complicated. It tasted amazing and it didn’t screw up her life beyond her having to make a half-assed promise to herself to eat more salads to make up for it. Sex with Sean was screwing up her life. As promised, the orgasms were very real and very numerous, but there should have been fine print. By accepting the orgasms, she’d also agreed to accept a level of intense intimacy she didn’t think either of them had expected. With mind-blowing sex came the tender touches. The way he’d capture her gaze with his and she couldn’t look away. And he was a talker, always murmuring to her about how good she felt and how he never wanted it to stop. And there was the life-screwing up part—she never wanted him to stop, either. “You’re thinking about my magic penis again, aren’t you?” She almost choked on a fry. “No, I am not. And stop saying that.” “You started it.” He leaned across the table. “And, yes, you were. I see that flush at the hollow of your throat and the way you’re looking at me. You’re all hot and bothered, right here in the bar. I was right about you.” “I am not an exhibitionist,” she hissed. “Oh, shit.” She followed his gaze and saw that Kevin and Beth had just walked in and Kevin had spotted them. “Just be cool.” “Be cool?” She laughed. “We’re having lunch, not planning a bank robbery.

In her hurry, though, she’d forgotten to grab her pajamas, which was a dilemma. She could either go out and get them and return to the bathroom to change, or she could go out there and put them on. If Sean didn’t like it, he didn’t have to watch. After leaving the bathroom, she turned off the overhead light in the bedroom, but it didn’t do much good. The night was clear, the moon was bright, and she knew she was all too visible when she undid her jeans and shimmied them down over her hips. “What the hell are you doing?” “Changing into my pajamas.” “You always do that in the bathroom.” His voice was low and rough, but she noticed he didn’t look away. “I forgot them, and there’s no point in going back in there.” She kicked off the jeans and was going to pull on the shorts before changing shirts, but then she remembered his stupid answers to the stupid questions in that game and changed her mind. “The point is that you don’t do it in front of me.” “Oh, did you forget? Being watched turns me on.” And she pulled her T-shirt over her head. She had to bite down on a surprised yelp once she was free of it because suddenly Sean was standing in front of her, wearing nothing but blue boxer briefs and a scowl. “You said I had no imagination.” “And having no imagination is so much worse than your best friend’s family thinking you’re an exhibitionist.” “And we’re not ever going to talk about the other thing you said. Ever.” He was crowding her personal space, so she put her hands on his chest to push him back, but he caught her wrists. Standing there with her palms pressed against his naked skin, she could feel his heart beating at a quickened pace that matched her own and she knew she had two choices. Walk away or end up in bed with him. She leaned her body a little closer and splayed her fingers across his chest. “Which thing aren’t we talking about? The fast-food-joint bathroom or—” “Don’t push me too far, Emma. It’s been a long time for me.” “How long?” “Too damn long.” He lifted her hands from his chest, but didn’t let go of her wrists. “And I never even got to scope out the dating situation here before you showed up at my door with this half-assed scheme.” “And since we… You haven’t…” “The last thing I need is to get caught cheating on a woman I can’t tell anybody I’m not really in a relationship with.” His gaze dropped from her face to her lacy white bra and he sighed. “You’re killing me.” “Lying awake on the couch every night, wondering what it would be like to slide into bed with you has been killing me for two weeks.” “Yeah.” He let go of her wrists and slid his hands up the back of her neck and into her hair. “I’ve thought about that, too. A lot. Pretty much constantly, actually.

When you love someone, you have the ability not only to harm their body, but to cut their soul to pieces. And though those cuts may heal, they leave scars behind. With enough scars, you stop feeling anything at all. The skin’s too thick.

