[Non-Fiction] Streaking Leads to an Exhibitionist Life

[NudeDude61]

7th grade. 1973/1974. It was a turbulent time. Six years earlier, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King had been assassinated. The Vietnam war, which had been tearing the country apart, was winding down to the first lost war in the nation's history. Richard Nixon was about to resign the presidency in disgrace. And society was coming out of the sexual revolution.

Some of my older classmates were in the early stages of puberty. The boys were getting deeper voices and a few whisker hairs were popping out. Some of the girls were getting curvy. Since they started developing earlier than us boys, some had developed quite shapely figures. The bodies of the younger boys, like me, were only showing the slightest hint of what was to come. For example, even though there were no visible changes, our genitals were beginning to take on more manly proportions. At least I assume they were. Mine was. We didn't go around playing show and tell. That was not done at a Catholic school.

Yes, Catholic school. While the world around us was experiencing one giant societal orgasm, and while our bodies were kicking into hormonal overdrive, the good nuns were doing their very best to keep us holy and pure. That previous year, there had been a film in science class showing birds pollinating flowers. But first our parents had to pre-screen the film and sign a consent form to allow us to be exposed to such naughtiness. In the class discussion, there was absolutely no parallel drawn to any corresponding human biological activity. What we were taught about human reproduction was that God wanted us to be priests and nuns, but would let us get married if a boy and girl loved each other, and that if they loved each other enough, God would give them a baby. Somehow. The s-e-x word was never uttered.

As a parent, I can look back and appreciate the effort that was being made to maintain our purity. The problem was that the purity ship had already sailed. Sure, technically we may have been virgins - at least physically - but our minds were firmly rooted in the gutter of insatiable curiosity. Once or twice, a boy would come across his father's stash of Playboy magazines. If the discovery was shared, it was maybe with only one very close friend. For if word of the found magazines leaked, the stash would certainly disappear. Those lucky enough to view these hidden treasures would try to paint a word picture of what was found between the covers. This was never satisfying, probably because Playboy had gone "full frontal" only a year or two earlier, so a lot of the discovered pictures were, at best, tits and ass, both of which we boys possessed, albeit not as curvaceously. The only thing relayed from those who had seen a recent issue of the magazine was that girls did not have a "thing." It is hard to believe today, when thousands of young women spread their legs and post pictures of their most intimate bits for free consumption on the Internet, that back then even paid Playboy models had not progressed to full "underneath-al" nudity. As a result, we had no knowledge of the best parts of the female anatomy.Still, we were innocent enough that even a description of a flat, empty piece of skin where a boy would have a penis was titillating beyond belief. And the idea that a girl would have hair there seemed strange for most of us ar that point in our development.

That spring turned out to be a pivotal time in my life. March 1974 - the month that streaking entered the national vocabulary. National TV news covered college campuses where, to our impressionable minds, just about everyone was running around campus in the nude. Local TV news tried to imitate their national brethren and highlight as much local nudity as possible. Time and Newsweek magazine had multiple pages of articles dedicated to the craze. With pictures! But no library was going to let someone our age near a copy. What TV news coverage taught our young minds was that if we were to ever talk a girl out of her bra, that underneath it would be a censor's black bar.

The fact that Walter Cronkite, the most trusted man in America, was coming into our living rooms every night and talking about people having fun(!) with sex, meant that the lid of repression had blown completely off of our minds. In school and around our parents, the craze was shameful, a mortal sin, and damning its practitioners to the fires of Hell. Outside of adult company, however, the verdict was clear. We had to get some of this for ourselves.

Of course, for someone to get, someone had to give. And that was not about to happen, either because of natural shyness, fear of being caught by an adult, or the residual effect of the stern lectures of Sister Perpetual Chastity in religion class. But as the school year wound down, and we were about to take our place as the eighth grade rulers of the school, this new found sexuality led to us informally pairing with "a crush" of the opposite sex. Sherry and I were turning into a couple, although we certainly never did anything as brazen as kissing, or even holding hands. We just stood near each other, made awkward small talk, and sheepishly alternated stealing glances of each other and then averting our eyes.

