Sacrifices

It turned out Dinger Watson had a disorder involving his gland.

“Okay,” he said, “but which gland?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” replied the doctor. 

In fact, Dinger very much would have liked to know. After all, there are many different glands in the human body, including:

1. Pineal
2. Pituitary
3. Adrenal
4. Ceruminous
5. Lacrimal
6. Testicles

Furthermore, depending on the nature of the disorder, a disorder in one of those glands might mean something very different than a disorder in another.

“Unfortunately,” said the doctor, “Hippocratic preoccupations are going to prevent me from wading too much deeper into the details. One thing I can tell you, however, is that in consideration of this glandular disorder of yours, I’d highly recommend cutting back on the quantity of cream sauce you consume.”

“Cream sauce?” said Dinger.

“Cream sauce,” affirmed the doctor.

Well, that sure was going to be difficult; anyone who knew Dinger knew that he frequently indulged in many varieties of cream sauce, including:

1. Spinach 
2. Garlic 
3. Bacon 
4. Famous horseshoe cheese 
5. Creamy mustard dill 
6. Simple heavy 

This last one was Dinger’s favorite by far, so the moment he got home from the doctor’s office he threw away his entire supply of butter as well as his whisk so that, should he become tempted to prepare it, he’d lack the means and materials with which to do so. Then, he sat down in his overstuffed thinking chair and thought for a good, long while about his friend Patrick, who shortly after his controversial marriage to Bushra Fez had also given something up. Specifically, Patrick had given up gluten owing to the fact that, according to his craniosacral therapist, it was almost definitely the cause of the chronic internal inflammation that, also according to his craniosacral therapist, was almost definitely the cause of numerous other maladies from which he suffered, such as recurring canker sores and boisterous snoring. As for irritable bowel syndrome, Patrick would not have gone so far as to assert that he suffered from it, but at the same time he hardly would have described his bowels as easygoing, and this, too, according to his craniosacral therapist, was almost definitely caused by the internal inflammation that was almost definitely caused by his consumption of gluten. Recently, there had been an incident wherein Patrick had decided to reward himself for a hard day’s work in his professional capacity as an environmentally conscious housepainter with a big bowl of lentil bean-based pasta down at The Sprouted Spoonful, a popular gluten-free restaurant located in the heart of the city’s bustling art’s district. No sooner had he dug in, however, than he could feel a telltale grumble in his tummy that, were his craniosacral therapist correct, almost definitely meant he’d consumed gluten. 

“Hey,” he called out to the waiter. “I thought this place was supposed to be gluten free!”

“Exactly,” said the waiter. “Here, our gluten is free to go wherever it pleases, including into your supposedly lentil bean-based pasta.”

“You duplicitous bastards,” cried Patrick. “It would serve you right if I pulled down my pants and blasted diarrhea all over the middle of this restaurant!” 

“It probably would,” replied the waiter, “but all the same, I’ll bet you won’t.” 

B B Beloved

In an eclectic bar off of Boston Avenue, I met myself. Strung-out. Reeling. The girl before me looked like a caricature, like a child borrowing their older sister’s clothes. Wearing her makeup. Ruining the wax of an expensive lipstick just for a glimpse into another world. Another realm. 

I stood in front of her in a hallway that smelt like bergamot and Prosecco. The lights were moody, glowing like faded headlights during a night storm, and the bar was playing a cover of some song I’d heard before, but couldn’t place, sort of like how I couldn’t place myself. 

It’d been two weeks since the incident, since Addison had kissed him. Well, I suppose, since I saw her kiss him. There’s a difference, isn’t there – between witnessing something firsthand and simply hearing about it? Speculation. Rumors. Did she or didn’t she? Is she really going to? Would she? All of those indecorous whispers are pinched out like fire from a candle’s wick when you see something. It leaves only the smoke, blurring the lines between real and fake. 

How well do you trust your eyes? 

How do you know if you’re being honest when you’re the only one in the room?

Questions like this used to keep me up at night. I used to fight sleep like a child. I used to crawl out into my kitchen just to hold the phone’s receiver in my hand. I’d stare at the glowing numbers of the dial pad as if they were some crystal ball. Wipe Addison’s phone number from my brain, I’d plead. Make me forget her. Let me. 

It’s a strange thing to love someone, even stranger when that someone is a girl and you’re a girl and you’ve both known one another since first grade. At first, I thought it was platonic – my love for Addison. I used to fantasize about us growing old with one another, but there was never an inclination for marriage or romance. I saw it more as us escaping together. We’d buy a cottage somewhere in the Northeast, raise goats, and host game nights with our friends. She’d paint. 