The bathroom door opened. He turned as Lisa stepped out. Leaving the light on, she pulled the door almost closed so a little light would illuminate the room for them. Taelon turned off the overhead light and crossed to the bed. Lisa faced him on the other side of it and fiddled with the edge of her towel. “My clothes are still wet.” “Mine are, too.” “I’m thinking there’s no way this towel is going to stay around me while I sleep.” “Do you wish to sleep without it?” he asked, willing his body not to respond to just the idea of it. “Um . . .” “I can sleep on the floor.” “Hell no. Not with those wounds. You’ll sleep in the bed with me. I’m just . . . not exactly an exhibitionist.” He hesitated. “I don’t think my translator is giving me an accurate definition of that word.” Her eyebrows rose. “You have a translator?” “Yes. All members of the Aldebarian Alliance do.” She studied him curiously. “Where is it?” He pointed to his head, just behind his ear. “Embedded in my brain.” “I’m surprised the doctors at the base didn’t remove it.” “Their scans failed to detect it because it isn’t metal and appears to be part of my skull when viewed with your more primitive scanning devices.” “That’s trippy.” “That word isn’t translating at all.” She tilted her head to one side. “What did it tell you an exhibitionist is?” “A street performer.” She laughed. “When I said I’m not an exhibitionist, I meant I’m not comfortable flaunting my naked body.” She glanced down and wrinkled her nose. “Especially when it looks like this.” “You’re shy?” “More self-conscious than shy,” she admitted. “I don’t know. I guess, despite my actions earlier, I just don’t want you to see me naked.” Surprise coursed through him. “You don’t want ME to see YOU naked?” Her brow furrowed. “Yeah.” Taelon shook his head. “Lisa, you’re beautiful.” When she started to speak, he held up a hand. “I’m not saying that to put you at ease. I think you’re lovely. So much so that I’ve honestly been having a hard time keeping myself from staring at you too long.” Her lips parted in surprise. “Really?” “Yes.” He motioned to the towel at his hips. “This doesn’t exactly hide my body’s response to you, so I’ve been trying to keep my focus from drifting lower than your pretty face. You’re beautiful, Lisa. If anyone should wish to hide his body, it’s me. I’m quite a bit thinner than I used to be.” Her eyes widened. “Seriously?” She motioned to his form. “You have all that muscle.” “I used to have more. And I’m covered with all these ghastly wounds and scars because I’m too weak to regenerate. I don’t know how you can stand to look at me or manage not to grimace when you touch me. So again, I will offer to sleep on the floor.” She stared at him, unspeaking. “I won’t be offended if you don’t wish to sleep with me,” he assured her. Assuming an exaggeratedly somber expression, he rested a hand over his heart and spoke in dejected tones. “I will just be deeply, deeply hurt.” Her lips twitched, then she laughed. “You are so freaking likable.” He smiled. “I feel the same about you.” “Okay then. We’re both adults. And neither one of us is physically up to engaging in anything amorous anyway, so—” “Well,” he said with a grin, “that isn’t precisely true.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Stop making me blush!” He laughed.

The settler-native relationship is a mass relationship. The settler pits brute force against the weight of numbers. He is an exhibitionist. His preoccupation with security makes him remind the native that there he alone is the master.

From short story Release: At a naturist resort in Cap d’Agde, kinky slave Zoe and her Master Javier play out an exhibitionistic, sadistic public scene in front of a crowd of voyeurs. A sexy couple approaches them to play, surging Zoe’s desire and adding an unexpected element. Can Zoe handle the torment and be a good slave, or will she disobey her Master?

Well, they’re all performers, aren’t they? All mild exhibitionists. They’re so busy putting themselves over that they haven’t time to think about anyone else. It’s not that they don’t like other people; they just never have a moment to consider them.

In an ironic twist, then, what many of us today think of as a statement of Theistic faith, would have been originally heard as the Atheistic treaty of its day. Imagine the uproar that Friedrich Nietzsche’s God is Dead, or Christopher Hitchens’ God is Not Great have spawned in modern times, and you’re close to the paradigm-smashing impact of Genesis in its own culture.

This is crucial to note; God, according to Genesis, is not at war with all that is made. Neither does God use war to bring order to all that is made. Order comes through God’s liberating and loving proclamation.

God’s work in creation is a similar affair, and if there’s an encouraging aside to take from this story so far (a lesson that recurs throughout the Bible), it’s that God is drawn to the broken and neglected things, and does the miraculous with them.

SEPTEMBER Tuesday Right off the bat, let’s clear something up: Why are YOU reading my journal? Are you some sort of weirdo who sneaks into kids’ rooms and goes through their personal stuff, like a nosey parent? A journal is private. Put this down right now and walk away. Oh, I see. You found this book online. Even though it’s supposed to be private, I guess I INVITED you to read it. That makes ME the weirdo, not you. I admit it. I’m an EXHIBITIONIST.* I actually want you to stick your nose into my personal stuff. So this really isn’t a journal at all. It’s more like a memoir. * Don’t be LAZY. If you don’t know what a word means, first try to figure it out by seeing how the word works in the sentence around it. If you can’t figure it out, look it up in a dictionary.

Hey, Batman.” He looked up at her, finding her grinning down at him. “Yes, dear?” “We suck at the stealth kiss.” “You think? We must have unresolved exhibitionist tendencies. Take off your shirt, and we’ll find out.” She sniffed and got off him, letting him sit up. “I’ll pass.” He climbed to his feet and helped her to hers. “Your loss. I would’ve taken off mine.

Our laws are no longer based on Judeo-Christian morality, but on Kinsey’s immoral “morality”: an adulterous, fornicating, aborting, pornography-addicted, masturbating, impotent, sadistic, masochistic, bisexual, homosexual, exhibitionist, voyeuristic, and child-sexual-abusive world.