Certainly there was some braggadocious talk among some of the boys about their sexual conquests. These were always denied by the girl, but the putative couple wouldn't split up. Looking back, the girl probably offered some small favor to cement the new relationship, not realizing the ability of a teenage boy to both exaggerate what happened and to show a complete lack of discretion about the matter. That was not going to be a problem with Sherry and me. I was to shy to ask. Sherry was too shy to offer. And I can't imagine her being brazen enough to reverse the sexual pecking order and ask me to show off.

Soon, however, summer vacation was upon us: three glorious months to relax away from the steaming hormonal cauldron that school had become. I quickly regained the carefree innocence of a year or two previously. There was nothing to do but be a kid again: ride my bike, play ball, catch fireflies, and so on. I was just beginning to enjoy that carefree life when there was another sexual jolt to my system.

Our neighborhood was the stereotypical Midwestern square grid of streets with evenly spaced houses along the blocks. The only thing that distinguished our street was that it was the main entrance and exit for our subdivision. Traffic in and out had to be on our street for some part of the journey, making it the busiest street in the subdivision.

Ann was a girl my age. She lived two houses down and across the street. Despite her proximity, and our closeness in age, we had very little interaction. She went to the local public school, so she naturally had a different clique of friends. One day, in late June, word spread like wildfire throughout the neighborhood that Ann had been seen streaking! This was no longer a TV news phenomenon. It had happened in view of my bedroom window!

There were a lot of conflicting stories on what had happened; however, all of them agreed that one recent morning Ann had shot out of her front door without a stitch, ran down her front lawn and circled the mailbox at the corner of the curb and her family's driveway, and then sprinted back inside her front door.

Beyond that core story, there were plenty of variations. In some, a neighborhood housewife witnessed it and notified Ann's mother. In others, a neighborhood kid saw it, told his or her (both genders were circulating in the rumor mill) mother, who then told Ann's mother. In another, the kid who saw it was actually Ann's younger brother who told on her. In my favorite version, Ann's mother had heard the door open and close, went to investigate, and arrived just in time to see her nude daughter burst through the entrance. In any case, once the story was on the housewife network it spread throughout the neighborhood. Kids were told to avoid "bad girls" like Ann. Others overheard their parents tsk-tsking when they though their kids were out of earshot. Some kids were threatened with the most severe punishments if they ever did something similar. All three occurred in my house.

The fact that parents treated this seriously led a certain credence to what would ordinarily be viewed as a tall tale. In some versions of the story, Ann's punishment was said to have included a belt whipping of legendary proportions. (Corporal punishment was very much accepted in those days.) But every single version of the story had her grounded and confined to her room for the rest of summer vacation. And, quite frankly, she was invisible from the day the story started circulating. At least she seemed to be. My clique had never paid much attention to her comings and goings, but after this much notoriety I'm sure we would have been leering at her and mentally undressing her if she were ever seen out and about. The apparent truth of her punishment also made the whole story believable

For days afterward, I began every morning by staring out my front bedroom window up the street toward Ann's mailbox, praying that she would reprise her performance. If she was ever foolish enough to risk even further punishment from her parents, I didnt witness it. As the days went by, my hope of seeing her naked began to fade, and instead I began fantasizing about what she must have felt while streaking, and her emotions when she was seen by her brother or mother. Or how she felt when the phone rang and her mother learned the news and started screaming.The exposure seemed like it must have been inexpressibly thrilling; the discovery, abjectly terrifying.

The mind is an amazing sex organ. It wasn't long before the mere fact of sitting in front of my window triggered erotic thoughts, even without looking at Ann's mailbox. One day, I realized that I could sit there bottomless, watching kids play and traffic go by without anyone being the wiser. Soon thereafter, I began watching the world outside my window while totally nude. No one could see from the bright outdoors into my dim bedroom, and even if they could, a shirtless boy in the middle of summer was not going to trigger suspicion.