She was a good painter, Addison. She’d won several competitions when we were in high school and had even planned on going to an art school somewhere in Europe. I couldn’t remember where in Europe because she hadn’t told me. You see, the incident had happened this summer before college and afterward, she’d become a ghost.

Although, perhaps phantom is a better word because of its definition: “A figment of the imagination”. My exile had driven me to a sort of madness, clotting the images of her in my mind with a sense of disbelief. Had she really been that close to me all this time? If she had, how could she do such a thing – and why? It was easier to convince myself our friendship had simply been a misunderstanding on my part than it was to accept the truth, 

to accept what I’d seen. 

Back at the bar, I abandoned myself in the hall and walked into the nearby restroom. Emerald-painted ceilings and dark floral wallpaper greeted me beneath dim lighting. I wobbled, blinking. So far, I’d consumed an entire bottle of Prosecco off an empty stomach and had smoked three stolen cigarettes. My head throbbed. I shut my left eye and then my right, lifting my eyebrows as if the movement would rid me of the pain. 

When it didn’t, I stumbled to the toilet in the corner of the room and peed. I washed my hands, splashing water across the floor, my jeans, and the bottom of the mirror across from me. I stuck my head beneath the faucet and opened my mouth. The water was warm and tasted like metal. I drank until I felt like I was going to vomit and then vomited – first, in the sink and then in the toilet. 

I was drunk and for girls in college, especially pretty, refined girls like me with nothing but an inheritance behind their name, this was normal. This was expected, however, most pretty, refined girls with nothing but an inheritance behind their name had a hoard of other pretty, refined girls with them. I did not. I never did. And, I’m sure if I had, they’d simply tire of my constant whining. 

I was a whiner. Addison used to tell me that. There was nothing in this world I did better than whine. Addison was the light. I was the dark. I liked misery and pain and would anticipate any sort of suffering with an excitement similar to that of a child in line to see an R-rated film. Whining, to me, was the applause after consuming a well-written piece of art. It was proof that life was working. I was alive. 

She never understood that. 

To her, every bad thing had a purpose. Any wound inflicted on her soul would soon heal and leave her with a better understanding of the world. It was always the destination she worshiped, never the journey. Sometimes, when we were growing up, she’d get this sparkly look in her eyes. We’d be outside playing in the freshly cut grass, the small blades sticking to our bare feet, leaving chlorophyll stains along our ankles and heels, and she’d look otherworldly. Her big, doe eyes would glitter like lake water beneath the sun.

“This is so good.” She’d say. “I love the summer.” 

I’d have to catch my breath at the sight of her. How are you real, I’d think. Did you not wriggle out of my brain only to fool me? 

When we’d collect bugs in jars, she was always the first to scream. She wanted to let them go. 

“If you love something, you let it go. You have to let it be free.” She’d say, and I’d roll my eyes and chew the skin off around my nails. 

Always, she begged me to catch them. Butterflies, beetles, flies – you name it, I was catching them because Addison wanted them. We’d argue about setting them free until they eventually died in the jar. We used to cry about it, stare at their little corpses like God. Feel pain. And then we graduated into something else, something apathetic. 

I liked squishing the dead beetles between my fingers like they were M&Ms. Addison used to squeal. She’d hit me and tell me to stop, but then, never leave. Hand me the next. Say, “Oh, this one.”, with that same twinkle in her eye. Often, I wondered if we’d trap each other if we had a big enough jar. 

I flushed the toilet with a moan and stood to my feet. I cleaned the sink, smeared more of my makeup around my face while wiping the vomit from my lips, and pulled apart the damp pieces of my hair. There was a knock at the door, followed by muffled speech. 

“Ugh.” A woman groaned, “Are you almost done in there? I really have to pee.”

I shut my eyes and held onto the sink, feeling as if I was going to vomit again.

The dynamic between Addison and I could be found in nature. She was the more dominant one, the one that made all of the decisions. Kissed all of the boys. She always had things that I wanted – did and said things I wanted. If we were animals, she was the great giant whale and I was the barnacle attached to her stomach. I was the tapeworm in her gut. The lice on her unwashed scalp. And, this point of view wasn’t one-sided. No. She too believed this. It was why she kissed him: Tyler. 

