The Futile Path of Exhibitionism

Exhibitionists tend to be like gamblers. They know that the odds are stacked against them, but they think that if they just keep doing it, they'll hit that elusive jackpot. I would venture to guess that the odds of "winning" are even worse for exhibitionists. Finding that one in a zillion woman who will be aroused by an unplanned encounter with a man flashing his genitals at her is nearly impossible.

Each of the exhibitionists that I have treated in my therapy practice had the hope of a woman seeing him engaged in his sexual act (often masturbation) and her finding it sexually arousing -- extremely so. They often picture the woman thinking, "Wow! This is my lucky day!" But in all the times that I treated these men in my therapy office, none of them could report an incident in which the woman was aroused. They were all disgusted and/or afraid.

I have fielded questions from exhibitionists on the Sex Matters Message Board and in that anonymous setting, some were pretty candid about what they were doing. One man admitted that he had done it five times in the prior month. His compulsion was in high gear and he was on a clear path to arrest and the potential destruction of so much of his future. He needed to be in sex therapy right away.

But, it's often difficult to persuade the exhibitionist of the level of risk that he's taking. I've treated men from many walks in life -- from ministers to Air Force pilots -- who did this and saw their careers come crashing down. They wound up with the lifelong tag of "sex offender."

Though most exhibitionists don't have harm in mind for the women they "flash," that's not how most women view it. Women tend to view it as very threatening and one step away from assault. I'm probably the exception. Here's my story:

One night about fifteen years ago, I was walking to my car after leaving my San Francisco office. I had stayed late to complete paperwork, so it was about 8 p.m. I was going to be on a national TV show the next morning and was deep in thought about what I was going to say -- and I was exhausted.

Since one of San Francisco's few shortcomings is parking, I was walking about two blocks uphill into Pacific Heights (an elegant area) to my parked car. Nearly to my car, a BMW sedan pulled up next to me. A 30-ish, reasonably attractive man was driving. I expected him to roll down his window and ask where such-and-such singles bar was since there were a few nearby.

Instead, he got out of his car. He was wearing a white cotton men's business shirt, a necktie, dark shoes and dark sox. That was his complete attire. He reached down grabbed his penis, swung it around in a circle from its base and with eager excitement said, "What do you think of this?"

I tiredly sighed and said, "Not much." He jumped back into his car and, probably with great disappointment, drove off. Had I been more alert, I might have reached into my purse to fetch a business card to suggest that he consider making an appointment during office hours.

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