As the Ann saga started fading, my mind started drifting back to Sherry. We would be back to school together in six weeks. I began wondering how much more womanly her body had become. And I had grown so used to placing myself in Ann's mind and her decision to expose herself that I started working myself up to offering to let Sherry see me bottomless. Of course I hoped that I would receive something similar in return, but just the thrill of being consensually seen by a girl "down there" would have been enough of a reward by itself.

(To be continued...)

[NudeDude61]

(Conclusion)

Then one day, in late July, it happened. The day that lives in infamy. I woke early on a Wednesday morning, somewhere around 5:45am. The sun was just rising. I got dressed and gave my ritual gaze toward Ann's mailbox, but the neighborhood was dead. My mom was snoring. My brother was sound asleep, as always. I walked into the main area of the house and a thought from nowhere said, "School starts in just over a month. Shouldn't you practice showing yourself to Sherry?" I was going to head back to my bedroom for some bottomless window viewing, but as I said, the neighborhood was dead. Instead, I started walking to the front door, but it was as if my body were operating outside of my conscious control. I quietly cracked it open, unzipped my pants, pulled out my member, and thrust it through the cracked door.

Realistically, I was not well endowed at that age, and probably no more than my knob was outside the house. Even if someone were staring right at the door, they probably would not have noticed the display. But all the thrill of exposure I had imagined Ann experiencing in her streak, in a smaller way, flooded my senses. I forced myself to hold position for five seconds before pulling back inside.

I was shaking with excitement. I had shared my dick with the world. Sort of. I had shared *a* dick with the world, but *I* was hidden behind the door. If someone had actually seen the dick head peeking out the door, for all they knew it could have belonged to my brother. Or to anyone. Did I dare confirm that it was mine? I stood there for minutes. This would be the riskiest thing I had done in my life. But visions of sharing an intimate moment with Sherry, if only I could overcome my shyness, were consuming me. My mind was made up. I again pulled out my dick, listened for reassuring sounds that I was the only one awake, opened the door, put my head out and listened. And listened again. And looked around. And listened some more. And then felt myself stepping out onto our front porch. Good God! What was I doing? I sprinted along the front wall of the house about thirty feet to our driveway. After planting a foot on it, I reversed course and almost flew through the front door, closing it quietly behind me.

I had done it! I had streaked! When school started, I was going to be near the top of the sexual experience pecking order! Assuming I dared tell anyone, that is.

At least I would be near the top of the pecking order if you called what I did streaking. I had exposed about three inches of flesh. Three very interesting inches that were key to a successful streak, but, really, for the most part I was just a clothed kid who had made a short dash. Could I do more? I knew I could, but it was going to take every ounce of courage I could muster. A streaking girl would be topless. Why would I, a boy, be wearing a shirt? Off it came and dropped on the floor by the front door. A second key anatomical feature of a streaking male would also be his balls. I might have pulled them through my fly as well, but that would still result in coverage of the final piece of anatomy needing exposure - my butt crack. The pants were going to have to come off as well.

I unbuttoned them. I hooked my thumb under the waist band of both the pants and my tighty-whities and pulled them down. But I couldn't let go of them. No way. That would soon make me nude outside. The empathetic terror I had felt with Ann getting caught was gripping my entire body. The threat of a devastating punishment for such brazen behavior hung heavy in the air, being inhaled with every breath. Any "playing doctor" with Sherry would probably not require total nudity. My current lack of attire would be adequate for that purpose. And, hey! Except for a few inches of leg above my knee, all the skin was showing, and 100% of the naughty bits were out. I again listened for signs of activity in the house, opened the door and looked and listened for activity outside as well. None there either. The world was dormant.

3... 2.... 1... GO! I opened the door, and repeated my run to the driveway. Actually it was more of a waddle. Holding on to pants that are impeding the running gait of my upper legs was not conducive to an athletic sprint. As I reached the driveway, reversed course, and again neared the door, I noticed that I had grown large and stiff where it matters. This was a new situation for me. I didn't know what it meant - and flower pollination was not high on my list of possible meanings - but it certainly felt good bouncing up and down as I did my best imitation of running.