My fiction is not autobiography. I am not an exhibitionist. I do not show myself. I am not asking for forgiveness. I do not want to confess. But I have used everything I know—my life—to show what I believe must be shown so that it can be faced. The imperative at the heart of my writing—what must be done—comes directly from my life. But I do not show my life directly, in full view; nor even look at it while others watch.

The entire planet can get along nicely now with maybe a dozen champion performers in each area of human giftedness. A moderately gifted person has to keep his or her gifts all bottled up until, in a manner of speaking, he or she gets drunk at a wedding and tap-dances on the coffee table like Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers. We have a name for him or her. We call him or her an “exhibitionist.” How do we reward such an exhibitionist? We say to him or her the next morning, “Wow! Were you ever drunk last night!” •

It’s in its own little area . . . secluded . . . steamy.” Ty began to smile, but he held his ground, shaking his head. “You kinky little exhibitionist, you.” “I’m just suggesting that a hot soak would feel really good for aching muscles.” “I

The holiday specifies that everyone recline during the meal. It is a symbolic gesture showing that Jews can eat with leisure because they have been freed from bondage.

January 2013 Andy’s Message   Hi Young, I’m home after two weeks in Tasmania. My rowing team was the runner-up at the Lindisfarne annual rowing competition. Since you were so forthright with your OBSS experiences, I’ll reciprocate with a tale of my own from the Philippines.☺               The Canadian GLBT rowing club had organised a fun excursion to Palawan Island back in 1977. This remote island was filled with an abundance of wildlife, forested mountains and beautiful pristine beaches.               It is rated by the National Geographic Traveller magazine as the best island destination in East and South-East Asia and ranked the thirteenth-best island in the world. In those days, this locale was vastly uninhabited, except by a handful of residents who were fishermen or local business owners.               We stayed in a series of huts, built above the ocean on stilts. These did not have shower or toilet facilities; lodgers had to wade through knee-deep waters or swim to shore to do their business. This place was a marvellous retreat for self-discovery and rejuvenation. I was glad I didn’t have to room with my travelling buddies and had a hut to myself.               I had a great time frolicking on the clear aquiline waters where virgin corals and unperturbed sea-life thrived without tourist intrusions. When we travelled into Lungsodng Puerto Princesa (City of Puerto Princesa) for food and a shower, the locals gawked at us - six Caucasian men and two women - as if we had descended from another planet. For a few pesos, a family-run eatery agreed to let us use their outdoor shower facility. A waist-high wooden wall, loosely constructed, separated the bather from a forest at the rear of the house. In the midst of my shower, I noticed a local adolescent peeping from behind a tree in the woods. I pretended not to notice as he watched me lathe and played with himself. I was turned on by this lascivious display of sexual gratification. The further I soaped, the more aroused I became. Through the gaps of the wooden planks, the boy caught glimpses of my erection – like a peep show in a sex shop, I titillated the teenager. His eyes were glued to my every move, so much so that he wasn’t aware that his friend had creeped up from behind. When he felt an extra hand on his throbbing hardness, he let out a yelp of astonishment. Before long, the boys were masturbating each other. They stroked one another without mortification, as if they had done this before, while watching my exhibitionistic performance carefully. This concupiscent carnality excited me tremendously. Unfortunately, my imminent release was punctured by a fellow member hollering for me to vacate the space for his turn, since I’d been showering for quite a while. I finished my performance with an anticlimactic final, leaving the boys to their own devices. But this was not the end of our chance encounter. There is more to ‘cum’ in my next correspondence!               Much love and kisses,               Andy

January 2013 Continuation of Andy’s Message (part one)   Young,               You must be eager to find out what transpired after my exhibitionistic shower episode at that homey eatery.☺               As our group browsed one of Princesa City’s outdoor markets, I was stalked by the two forest boys. They trailed us at a distance, only making appearances when they thought I wasn’t looking. LOL!               Before long, those two had edged up next to me as I was looking at souvenirs for friends. Since I towered over them in height and build, they gawked at me as if at an alien. Their petite stature measured to my waist when they stood next to me.               As it was customary for street vendors to haggle over prices with their clients, I asked the boys if they would bargain on my behalf. They agreed. Although Taer, the older of the two, had a knack for bargaining, his chum Anak was a master of haggling. The both of them would drag me away from the stall in question, if the vendor did not agree to their offer. By harrying away, the stall keeper would often beckon our return, thus sealing the deal we offered.               Even though the duo could only communicate in broken English, it did not deter my rowing pals from soliciting their bargaining services. We treated the boys to a scrumptious dinner at an outdoor eatery they recommended towards the end of our shopping spree. Throughout our excursion, they seized every opportunity to brush against me – a trait I found adorable.☺               I invited them for a nightcap at my lodging after a jovial dinner. Quick to jump at that suggestion, they headed back to my hut with me. Before I knew it, we were frolicking naked in the ocean below my chamber. You guessed it, one thing led to another…               To be continued. LOL!

