Have I always been an exhibitionist? It’s hard to say.

Until I looked it up online, I didn’t know what one was.

All I know is that one day I was hanging out in my room, and before long I was willingly exposing myself to my neighbours. To strangers. To anyone who cared to look.

But I think there were a few more steps to it than that. Let me think...

Okay, so at the age of eighteen, when I was still living at home with my parents and older sister, I started to become quite conscious of my own body and who I was.

Despite being in my late teens, I still felt very nervous and isolated in the world.

My sister, who I was never especially close to, was dating Carl, and that meant she was either out of the house or the two of them would be locked away in her room.

Neither my mum or dad were ‘feelings’ people. They worked, put food on the table and a roof over our heads, and that was enough for them.

And the few friends I did have were now beginning to meet and date boys.

I was alone, in my room, with my anxieties.

Frankly, I wouldn’t have wanted to date me either!

I looked at myself in my bedroom mirror. An anxious girl stared back. Greasy light brown hair, blotchy skin and huge glasses.

My feminine shape buried under a thick jumper and baggy jeans.

It was then that I noticed something. Not me or my fears, but that my bedroom curtains were open.

It had gotten dark without me realising. My curtains were wide open and my bedroom light was on.

Fuck, anyone can see in! I chastised myself, fearing what others may see.

But what could they see, I mean, really see?

A fully clothed eighteen year-old girl engaging in a spot of navel-gazing — hardly scandalous.

“It’s not like I have my legs spread and am furiously masturbating,” I told myself with a snort-laugh.

I should have closed my curtains and that would be that...

That’s what I should have done.

But I didn’t.

I got a feeling, one I’d never experienced before. Not quite a thrill, but not fear either. Like I was on a rollercoaster. That sense of being in and out of control at the same time.

I left my curtains open.

I turned away from the mirror and gazed out of my window. Looking out into the dark night.

Several of my neighbours had their lights on and their curtains open.

Mrs Morton was doing the washing up.

The Walkers were watching football. Allan Walker was pacing up and down, screaming at the TV. Deborah Walker was motioning for him to sit back down.

I caught a glimpse of a guy I didn’t know staring back at me. He was in his room and quickly ducked behind his curtains when I made eye contact with him. He was overtaken with embarrassment at being seen.

But I knew he was still looking in my direction.

My front door clicked and I heard Carl say goodbye to my sister. I watched on as he walked to his car, checked his phone for messages, got in and revved the engine.

His old Astra squealed and rattled into life as he headed down the street.

Mrs Morton looked up from her washing-up at the sound of Carl’s ancient car misfiring.

Carl hadn’t seen me. Only the guy across the street had seen me.

I felt a tingle of joy at this new game I’d discovered. I felt my cheeks ache as I began to smile.

I looked back across the street and could see the guy’s curtains twitching. He was still watching me.

Rather than acknowledge him, I pulled my loose jumper tight to my chest, so the outline of my breasts would be visible.

I then fussed around my room, tidying a bookcase, picking up washing. Brushing my hair and slowly readying myself for bed. I sensed his eyes on me the whole time.

It was a thrill. Being recognised. I should have been afraid or felt my neighbour was a pervert but, in truth, it turned me on.

That night I lay in bed and masturbated myself to orgasm. Grinding my clit and tweaking and teasing my nipples, I fantasised about more people seeing me. Seeing me naked. Seeing me for my true self.

The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

At college, I sat through lectures on sociology and psychology, barely absorbing a word. My notebook was full of doodles — windows, curtains, the silhouette of a man’s head. I kept replaying the moment the stranger across the street had ducked behind his curtain, the way his face had registered surprise, then something else. Interest. Want.

He wanted to look at me.

That thought sat warm in my belly all day.

Me. The girl nobody noticed. The girl who buried herself in oversized wool and denim. Someone had wanted to see me.

When I got home that evening, the house was empty. Mum was on a late shift. Dad was away for work. My sister was out with Carl, no doubt fumbling in the back of that rust-bucket Astra somewhere.

I dropped my bag by the door and went straight upstairs.