My boyfriend. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking, why would you have a boyfriend if you’re in love with Addison? There are two parts to that question. First, you have to understand that my love for Addison was anything but practical. It was invasive, gnawing like an esurient termite at my organs. If my body had been composed of wood, surely I’d have collapsed by now.

Secondly, and perhaps, more importantly,

I wanted to see. 

All our lives people had told me things like, “Oh, you know Addison said that shirt makes you look fat, right?”, “Are you really friends?”, “Uh…she said you don’t shave your legs.”. It was just like the jars and the bugs and smashing their pathetic, lifeless bodies like candy. Saying one thing and then doing another. 

I never liked Tyler, but she did. He was tall and broad. He had big, brown eyes, a crooked smile, and liked acid rock. He was just her type, which meant he was perfect. Addison had never explicitly said that she liked Tyler. We’d just had a few classes with him throughout high school and, occasionally, I’d catch her staring at him. 

I’d begun flirting with him our Junior year. He asked me out the summer before Senior year. I told Addison, she was obviously jealous but attempting to hide said jealousy, and then I slept with him. It was awful, the kind of sex that makes you reconsider sex in general. Is the mess really worth it? How come most relationships expect something so miserable? Then, I told Addison and the blotchy rash that coated her skin as she lied about her anger made it worth it. It made me do it again, and again, and again. 

I’d tell her about what sort of positions we’d been in or how long he’d last. I’d tell her what he looked like when he came and what sounds he’d make. It felt like I was some neurosurgeon operating on a brain. Every detail I gave her was just another stitch, another poke toward the direction I so wanted her to go.

Then, the summer came and – 

The women pounded on the door again. I opened my eyes, feeling the nausea pass, and quickly let her inside. I walked back out into the bar. The music outside of the bathroom was louder than before, that or my headache had worsened. I chose the ladder and stumbled my way out into the alleyway where the bar was located. It was cold and dark. Just lightly, the rain had begun to fall, sheltering everything in a mist. I pulled my jacket on and around myself, burying my chin in the collar. 

I smelled like shit, but this was nothing new. Since the incident, I’d taken it upon myself to quit showering. I also stopped shaving, letting one of Addison’s endless lies become a truth. My hair had once been long. I’d cut it three days ago because the mats in it had become unmanageable. Now, it hung just below my cheekbones in a French bob. It made me look eccentric, which I wasn’t.

Often, especially now, I tried to paint my face in such a way that forced people to stare. I don’t know why this was, but I liked the attention. I also liked the act of shopping for makeup, plucking them out of their plastic cubbies, turning them over in my hand like some jewel. My go-to was bright, red lipstick — a ruby lip, if you will, paired with plum eyeshadow with glitter and shading and thick, asymmetrical eyeliner. I’d fall asleep in it every night. I never wanted to be without it, so much that I didn’t mind the clownish girl greeting me in the mirror every morning. Whatever. She just needed a bit of correcting. Don’t we all?

Addison used to say I had a perfectly plain face, that it was easy to draw. She’d smile as she said this too, like her effortless beauty outweighed any sort of negative effect her comment may have had. I didn’t mind. In fact, I enjoyed these back-handed compliments. They often felt like a well I could peer into, some part of her that she’d only ever show me. Because I was special. Because I meant just as much to her as she meant to me. Take a penny. Leave a penny. I used to think these moments were her way of showing me this. We were the same, her and I. Pretenders. 

Tyler was the only son of two bankers. He was made of money and owned a boat that he’d take out onto the lake every summer. This summer, he’d invited me out onto the boat and I, purposefully, invited Addison. She’d been single for months, which wasn’t like her. I figured it was because she was secretly seeing Tyler. He’d been unable to make a couple of our dates and she’d been uncharacteristically missing in my life. Rip the bandaid, I thought. Bleed. 

But then, she declined. She said she didn’t want to go. So, I went on the stupid boat with Tyler and grilled and drank vintage champagne– all while wondering what ludicrous thing she had to have been doing in place of being on an expensive boat with a beautiful boy in the middle of summer. When we got back, Addison had told me she’d been prepping for school. Apparently, she needed to put together a portfolio and finish off two new original pieces before August. I just told her I understood and she offered to get together for a movie night later that week.

And so, the incident presents itself. 

In the alleyway, I kicked a small bit of gravel into a shallow puddle. It clicked against the bottom of the miniature pond. No ripples. Slowly, I crouched down, having spotted a half-smoked cigarette, and brought it to my lips. I lit it with a lighter I’d stolen from Tyler. 

Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, I’d planned to go to Addison’s with Tyler to watch Sabrina. When we arrived, the dated house smelled like chocolate chip cookies and potpourri. Addison had baked all day and had even ordered a pizza from a place down the street. I hugged her in the way we’d always hugged. She kissed my cheek. I kissed her’s. She told me about her day – how her shower had unexpectedly turned cold this morning and that her favorite pair of hose now had a hole in them. 

I laughed the way I always laughed. It was genuine, real in a way I wished it not to be. I loved hearing about her day. I loved getting to live within the dust collecting along the shelves of her home – to be trusted with such intimate details. 

She started the movie on the box television in the living room. I sat on the floor beside Tyler, wishing he’d just sit on the couch behind us with Addison. The floor was carpet, old carpet, and I’d forgotten then just how painful it became after a few minutes. 

I’d gotten up. I said that I needed to use the restroom, that I felt sick. Both Addison and Tyler gave me sympathetic looks but didn’t argue or offer me any remedies. That was good. That was what I planned. I dragged myself into the hallway bathroom and turned on the fan before sitting on the closed toilet. Checking my wristwatch, I made sure to give them enough time alone together. 

Even if they didn’t kiss, I could at least gauge the intimacy of their relationship based on how they spoke to one another. If they whispered, then it was obvious. However, if they didn’t – well, I was back to square one. I let ten minutes go by before I turned off the fan. Then, I gently opened the door. The house was dark and all I could hear were the actors in the movie speaking at some elaborate party. I stepped forward. The floor creaked beneath my weight. I stopped. 

Barely, I could hear something, something outside of the movie. I walked forward again, this time with more weight shifted to my toes. In the pool of the television light, Addison and Tyler were kissing. She was leaning down from the couch and he was leaning up. Their mouths moved like cows chewing their cud. 

I couldn’t breathe. 

I was so excited. 

Quickly, I stumbled back through the hallway. I needed to calm down, to regroup. If I acted on my excitement, this could go wrong. I could potentially blow the whole thing. In my mind, there were already two outcomes. One: I calmly reentered the living room and pretended as if I knew nothing. After the movie finished, I’d confront them both. I’d make them grovel. I’d make Addison confess and finally accept that I shouldn’t love her. Two: I’d say nothing. Forever. 

Acting on my excitement presented a third outcome, one where I ran into the living room while their mouths were still connected and set fire to everything. I didn’t like that outcome. It supplied me with nothing. 

Slowly walking backward, I reopened the door to the bathroom, ready to think about my approach. My foot caught on something, though, and I frantically turned on the light. In my reverie, I’d walked too far down the hall. This wasn’t the bathroom. This was just a room. For what, I wasn’t sure. 

Gently, I leaned down and set aside the milk crate that I’d tripped on. The carpet was yellow. The walls were paneled. Before me, was a pile of canvases wrapped in white cloth. Paint supplies littered the room. I carefully pulled the cloth from the canvases, letting it fall to the floor like a specter returning to its grave. 

Every painting was of me. Every me within the painting was naked or asleep with smeared makeup — a colorful wash, like some lifeless exoskeleton waiting to be malted out of. 

Before this moment, I’d never been inside Addison’s studio. I didn’t know she had one. What happened after this discovery, I can’t say. I’m afraid I don’t really remember. Tyler left, though. He ran out of Addison’s front door shortly after I returned to them in the living room. I thought it’d be clever to take off my clothes and cover myself in the same colors Addison had used for all her pieces. I guess I scared him. 

Oh, but the look on Addison’s face. 

She told me one of those paintings was going to be hung at a bar off of Boston Avenue. When she said this, she was clambering – crying like a baby. I just kept asking her why she hated me and if she hated me so much, why did she paint me? Why did she trap me? Own me. Make me a spectacle and title it, “Beloved”?

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t…wouldn’t…who’s to say. At the time, I had a couch pillow pressed against her face and was losing my breath. Then, suddenly, she stopped. The world stopped. Everything came to a rushing halt. eerrk. I heard it shake into a stillness like an old, rickety Ferris wheel finally powering down. My head fell to the side at the sight of her dead, soon-to-be cold skin. She looked smaller then, manageable. 

In the alleyway, my cigarette came to an end and I hissed, seering the tips of my fingers with a few loose embers. Two girls spilled out from the bar beside me. They were drunk. Friends, I assumed. I watched them for a minute or until one of them spotted me. Her back straightened. Her eyes, glazed, slightly opened just a bit more. 

“You’re the girl,” She said. I forced a smile. “You’re the girl in the painting.” 