Any doubts I had harbored about my previous run had dissipated. There is no way this was not a streak. The only thing lacking was Walter Cronkite and a CBS film crew. The empathetic terror I had felt with Ann before the streak was now completely eliminated by the adrenaline rushing through my arteries. But she had put herself even more on display than I just did. I had to know what that felt like for real. Mom was still snoring. My brother was never up this early. Too much blood was flowing to my brain below the waist to perform a risk-reward analysis. The pants and the underwear crumpled onto the floor and I was off!

HOLY GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING SHIT! I was totally stark naked, in broad daylight, along the busiest street of our subdivision, and just HOLY SHIT! (The previous comments are what I would have thought if the current me went back in time. No Catholic grade school student would ever have said or thought anything like that.) There is no way I ever imagined how different unprotected nudiity could feel from what I had done just seconds ago with the safety net of emergency pants. If only Ann weren't grounded. I so very much wanted to talk to her about this!

I quickly had covered the familiar ground from the front door to the driveway, and slowed briefly. I couldn't just go back. This euphoria had to be milked to put a lifetime of highs in the emotional bank. Several possibilities flashed through my mind. I could take a lap around our house, exposing myself not just to the houses across the street, but also the side windows of our next door neighbors' houses, the three houses behind my parent's, and to some extent the houses across the street from them. Or I could settle for matching Ann's behavior, racing down the driveway, lapping our mailbox, and then going inside. Or I could keep going straight until I got to our *neighbor's* driveway! Good Lord! What if went for the gold medal and all-time world record and went down to our neighbor's neighbor's driveway, crossed the street, circled Ann's mailbox, then ran back down her side of the street before crossing back to the safety of my front door? All the ideas were great and it didn't matter which I chose because I was totally stark fucking naked in broad daylight on the busiest street in our neighborhood!!!!

These ideas all flashed through my head in an instant, in less than the time it took to make the last stride carrying me onto our driveway. What I was going to choose did not matter. What did matter was that in my excitement I had not listened for activity before leaving the house, and, yes, I was totally stark fucking naked in broad daylight, and, more importantly, on the busiest street in our neighborhood - which is why I heard a car engine approaching from about 100 feet behind me.

It was again time to share in Ann"s presumed terror. The rational approach might have been to immediately choose my "lap the house" option. My discoverer would have a good view of my butt as I raced across the driveway and turned to run beside the house toward the backyard, but at least I would then have been out of view. At least out of view of the street. Who knows about our backyard neighbors? And with the sudden disappearance of my adrenaline rush, further streaking did not seem fun any more. Instead I did the stupidest thing imaginable. I turned 180 degrees and faced the noise to make sure it really was a car. It was. Of course. The driver had now been given an unimpeded view of my nudity, both back, front, and face. Stupid!

Having shared everything, the rational next best choice would have been to get inside immediately. But, no! Instead I dropped down and sat on my heels behind a very small plant that provided no more than 25% cover of the bottom half of my body. I then looked right at the driver, doing my best deer in the headlights impersonation, covering up as well as I could with both hands, just to leave doubt about whether I were really, truly naked. Because the ass, dick, and balls may not have been entirely conclusive. Or the driver may have been focused on the road and not on the naked teenager who thought streaking was going to help him relate to his girlfriend.

No. I had definitely been seen. All of me. The back. The front. The side. The face. The stupidity. The car slowed to a crawl, and the driver was looking right at me. He stopped directly even with me and gaped at the sight. Then he rolled down his window. Please, dear God, don't let him start screaming at me and drawing the neighborhood's attention. Luckily he didnt,. He just wanted to stare without the interference of a tinted window.

I stared deeply into his eyes, silently begging, imploring him to drive on. He stared equally hard at me, but not at my eyes. My heart was racing and exploding through my rib cage. THA-THUMP! THA-THUMP! THA-THUMP!