My bedroom was exactly as I’d left it. Curtains open. Light streaming in. A fishbowl for anyone who cared to look.

I stood at the window and checked the street. It was early evening — that grey hour where the sky can’t decide what it wants to be. A few neighbours had their lights on already. Mrs Morton’s kitchen glowed. The Walkers’ living room was lit, but their curtains were drawn tonight.

The window across from mine — the stranger’s window — was dark.

Maybe he’s not home.

I felt a pang of something close to disappointment, which was absurd. I didn’t even know this person. He could be fifty. He could be a creep. He could be perfectly normal — just a guy who happened to glance out of his window and saw a girl in a jumper.

But I didn’t want him to be perfectly normal. I wanted him to be watching.

I turned on my desk lamp and the main overhead light, flooding my room with warm illumination. Then I stood in front of my mirror again.

Same anxious girl. Same greasy hair. Same blotchy skin.

But something was different. I felt different.

I pulled my jumper over my head and dropped it on the bed. Underneath, I wore a plain white vest. It was thin, worn soft from too many washes. My bra was grey and functional — the kind my mum bought in a multipack from Matalan. Nothing about it was sexy.

But standing there in my vest, with the curtains open and the light on, I felt a flicker of heat between my legs.

I unbuttoned my baggy jeans and pushed them down over my hips, stepping out of them. Now I was in my vest, grey bra, and plain knickers. Nothing special. The kind of underwear you’d see in a catalogue nobody masturbates to.

But I wasn’t doing this for a catalogue. I was doing this for the window.

I turned sideways to the glass and reached for my hairbrush. Slowly, methodically, I began brushing my hair. Fifty strokes, the way my mum had taught me when I was little. Each pull of the bristles through my lank brown hair felt deliberate. Performative.

I glanced at the window across the street. Still dark.

Keep going.

I set the brush down and pulled my vest tighter against my body, the way I had last night. The fabric stretched across my breasts, outlining the shape of them, the slight curve. I wasn’t large — a B cup at best — but the compression made them look fuller. Noticeable.

I turned to face the window fully. Stood there in my underwear, lit up like a display in a shop window. My heart was hammering. My palms were slick.

This is stupid. Close the curtains. Put your jeans back on.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I reached behind my back and unclasped my bra. I slid the straps down my arms slowly, letting it fall to the floor.

My breasts were small and pale, with light pink nipples that were already hard from the cool air — or from something else. I stood there, topless, facing the window, and let the moment stretch.

Nobody was watching. The window across the street was still dark.

But someone could be watching. Mrs Morton could glance up from her kitchen. A passer-by could look up and see me. A car could drive past and catch a flash of bare skin in a lit window.

That possibility — that potential — was enough.

I ran my hands up my sides, over my ribs, and cupped my own breasts. Squeezed them gently. My nipples pressed against my palms. I let out a shaky breath.

Oh.

This wasn’t just a thrill. This was arousal. Real, physical, wet arousal. I could feel it building between my thighs, a warmth that had nothing to do with the radiator.

I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my knickers and paused. My reflection stared back at me — this pale, nervous girl in nothing but plain cotton panties, standing in a lit room with the curtains wide open.

Do it.

I pushed my knickers down and stepped out of them.

Naked. Fully naked. In front of the window.

My body was unremarkable. Slim but soft in places. A little tummy. Hips that hadn’t quite decided what shape they wanted to be. A thatch of dark hair between my legs that I’d never thought to trim because who would ever see it?

But someone could see it. Right now. That was the point.

I stood there, breathing slowly, feeling the air on my bare skin. My nipples were stiff. My pussy was warm and beginning to ache.

And then — movement.

The curtain across the street shifted. Just slightly. A sliver of light appeared behind the fabric.

He was home. He was there. And he was looking.

My stomach flipped. A jolt of electricity shot straight to my clit.

He’s watching. He’s actually watching.

I didn’t cover up. I didn’t dive for the light switch. I didn’t grab my dressing gown.

I stood still. Let him look.

After a long moment, I turned — slowly, deliberately — and walked to my bed. I sat on the edge, still facing the window, and let my knees fall apart. Just a little. Just enough.