“Hmmm, must’ve escaped.” I hummed, attempting to correct my smeared makeup. 

I flicked my cigarette and watched it land in the puddle next to the small bit of gravel. 

“Do you know where the artist is then?” She asked. “She was supposed to come tonight.” 

I lifted my gaze to her, forcing a frown, “Oh…that’s too bad.”

“You must know her.” The girl continued. 

I shook my head, “Hardly.” and then I took a few steps closer to her, squinting to emphasize the process of thought. 

She remained where she was, properly drunk – flushed and blotchy and a bit swollen. 

“Can I tell you something?” I asked. 

She nodded. 

I licked my lips, pulling in a deep breath, “I think she’s dead.” 

I let my head fall to the side as her eyes widened before me. She understood then. Somehow, she could see Addison’s blood on my hands and place me, effortlessly, at the scene of the crime. It must’ve been something about the way I stared or my face or maybe, it was simply an energy I couldn’t recognize because it was all I’d known.

Her and her friend quickly made up an excuse to go inside. I didn’t move. The rain continued to fall, collecting more and more weight as time went on. I let it wash away the color from my face. I let it soak my clothes. I would’ve killed both those girls. Perhaps that was why Addision had trapped me. From the beginning, she’d been able to see. 

Best Served Digested

Holy shit. Martha’s never shit a shit that big in her life. The thing in the toilet barely even looks like a shit, it’s so huge. Looks more like a little brown snake fell into her toilet bowl somehow. 

“Finally! I’m out!”

Martha screams and jumps so hard she nearly loses her balance. “Who said that? Where are you?”

“Look down.”

She looks at the floor.

“Not down there. In here.”

In where? The…toilet? 

“That’s right.”

There’s nothing in the toilet but her waste. Certainly no sign of this thirty-something—so she guesses—man who sounds kind of like that actor from Get Out. Daniel…whatshisname. Sounds kinda like that one coffee liqueur. Starts with a K.

“Confused? You’re lookin’ right at me, lady.”

“I’m looking at a turd.”

“That’s me!”

Huh. Well, this is a new one.

You’re asleep, she tells herself.

“Let me guess what you’re thinking now,” says her shit. “You’re thinking this is a dream. Go ahead, pinch yourself.”

She pinches herself. It kinda hurts, so…not a dream. “The fuck,” she says.

“You crapped out a real doozy. Kinda unbelievable, really; never seen anything like it. Seems to me you’ve got a diet problem—too little fiber, maybe? You know, fruits and vegetables and stuff? Pretty sure this porker of a poop’s ninety to ninety-nine percent hotdogs. Not very healthy.”

“Fuck off. You sound like my mom.”

“Your mom’s a cunt.”

“The hell!” Martha reaches for the flush handle. “You’re outta here, asshole! What gives you the right to come into my house and talk about my mom like that?”

He laughs. “You really don’t recognize my voice, huh?”

Martha pauses. She can’t deny being curious. If she flushes now, she’ll never learn just how this situation came to be. Besides, flushing may very well kill the sentient poop. Just exactly how does that play out, ethically? Would it be murder? She doesn’t want anything like that on her conscience.  

“I don’t recognize it,” she says. “Should I?”

“Let’s see if you remember this. ‘Hey! Watch where you’re going, you sick sack of dicks!’ Ringing any bells?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, you are so full of it. I know you remember. I was practicing my unicycle juggling routine outside the Walmart and you walked right out in front of me. I fell and crashed onto the pavement because of you!”

Hey, yeah. Martha does remember something like that. “You’re that unicycle prick? You asshole, you made me drop and break all groc—oh, Kaluuya! That’s that guy’s name!”

“Stay focused, woman. We haven’t left the topic of you knocking me off my unicycle.”

“You ran into me.”

“Oh, really. If I had eyes right now, I’d be rolling them.”

Martha imagines shit with eyes. Now there’s a wacky image.

“No, let me tell you the real, non-revised version of what happened,” he continues. “I was practicing for my circus audition, when all the sudden, this fuckin’ drunk, high-as-a-kite bitch just came strutting along like she owned the whole damn sidewalk, not paying a single ounce of attention to anything around her—”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I wasn’t keeping an eye out for a goddamn unicyclist outside the Walmart!  And I wasn’t drunk, orhigh! Or—well, I wasn’t high, at least.”

“So, you admit to having been intoxicated?”

Ah, fuck. Maybe that does change things a little. “Look. I’m sorry, all right? Can we leave it at that?”

