Memories of a Streak

by Matt Triewly

A memory. A flashback. Quite literally.

For many, many years I have been repressed both sexually and socially. As a person I wouldn't say boo to a goose except when I was angry or afraid, or both and then I could be quite violent. I remember in my last job a couple of individuals who thought they could take the piss or attempt to intimidate me backing off in fear when they'd wound me up to such a pitch that I'd gone green and had ripped my clothes to shreds. Afterwards they had been extra nice to me and I in turn had been nice back but all the time smiling wryly inwardly. Perhaps, I sometimes wonder, I had played a mental game with them to see how far they would go and then derive an intense gratification when I had finally turned the tables - pleasure is the discharge of tension Freud had concluded and revenge at times for me as a youngster was the ultimate discharge of tension. Maybe.

On the other hand it could have been quite simply that I was a nasty little individual at times. It's all subjective. Relative.

That said, I was also quite repressed sexually and shy. I craved a female, a highly attractive female and wanted to do dirty and kinky things to her but at the same time was embarrassed by my body and felt and feared that my cock was small, that I would be laughed and jeered at by not just her but her friends too. So I drank a lot at weekends and went to night clubs or discotheques as they were more popularly known then and the alcohol gave me the courage to approach women and sometimes get lucky; though normally with a slag or a slut who underneath I despised. Actually, I despised them openly. And having said that I was always quite coy about allowing them to see too much of my body. I guess I even worried about the derision of a slag. Sad. Pathetic.

Of course I didn't want to be that way. I sought to be attractive and brazen and confident and successful with a big cock. And I also had exhibitionist tendencies though fortunately I was good at controlling them; that is until one cold Saturday night or rather Sunday morning when I was walking back home totally drunk when the urge had come from nowhere to strip completely naked. The urge had made me achingly hard and despite a token resistance from the sensible part of my character I had surrendered to it. At the end of a fairly quiet and residential road I had stood there under the harsh purple-blue fluorescent light of the street lamp and had stripped off completely naked. I can tell you now it was a potent cocktail of arousal, liberation and fear. I felt totally alive and free. My cock was as hard as it ever could be. I had briefly looked around at the handful of houses and I had wondered what would have happened if one of the residents had cared to pull back the curtains and look out. They didn't as far as I know. I had then, with my clothes under my arms run down the road with my erection pointing the way. I ran for about a quarter of a mile (it was a long road) and had then stopped gasping for breath. Coming to my senses a little I had then dressed as quickly as I could hoping that no one had seen me and had then walked home.

Afterwards I had often reflected on what I had done with mixed feelings remembering the incredible intoxication of arousal and liberation but tempered with the fact that I could have been prosecuted and worse be known as some sort of pervert. It would also have embarrassed my family too.

Still, I got away with it at the time...

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