Diary of a mad flasher

by Ken Carpenter

I have a disturbing confession to make, and I fear the world may never be the same. It seems that I have, quite innocently, and without malice, morphed into a flasher. I can already see some of you shaking your heads and muttering “I knew it all the time! Those close set beady eyes are always a dead giveaway!”
It was an accident, I tell ya. It started as I was groggily stumbling out to get the morning paper a few days ago. I was wearing only my slippers and a tattered robe, and while rubbing the remnants of a poor night’s sleep from my close set beady eyes, I happened to step on the end of my improperly tied belt.
That tiny step for mankind turned into a huge one for me, starting a not so slow-motion chain reaction that had the unfortunate grand finale of pulling loose my belt and whipping my robe wide open, exposing my wares for all the world to see. If the entire world were birds, bees and the neighbor’s cat, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Fate always seems to have something special in store for me though.
Somehow I don’t think the three workers down the street thought it was special at all. Unless they had eyes like a starving eagle they may not have spied anything specific, but somehow I think the image of a plump, hairy, unsheathed body popping out at you when you are minding your own business would be disconcerting, if not downright disgusting. At least they didn’t hold up scorecards with a 1.0 grade on them.
I didn’t wait around to see their reaction, closing my robe in record time, snatching the paper out of the box and hurrying back into the house with my tail between my legs. My tail, err, tale, gave my wife a bad case of the giggles until we left for work, and she wasted no time firing off an e-mail to her Mom so she could join in the fun.
For some odd reason, the simple act of getting the morning paper has turned into a treacherous ordeal around our house. A few weeks before my unveiling my wife made the short trek to the paper box, slipped and fell on the grass, and ended up with her thonged bottom exposed when her robe flew up over her head. Unfortunately for her, as she lay in total mortification, the newspaper guy chose that moment to drive around the corner. She still doesn’t know for sure if he spied her in all her glory or not. If he did, he showed remarkable control by calmly pulling up and handing the paper to her as she lay sprawled on the ground, without so much as a tiny, little smirk.
I guess we are the perfect couple.
My incident started me thinking though. Were there any clues in the past that would indicate that I had exhibitionist tendencies?
Well, maybe so, now that I think about it. As a little kid, running around like a jaybird didn’t bother me a bit. Of course, you had to be careful when the dog or cat was around, but that is just common sense. Experienced flashers have always known that one.
When I got older I was no stranger to skinny-dipping, but you better believe I was picky about who might be watching. A guy doesn’t want any embarrassing cold-water stories going around, it was always easy enough to get talked about as it was.
I just remembered that I have had a recurring dream ever since I was little that always has me getting locked out of the house without any clothes on. It is quite a desperate feeling too, running around hiding behind bushes, looking for a dog dish or something to cover up with. Once I grabbed a big leaf to shield myself, not realizing that it was poison ivy. I woke up scratching furiously, and even the dogs were impressed. Always eager to help, they all joined in for a good scratch fest.
I doubt that my career as a flasher is over, for the simple reason that fate can’t be defeated, and fate quite often has indignity in store for me. Besides that, it runs in the family. My Dad reportedly flashed the staff at the Restorium quite often. Accidentally, of course.
Oh well, I’ll get over it.
I don’t know if those three workers will though.

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