“Oh, no. We absolutely cannot leave it at that.”

She snorts. “Seriously? What are you going to do about it? How did even become a piece of shit in my toilet in the first place?”

“I was getting to that. See, when I fell on the pavement—when you knocked me onto the pavement—I scraped up my knee real bad. Now, here’s the thing, that knee was very special to me. My parents gave me that knee before they died in a car accident when I was six. It was very sentimental to me. So, naturally, I went straight home and killed myself.”

“Uh, overreaction much? You know skin heals, right?”

“Fuck you. Shut up and let me finish. After I killed myself, I became a ghost. That’s when I decided I was going to possess your body and make you do horrible things to the people you love. Only problem is, I missed your brain and ended up in your large intestine instead—where it just so happened you were cookin’ up a big ol’ turd.”

“Oh. And you can’t get back out?”

“Doesn’t seem like it. But don’t go thinking you’re off the hook. I’ll find some way to kill you.”

As far as Martha’s concerned, the ethics of turd murder have just become a lot less complicated. If he came here to ruin her life, that makes her feel a lot less bad about flushing him. “And what if I send you on down to the sewers? What’ll you do then?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Why not?”

“Because—I—well—” 

Martha flushes the toilet. The unicyclist screams as a miniature maelstrom sucks him toward the drain and digestion anew in the pipes. But then, the drain gurgles and, as if not caring for the taste, spits the turd back out in a surge of brown-tainted water. The water climbs nearly to the rim, but to Martha’s relief does not spill over. 

“Ha!” the unicyclist says. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Martha picks up the plunger next to the toilet. She stabs the rubber flange into the drain and pumps the handle, squelch, squelch, squelch. Finished, she pulls the plunger free, washes it in the sink, and flushes again. 

The dirty water rushes to the top of the bowl and cascades over the rim.

“Shit!” she exclaims.

The unicyclist cackles. “Revenge at last! Enjoy a floor covered in filth, woman!”

Martha grimaces. Cleaning this will not be fun. She steps toward the cupboard with the towels but slips on the wet floor. Crack! Her head hits the corner of the countertop. She crumples down into shit-water, adding her blood to the mix. 

“Take that,” the unicyclist says. “I win.”

***

Martha floats in a void beyond space and time. Now and then she hears whispers or sees flashes of light, but nothing distinct. Over time, however, these fleeting sensations resolve into something recognizable: the earth, and she high above it like a comet out in space, looking down on its majesties. She finds that if she focuses her thoughts on one specific place or thing, she can “zoom in,” so to speak, to see it closer. She thinks “New York City” and she’s there, in the sky overlooking the vast cityscape with its plethoric skyscrapers and other landmarks. She thinks of her apartment in Queens and now she’s outside looking in through the window at her living room, just as she left it. Not wanting to see, but knowing she must confirm, she brings herself to the bathroom. 

If only she had a mouth, she would scream. What kind of end is this for a person, to slip on her own shit and die lying in it? Did she not deserve better? That damned unicyclist! If only he hadn’t been distracting her with his idiocy, she might have been more thorough in her use of the plunger. She might have been more mindful of her movements on the wet floor. 

She thinks of the unicyclist, then of his family. She’s whisked from her bathroom to another, wherein a gray-haired man sits upon a toilet. The unicyclist’s father, perhaps? Yes, he’ll do. Martha imagines herself in the man’s brain, controlling him. She feels a tug, a sign that it seems to be working. She sets her gaze on the man’s head and concentrates as hard as she can on going inside. 

Whoosh. Her perspective changes again. She sees now through the man’s eyes, staring at the shower door in front of the toilet. She’s done it—she’s inside him. Looking at the man’s legs, she wills him to stand. No good; he remains seated. She looks at his finger and wills it to curl. It doesn’t so much as twitch.

Something’s wrong. Unlike that moron, she doesn’t appear to have missed the brain. Then she looks side-to-side and wants to scream again. She’s smack-dab in the middle of a row of hairs jutting out from the rim of an eyelid. An eyelash, she’s a goddamn eyelash. That’s almost as bad as becoming a turd! 

But maybe it’s not the end of the world. This old man will croak eventually, and she may get another chance then to enter someone else. If she misses again, same thing—wait and take another shot. It’ll take a while, but she has all the time in the world. Even if it’s not until the unicyclist’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great nephews or nieces are born, she will have her revenge.

