Exhibitionism on the Rooftop Deck

We were not bored—we were curious. Married four years, still attracted, looking for edges that did not involve other people.

Building roof deck: residents only after ten, city lights, lounge chairs, a security camera in the corner with a red light that had been dead since summer.

"Broken," my wife said. "Officially?"

"Unofficially yes."

The first time we only kissed where windows across the street might see. Heart rate enough.

The second time we pushed further—clothes, moon, wind, the maybe of eyes.

"If someone watches," she said, "they choose to."

"Yes."

Exhibitionism is not about being seen for sure—it's about the door open to the possibility. That almost is the drug.

A neighbor mentioned the camera fixed in November. We stopped going up.

We still talk about it in bed sometimes—whispered, laughing, planning fantasies that stay fantasies.

Public thrill taught us our marriage could be a room with more than one door, as long as we agreed which ones to open together.