And he just sat and stared. (THA-THUMP!) And stared. (THA-THUMP!) And stared. (THA-THUMP) And I just sat there and thought the same thoughts as earlier, but now in a much more timid, lower case voice. ""Holy God damn mother fucking shit. I am totally stark naked, in broad daylight, along the busiest street of our subdivision, and just holy shit!" My life is ruined, and why won't the earth just open up, swallow me, and end my future lifetime of non-stop shame and humiliation.

My audience sat there for less than a minute, but for me time had stopped moving. My mind was reeling with ways this could go from awful to horrific. He could pull into our driveway and confront me. Any number of additional cars could pass by and also stop to see what this guy was looking at. What if those cars were driven by women?! Our neighbors might start heading to work at any time and see my shame.

Oh, shit! Our neighbors! Ann's nightmare might soon be my own. Having this stranger ogle me was terrible, but what if a neighborhood mother was even now staring out her window at the nude tableau in front of her and looking up our phone number? What if my mom had already awakened and noticed the pile of clothes by the open front door? Ann and I would be forever linked in the annals of neighborhood shame.

I started to worry that this guy was just going to stay there until I ran inside and completed my show for him. I was screwing up the courage to give him the cheap thrill he was waiting for when he slowly started rolling forward while continuing to look back toward me. Eventually he looked forward to drive off, and I stood up to run inside and end my nightmare. And as soon as I did, he stopped again. The perv was enjoying my predicament in his rear view mirror. Ha ha! Did you catch that? I just called *him* the perv - the respectable businessman sitting fully clothed in his car. Right.

Once inside, I started throwing on my clothes. In the few seconds it took to regain decency, no less rhan two more cars drove by. There is a God! If that guy had delayed his departure any longer, my exposure would have tripled. As would the risk of someone marching me to the front door and having me stand there, naked to the world, while they summoned my mother to witness my depravity. Or if my perv had come by ten or fifteen seconds later, I might have been trying to hide myself in Ann's front yard! As terrible as it was, I had been caught at the least embarrassing possible time.

I tiptoed back to my bedroom. I quietly slid the clothes back off, redonned my pajamas, and crawled back under the covers. When my mother awoke, she was going to have no reason to think that I had not been asleep the whole time. But I definitely wasn't sleeping. My whole body was trembling - no, outright shaking - in fear. The movie screen in my mind kept replaying the show. Visions of Ann kept interrupting the scene. Her bedroom window had a view of our house. Oh, God, please no! Surely she wasn't watching at that time of day. After days of trying to see her streak, what a terrible irony that would have been. What about Sherry? Would she ever want, or be allowed, to be friends with a sex fiend? My young life was over. I kept wishing I were dead.

It turns out, my mother was going to the house across the street that morning for coffee and pastries along with the other women of the neighborhood. As soon as she left the house, I got on my bike and got the hell out of Dodge. Finally, early afternoon came and I would be in trouble for not coming home for lunch if I didn't return soon. That is, if I weren't already in so much trouble that additional punishment was a practical impossibility. I parked my bike and gingerly walked in the house, doing my absolute best (and probably failing) to act completely normal. Lunch was served without incident. The housewife network had apparently missed my ordeal.

That night, at supper, my stomach was again in an uproar. There was still the possibility that my voyeur would stop by on the way home from work and rat me out to my parents. I told my mom and dad that I wasn't felling good (No lie there), and asked if I could just go to my room. They consented. I just sat there for the next several hours looking out the window, terrified that a car was going to pull into our driveway and stop. One car did slow down as it approached and veered toward the curb. I had an overwhelming urge to puke. My dad had delivered some strong whippings in the past, but I was sure that this time I was going to be sleeping on my stomach for a week. I couldn't remember anything about that morning's car, but this one quickly pulled back into the driving lane and drove off without stopping. My butt unclenched from it's terror, but my stomach still wanted to hurl.

And, no, while watching for my potential accuser to stop, I was not sitting at the window bottomless.

And, no, my naughtiness was apparently not witnessed by Ann - or anyone else, save by my lone "perv" spectator.

And, no, I never did see Ann streak.