The Opening

On May 25^th, 2007, Vincent DeLasario stood in the lobby of the gallery, his tuxedo devoid of even a single wrinkle, shaking the hand of every visitor to the opening of his fiancée’s latest art exhibit. The photographs that hung on the wall depicted various sexual situations but in such a way that they had been rendered almost abstract, all of them either in shadow or extreme close-ups, reducing (or expanding?) their subjects into vast landscapes of pores and naked flesh. Vincent was nervous for his fiancée. He wondered what the reviews would be like. He hoped the opening went well. 

It seemed like a pretty good crowd tonight. His fiancée, Doriᛋᛋ Dae (six months earlier, for some mysterious reason, she had insisted on placing the Nazi SS symbol at the end of her pseudonymous forename), would be proud. She couldn’t stand here beside him and greet the visitors because she was in the back room. In fact, she was part of one of the exhibits. Vincent wondered how drastically the atmosphere in the gallery would change when the true nature of the show became clear. It would be interesting to see the drama unfold.

Whether or not the evening was a disaster was irrelevant; either way, it would be Art.

***

Ms. Doriᛋᛋ Dae lay on a flat white table that somewhat resembled a gynecological chair but wasn’t. She was naked, and her feet lay in stirrups. Her body was separated from the rest of the gallery by a form-fitting partition, a thin wall that covered her entire naked body except for a single small hole between her legs. She closed her eyes and sighed for the hundredth time this evening, wondering why she’d ever thought of all this nonsense. She wondered if the National Endowment for the Arts would ask for their grant money back. Hell, she hoped so. That would just conjure up even more controversy. Doriᛋᛋ liked causing trouble.

But was it worth it? 

Would she be able to go through with it?

Jesus, Doriᛋᛋ, get a grip, she thought, get a grip. It’s just Art.

But it was more than just Art. It was a cutting-edge sociological/psychological experiment. Half the fun of Art was gauging the taboos and mores of society. Why were some behaviors acceptable and others not? Who made the rules? And why?

God, she hoped she didn’t lose her nerve halfway through.

No, no, don’t even think that way, Doriᛋᛋ. Just close your eyes and think of England. Or the Guggenheim. Whatever.

She wondered how Vince was holding up outside. 

Then she heard the door open on the other side of the partition.

The first visitor of the evening….

***

Mr. Armand Wycliffe was 81 years old. He walked into the backroom alone. He had to. The sign outside said explicitly that the artist wished for only one person at a time to view this particular exhibit. Armand’s wife was waiting outside, but she wouldn’t go in. The sign said no women were allowed inside. Mrs. Wycliffe was a little annoyed by this, but Armand patted the back of her liver spotted hand and said, “Oh, don’t fret, my dear, it’s some crazy art thing. You know….”

And so he entered the room, expecting to spend only a few seconds inside.

The room was devoid of any distinguishing features except for an odd-shaped wall on the south side of the small chamber. In this wall, at waist level, was a small hole. Above the hole, at eye level, was a sign that read:

Please observe the hole below. The artist, Doriᛋᛋ Dae, is lying naked on a table on the opposite side of this hole. Ms. Dae invites you to slip your erect penis inside the hole; i.e., Ms. Dae invites you to fuck her. Before you do so, however, please remove the condom from the dispenser to your right. When you’re done, you may place the used condom in the metal waste basket to the left of the dispenser. Thank you. Please do not take overly long, as there are no doubt other art lovers waiting behind you. Paper towels are available near the entrance.

Armand stroked his pointed silver beard. He glanced up at each corner of the room. This had to be some sort of joke. Were there cameras filming his every move? Would his actions be seen by the other visitors outside? By his wife?

Armand approached the hole. He pulled his gloves out of his pocket (it was a cold night outside) and slipped one on his right hand. Curious, he slid his index finger inside the inviting hole. He could hear the gasp of a female voice on the other side of the partition, the shifting of legs against the thin wall. Yes, it certainly felt real. But… no, it had to be a scam… somebody was putting him on….

He could feel his penis hardening inside his pants. How long would it take? Not long at all if he was fast… his wife needn’t know… it wasn’t all that disgusting… after all, the artist wanted him to do it… this was an art gallery, not a brothel… it wasn’t illegal in any way….

He pulled his finger out and was just about to unbuckle his pants when he thought, No, it has to be some sort of candid camera put-on. I’m not going to end up on a damn video installation somewhere. Sweat beads now poured down his forehead. Fuck these people, he thought. Fuck Art!

He stuffed the glove back into his pocket and escaped that little chamber. He grabbed his wife’s elbow and suggested they leave. He wasn’t feeling so good anymore….