When Gould arrives at a party, people who have never seen him before usually take one look at him and edge away. Before the evening is over, however, a few of them almost always develop a kind of puzzled respect for him; they get him in a corner, ask him questions, and try to determine what is wrong with him. Gould enjoys this. "When you came over and kissed my hand," a young woman told him one night, "I said to myself, 'what a nice old gentleman.' A minute later I looked around and you were bouncing up and down with your shirt off, imitating a wild Indian. I was shocked. Why do you have to be such an exhibitionist?" "Madam," Gould said, "it is the duty of the bohemian to make a spectacle of himself. If my informality leads you to believe that I'm a rum-dumb, or that I belong in Bellevue, hold fast to that belier, hold fast, hold fast, and show your ignorance.

She hit a new low in mid-July when she took up with Dodi Fayed, the son of Egyptian tycoon Mohamed Fayed, who had been repeatedly denied British citizenship by the U.K. government. Mohamed Fayed had befriended Diana as a generous benefactor of several of her charities. He appealed to her, according to Andrew Neil, a sometime consultant for Fayed, “by cultivating the idea that both were outsiders and had the same enemies.” Diana met Dodi while she and her sons were staying at the ten-acre Fayed estate in Saint-Tropez. At age forty-two, Dodi was a classic case of arrested development: spoiled, ill-educated, unemployed, rootless, and irresponsible, with a taste for cocaine and fast cars. He showered Diana with extravagant gifts, including an $11,000 gold Cartier Panther watch, and sybaritic trips on his father’s plane and yachts. From the moment the story of their romance broke on August 7, the tabloids covered the couple’s every move with suggestive photographs and lurid prose. William and Harry, who were at Balmoral with their father, mistrusted Dodi, and they were embarrassed by their mother’s exhibitionistic behavior.

But they do," he said. "That is the distressing part. They do. The quality--the intellectual or artistic quality--of the films is almost irrelevant. The crucial thing is only the degree to which they can identify, the degree to which they can project and see themselves as they would like to be. If they can do those things they can believe the picture, and if they can believe in it, then it is a good picture.

The mind," he said, intruding on and descanting upon her thoughts, "is the least commonly acknowledged erogenous zone.

More to the point, if he did cancel the tour in order to fight that tax, would we regard him as a rational man of high principle or as a doctrinaire, a moral exhibitionist, or an egomaniac

At first, I liked that my mental illness was considered a mark of belonging. I thought I was destigmatizing something by describing my new medication to any coworker who asked; now I’m not so sure. Maybe it was brave, weird, exhibitionist, socially suicidal, or all of the above. Maybe I just felt scared and alone, and thought that talking about it would make me feel less disconnected and better understood.

Neurotypical humans take sex too seriously,” he said. “I’m not an exhibitionist so much as I enjoy making people nervous. It turns me on to see them out of their element. To see them hesitate and wonder what’s protocol.

You knew I was there from the start." He didn't flinch. "Yeah, I knew." I didn't want to find that titillating or hot. But I did. Damn it. But I was an actress. I could fake it. "Well, then I guess I have to ask, Did you expect me to turn away from a show so freely offered?" When he blinked in surprise, I tutted in reproach. "Who would suspect you were an exhibitionist. Tell me----did it get you off knowing I was watching? Or would anyone looking on do the trick?" Lucian huffed out a laugh, as though he couldn't believe my audacity but kind of liked it. His lids lowered as his gaze slid back to my mouth. And everything went hazy, the air between us too heavy. The rumble of his voice rippled along my skin, licked up my trembling thighs. "Do you really want me to answer that, Em? Knowing you might not like my reply?" Oh, the arrogance. I sucked in a breath, ready to tell him off. His eyes glinted with hot sparks, as though he wanted me to lay into him, like it would be the excuse he needed to do the same. But it wasn't violence I pictured. It was sex. Frantic, sweaty, angry...

Babies are naturally exhibitionistic and they love exposing their naked bodies. However, they eventually learn that only a few people should be allowed to see them naked. Similarly, as adults, we must also learn to be emotionally naked with just a few trusted people, not everyone.

EXHIBITIONIST.*

My sweet, nerdy little exhibitionist. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Loves to be praised. Loves earning the admiration of her teachers in front of the class. Loves putting her thighs around me in public. I would have figured it out eventually, but thank God I stumbled upon this little kink of hers.

You’re kidding? These people live in a glass box with no option to shut the world out? That’s kind of—” “Exhibitionist. Yeah. Fishbowl-like.” “I was going to say vulnerable,” she says softly.