X

FROM THE FUCKBUCKET: “Watching/being watched?”

Watching/being watched?

Such a seemingly simple, seemingly binary question to pull out of the Fuckbucket a couple of weeks ago. In the heat of the moment, with fifty people laughing, I went straight for the answer that made the most immediate sense. Watched, of course. I want to be doing, I said. I want to be throwing the goddamn party, or at least be an integral part of it.

But it’s not that simple, this question and sex, the sex that I like to have, at least. Yes, I want to be watched, but whoever is doing the sex with me, their watching me is the most important. And yes, I want to be watched, but you best believe I have my eyes open at least part of the time, and that a good part of my pleasure is gained from watching my lover watching me, an echoing eyeful of erotic bliss, an “I-know-you-know-I-know-you-know exactly how much I love this” moment.

Watching, you see, is not a passive thing. Those of us in live performance know this, that the quality of observation can be quite different between two people sitting right there in the same row. One person is seeing you only. You may be shimmying or orating or slamming down a prop right there and they are seeing that happen, but it’s a surface sense, a passive view. They won’t remember 30 minutes after they leave the room what you were doing. And then the other person. They’re seeing you, too, but they’re watching as well, actively engaged. They may be leaning forward, even, craning to hear every word, and you can see in their reactions, their facial expressions, that they are right there with you.

Before I understood the different kinds of viewing energy in theatre, I knew about them in sex. Or maybe it was sex performance. Here, let me explain:

When I used to go around to the Power Exchange in San Francisco—when I lived two and a half blocks away and it was an easy walk over, even in high heels—I would occasionally climb up into a sex sling in the basement areas and masturbate, separated by a chain-link fence from a stream of mostly naked humanity. I was new to kink and fetish, and newly discovering cock, and this just seemed like a good, safe way of getting to explore a bit of both.

Even in the dim basement lighting, I could mostly see the men who stopped to jerk off in front of my “station,” and mostly they were just staring right into my cunt, seeing that display, watching my fingers move. I liked this okay, but I was always looking for someone who could manage to set up a visual connection, eye-to-eye, without words AND while tracking all the activity happening in that sex sling at once.

These people could watch my face, gaze into my eyes, and then tear away from the eye contact to look back at what my fingers. And I in turn could see their cocks get harder as they jerked it, seemingly transfixed, for the moment, by my pussy pounding activity. But they always managed to tear themselves away, look back into my eyes, see me get excited and then that in turn, back and forth, watching and watched… only a handful of people of the hundreds who passed me during the eight months i hung out at the Power Exchange ever stepped into that connection, but it was beautiful when it happened, so I didn’t mind the rarity.

Watching/being watched?

Actually, now that I think about it, I want both.

*****

Keep the Cameryn Moore machine chugging along by becoming a patron of mine over on Patreon! Your per-piece pledge becomes part of the pool in which my little shows and big plans survive and thrive.

Leave a Reply

Message
Your Name *
Your Email *
Website