There are few greater feelings than flexing naked in front of a mirror for millions. Getting the biceps a good showing--those pecs a pump.   Hell, turning around and checking out that ass.   See what my dick looks like in profile.   From the left.   From the right.   And since I'm in the bathroom all alone, I might as well work it up a bit, see how it looks at attention.

So there I am casually stroking my member at 9:30 in the morning as I wait for the shower to warm up.   Some people would say that getting oneself aroused so carelessly while the shower is running is a waste of water.   That it's a waste of ever more scarce and more expensive energy, but I justify it with taking the bus to work.   So we lose a couple watts off the grid, at least I don't have a car that's polluting.

Exonerated, I go back to stroking and admiring, as my dick grows at the same rate the steam creeps from the edges of the large wood framed mirror. Whether there's a scientific connection between the steam and my hard on I don't know.   It's likely it could just be me picturing a naked blonde woman with exaggerated tan lines that frame her large creamy breasts and rolling ass bent over a downed tree in the middle of a forest.   Or it could be the steam.

No matter, I don't necessarily want to come; this is all for vanity and finishing would just make for a mess I'm too lazy to deal with.   So to wrap up the show I do a couple fun catapults into my stomach with my now peaking boner, bow to the audience, to the camera watching me on the other side of the mirror, and get in the shower.  

I didn't used to be so good with a crowd.   I didn't used to pander so much.   Even though I knew they were watching I'd try to be as normal as possible.   And if I caught myself doing something weird in the mirror, naked or otherwise, I'd smile and laugh it off as if to show the viewing audience I was only kidding.

When I was in elementary school I'd, on occasion, pull my pants down after I was finished showering, turn around and spread my but cheeks open to try and see my asshole.   I don't know why I was so interested in what my asshole looked like, but I was. There were times I had no need to use the bathroom at all but for some reason after watching Darkwing Duck I'd go to the bathroom and check out my asshole.   After confirming my little pink anus was in place I'd flush the toilet and see what was next on TV.  

Back then I did this without regard for any audience for I didn't know such an audience existed.   This naivety lasted until I saw the first Batman movie, which had a scene where Bruce Wayne is watching Vicky Vale and Alexander Knox behind this giant mirror as they meander through his mansion and make fun of the man gracious enough to open his doors and give them free champagne.

Since then, apart from refraining from talking poorly of my hosts, I've realized, or convinced myself, that everything I do, if not at least everything I do in front of a mirror, is on TV for someone else to watch.

This realization changed everything.   No longer could I check out what my asshole looked like without feeling embarrassed for showing strangers such a sight.   It was also at this time that I realized what all the fuss about obscenity was--why parental controls were created and what the courts and FCC were always freaking out about?   It was because they didn't want the poor children of this nation, a group I had recently been apart of until I regretfully resigned my membership--what child partakes in such debauchery, I thought--seeing children's assholes all over their afternoon cartoon television sets.

And I agreed.   While watching, Duck Tales , the last thing I wanted to see was another human's pink anus.   Perhaps a female's--I had quite a crush on Julia Roberts around this time--would've been acceptable, but not if it was at the expense of witnessing another blundering effort of Launchpad McQuack to gain the respect of the cutely tyrannical Scrooge McDuck.   After all, who wouldn't want to swim in a pool of gold coins?

I was destined to a life with complete loss of privacy.   No longer could I enjoy the secrecy of the bathroom.   And when I caught myself doing something one might consider out of the ordinary I stopped immediately and laughed it off as if I was joking.   As if spinning my dick in a helicopter motion to see if I could create a breeze or making out with the mirror for practice was merely a gag that I was doing for the sole purpose of messing about with the viewers.   I know, putting really cold water on my nipples for no apparent reason is really weird, that's why I'm doing it, not because I have to do it, that I want to do it.

The "Acne Years" were especially daunting for not only was I coming into my own physically, making every part of my anatomy seemingly covered with nerve endings, but now I was popping gross puss onto the very screen these poor people were watching me on.   It was all so horrible and I reached a depressing low when I came to the conclusion that my ratings were probably dropping at an alarming rate and there was no telling if I might be cancelled soon.   After all, I used mostly off brand products so there was no real incentive for advertisers to stick it out if the show wasn't going to be any good either.

This all compounded with the new fear that to boost ratings cameras were installed everywhere I went.   Nothing was sacred anymore.   I felt so vulnerable that when I caught myself absently smelling my hand after adjusting my balls I looked around and audibly said, "Just kidding."

Years and many a masturbatory session at work have had to pass for my viewpoint of paranoia to change.   And it didn't take getting caught masturbating on a lawnmower or movie set hanger or office bathroom for me to finally accept my current situation.   But instead, for me to accept I am exactly that which I enjoy.   Pornography.

I'm producing for my audience not this terribly loathsome program but a successful and highly rated, presumably awarded, teen to twenty something coming of age porn comedy--a market niche if there ever was one.   Awkward and humiliating at times, but fantastically enjoyable for all tuning in.

The time I asked out a girl from my dance class my freshman year of college who turned me down by not returning my call or showing up to class ever again was heartbreakingly hilarious.   The time I took down a girl's information from the property management company I was working at and called to ask her out, causing her to go on an endless three-day weekend, was award-wining television for all.   The time I fell, the time I cried, the time I drove around the block on my way home from high school thinking about Melissa Mattarochia over a desk until I finished into an undershirt I had in the back seat and nearly jumped a curb barely missing the mailbox on the corner.

The shower is starting to get cold.   I've used up all the hot water thinking about how I've aged twenty years yet still feel the need to see my asshole in the mirror; about all those times alone when no one was looking accept a million viewers on some far off planet or under ground or just next door.

My ass is probably red from the hot water, surely a gas to all watching, so I shake it a tad for the forty six year old divorcee who just quite smoking and likes little white butts made pink from too long showers.   I give her an extra clench as I open the curtain.  

I reach for the towel and see the mirror is completely blocked out.   Years ago I'd assume this meant I was safe from public scrutiny, but now I know better so I pull the dick a bit for a half showing and towel off.   Just because I'm late for work doesn't mean I have the right to disappoint the loyal viewers.

I step into my room naked and as I look for a clean pair of underwear, I think back to a year ago when I had a show barely getting by.   A show on its last leg, its dying breath.   And now?   Now I have a hit in a prime time spot between the Britney channel and Branjolina.

Now if I could only get them to turn away when I'm having sex with my girlfriend (the poor girl has to endure so much).   Then again, such is the price of fame--real or imaginary.

© 2008 Tyke Johnson