But another girl across the street, Suzy, did make a stupid bet one evening two weeks later just before dusk while playing ball at the school's field. She was the only girl playing with five of us boys.The previous fall had seen the famous "Battle of the Sexes" tennis match, in which Billie Jean King defeated Bobby Riggs. Suzy kept going on and on about how that match proved women were men's equals in sports. Her mouth got the better of her, and she blurted out that she could hit a baseball as far as us boys, and that if she couldn't, she would run the bases completely naked!

To my surprise, my brother immediately shouted, "You're on!" followed quickly by our neighbor Tom. Tom's brother, George, also announced he was in. After some quiet shuffling and thinking, John agreed. I was the last hold out. Suzy was taunting, "Chicken! Chicken! You know girls are as good as boys!" Everyone was saying it had to be unanimous or the bet was off, but my recent streaking fiasco was fresh in my mind. Yet as I looked at Suzy flapping her arms in imitation of chicken wings, and looked into the eyes of the other boys silently pleading with me to say yes, I muttered , "OK, but we each get a mulligan if our first hit is bad."

Suzy was beside herself with glee, figuring that since there were five boys and she was the only girl. the odds were that she was going to see some naked boy parts. She shouted, "NO! One swing per person."

It was decided that we would go in the reverse order of how we agreed to the bet. That made me first. I probably was the best long ball hitter there, but that meant nothing when it comes down to a single swing, and my legs and arms were shaking badly as I tossed the ball into the air. Luckily, instinct took over, and I hit a towering blast deep into the outfield. I was almost certainly safe, and breathed a huge sigh of relief as I trotted out to mark the ball's resting place with my glove and bring the ball back in for John.

John lazily tossed the ball into the air and hit a solid fly ball. It wasn't a booming hit, but it was probably good enough. George came up. Nerves got the better of him, and he hit the bard hard into the dirt in front of the plate. it bounced high, came down and started dribbling and rolling slowly, coming to rest a few inches beyond the infield dirt. As he brought the ball back in, he was visibly shaken, took a seat on a bench, and wrapped his arms around himself, whimpering, while rocking back and forth.

Tim followed with a decent fly ball to the outfield, and my brother hit a solid line drive. George was muttering, "No no no no no," quietly under his breath.

Suzy took her spot at the plate, smirking, and saying something about male chauvinist pigs, jeering and pointing at George. She tossed the ball up, let loose a mighty swing, but completely missed the ball! George's quiet, "No, no, no," was transformed into a shout of, "YES!" along with general hoopla from all of us boys. Suzy was complaining that it didn't count because she hadn't hit the ball yet, but we reminded her that she specifically said one SWING per person. Her bravado had gotten the better of her. She really didn't need to prove anything with a long ball; she just needed to make good contact and George would have been our streaker. It was as if she was thinking with her dick instead of her head, but she obviously didn't have a dick - as we were soon to find out.

The celebrating came to a halt and a very still silence settled as we all leered at Suzy. After a few seconds, she kicked off her shoes and socks. A fair amount of hemming and hawing ensued, as she expressed a concern that anyone in the houses beyond the outfield could see her stripping, and she was afraid of getting in trouble. We agreed to surround her so her strip was shielded from view. That satisfied her - even though she would soon be running nude and in full view - and she pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it on the ground. Tim and George whistled, like the jerks male chauvinist pigs we all were.

A very scared Suzy then made a counter-offer to let us each have five minutes groping her and feeling her up behind the concession stand, under the condition that she not remove her bra or her clothing below the waist. It was tempting, but but we unanimously insisted she follow through on her original wager. To a chorus of "Oh, my God" uttered under our male breaths, her shorts soon joined the growing mound of clothes in the catcher's box. Standing there in her underwear, Suzy began urgently pleadng for her modesty with shaking voice to no avail, and her bra was eventually removed. To my surprise, she had breasts where the censor's black bar was supposed to be. And then, topless, an arm crossed over her chest to preserve a small amount of dignity, she began choking back tears and begging for mercy while we insisted that she fulfill the terms of the penalty that she, after all, had invented. She tried offering to run the bases twice - or even more - if only we would let her keep her panties on. Finally, Tom told her that we would take her clothes and she would be running a half-mile home and explaining to her parents why she was wearing only panties if she didn't get on with it. That convinced her to peel off her panties, and reveal her most intimate places to us. She did her best to cover her pubes with one hand while keeping her breasts covered with her other arm, shimmying and shaking until her last remaining shred of decency pooled around her ankles. All of us boys were convinced we had gone to heaven. Don't worry, Sister Perpetual Chastity - I know we were actually on the fast track to Hell.

Having completed the stripping phase of her payoff, Suzy apparently saw no need to remain exposed in such close proximity to our lustful eyes. She began a hunched over jog of shame towards first base and soon uncovered her bits to use her arms to run as fast as she could. When she touched home plate shortly thereafter, her tears had been replaced with a huge smile. She even dawdled a minute or two before getting dressed. The other boys probably thought she was being slutty - although that was a word we didn't know. I alone knew she was taking the time to make an obscenely large deposit of euphoria in the Bank of Emotional Highs.

Suzy had experienced the same range of emotions as Ann and I, only in reverse. I was jealous that she was able to end her streak on a positive note. And have a larger audience. And be seen by the opposite sex. And run a longer distance. And not worry about being punished. I had changed so much in two weeks that things that would have been psychologically devastating, I now yearned for. Except for the fact that I finally got to see a naked girl, I almost wish I had been in her shoes. I mean her bare feet. I was about to ask for a winner's bonus prize and have her streak the bases a second time with me joining her in the buff, but while I was wondering if my brother would snitch, Suzy began getting dressed.

I never saw Suzy streak again, although there were stories about her over the next several months. Truth be told, there were stories about 95% of the neighborhood kids - some of which I can personally vouch for as being true. Oddly enough, despite being the founder of the neighborhood streaker society, Ann was in the 5%. Her two-plus months of virtual house arrest, along with whatever other punishments were meted out, apparently caused her clothes to remain perpetually glued to her body.

Sherry and I became good friends in 8th grade, but never progressed beyond that. The summer off had cooled a lot of the bubbling passions in the classroom. She never offered anything sexual. I never asked. If she had asked me to show her my goods, I would have jumped at the opportunity, but because a fantasy of me offering an "I'll show you mine" led to the Streak of Horror, I was not ready to take that step. Plus, thanks to Suzy I had now seen all the charms a girl had to offer. There was no need to sexualize what Sherry and I had. She was a good first girlfriend, and I wish I had stayed in touch after we went off to separate high schools. Who knows? In a couple of years, we might have both been ready to go farther.

And, yes, to this day, I still occasionally streak. Back in 1974, I was rudely interrupted before harvesting my lifetime supply of euphoria, so I still need the periodic adrenaline fix of public exposure. But society has grown much more puritanical, and the consequences of getting caught, especially as an adult, have become exponentially higher. So if you know when and where to look, you might still see me totally stark naked, but it probably won't be in broad daylight, and it definitely won't be on the busiest street of my neighborhood. That lesson has been learned.

[BarefootAlien]

What a great write-up! Fantastic levels of detail, and obviously very real, with the real emotions we feel when we do those things. I, too, did some crazy streaking in my youth. I even got caught once. By my mom! The horror! lol

I'm saddened by how strict, puritanical, and deeply conformist our society has grown. People seem to _crave_ it. Everyone longs to show their individuality in the same way everyone else does. When someone comes along who dares to step out of bounds, they're immediately slapped down.

I believe it's out of a combination of jealousy and fear. Jealousy at individuality they only wish they had the courage to display, and fear—more like a sort of unconscious dread, actually, that a chain reaction of realization awaits down the train of thought "What if I realize I'm _not_ actually being my real self? What if I realize that I help push others back into line?" What would that mean, to realize that? Would they have to take _actual_ risks to be who they really are? Or would they have to admit that they're just cogs in the machine after all, just like all the other cogs, no matter what coat of paint they wear?