***

Doriᛋᛋ thought, Whew. Well, maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe no one would have the nerve. That would be an interesting commentary all on its own. Buncha chickenshits. What was wrong with these people? 

Now she started getting disappointed. They were going to ruin the fantasy.

Well, whatever. Let the chips fall where they may.

She stiffened as she heard the door open again. She heard the soft clip of low leather boot heels approaching the partition….

***

Antonio Nila entered the small chamber. He saw some old white dude dart out of there lookin’ like he was going to throw up so he figured there might be something interesting in here. He just came by because his Art teacher at the University told the class they’d get extra credit if they dropped in, looked at some of the photographs, then wrote a 1 to 1 ½ page essay about what they saw there. He’d already checked out all the blurry photographs outside and figured he’d leave in a few minutes. There wasn’t much happening here. Besides, he couldn’t stand those little finger sandwiches and the cheese cubes. He wanted some real food. 

But this cozy little chamber piqued his curiosity, so he figured, Why not?

He approached the sign and read it. He glanced at the condom dispenser and the trash can. The trash can was shiny and made of smooth metal. It was so shiny, in fact, he could see his reflection in its surface. He remembered the guilty look on the old man’s face and laughed. What a cool art exhibit. This was more like it.

The trash can was cylindrical and rounded at the top, the kind that always reminded him of R2-D2. He bent over, pushed the tiny metal door on the trash can inward, then glanced inside. Nope, it was empty. Had the old man gotten scared, or had he simply not used a condom at all? Fuck, who was gonna stop Antonio from just saying, Screw the condom?

But then, he didn’t want to catch something. Who knew where this chick had been? He wasn’t even sure it was the artist herself, but who cared? Did she just hire some prostitute to lay back there? Yeah, that was probably it. What did it matter? His cock was getting real hard now. A pussy’s a pussy, after all. And hell, his girlfriend wasn’t here with him, and it wasn’t exactly cheating, so….

He pulled the condom package out of the dispenser, tore open the package, slipped the rubber over his erect cock, pressed his waist up against the wall, then slid his cock inside the hole. It was nice and warm inside. Oh, it was wet. He heard a woman gasp on the other side. He heard the creak of a wheeled table as she pressed her legs against the partition. Oh, you little bitch, he thought as he pressed his palms up against the wall and started thrusting fast and hard. I hope it is the artist… fuckin’ whore better put out after gettin’ all that government money… fuck, yeah… ‘bout time these high-and-mighty bitches started giving back… stopped acting like they own the whole fuckin’ roost… I can’t get any of my landscape photographs accepted by major galleries ‘cause I’m Latino, ‘cause I’m a man… the Art Establishment has it out for me and my kind… but now I’m gettin’ some wet hapa pussy so everything’s okay… just for a little while…. “Oh, yeah, that’s it,” he whispered into the wall, “oh, you fucking whore, I love it, you’re so tight, you love it, don’t you, you love it, you fuckin’ little bitch, you love Antonio’s hard cock, don’t you, yes, oh, yes you do, yeah, yeah, uhhhhhhh….”

Ten more quick thrusts… he ejaculated, moaning with his face pressed up against the stucco wall as he did so, and then he was done. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, caressed the wall for a few seconds, withdrew, pulled off the condom, tossed it in the trash can, zipped up, then turned and left the room. 

He decided to stay in the gallery for a while and have some more cheese cubes. Maybe if he waited about twenty minutes, he could have another go at it.

***

Doriᛋᛋ tried to catch her breath. It was strange… as good as her fantasy, but a hell of a lot weirder. So odd not to know who was fucking you. She’d invited a lot of her friends and family and former art professors to the gallery, after all. What if that first guy had been one of them? When she came up with the idea, that was the first rule she laid down for herself. Nobody was excluded from the running. Anybody with a cock was eligible. That was part of the anonymous fun of it all. How would her 65-year-old happily married photography professor react? Would he do it? If so, would it be for himself… or for Art’s sake? How would her psychiatrist react? The Art critic for the L.A. Times? Her stepbrother? Her physician? Her ex-boyfriend? Her assistant? What about all the people she hated? The slimeballs who’d been trying to get into her pants for years? The people she found repulsive and disgusting? Some of them were there, weren’t they? What happened when people like that entered the room? What happened, indeed?

It would be interesting to find out. It wouldn’t be a waste. Her reactions would all go into the book. D.A.P. already said they’d publish it. Robert Hughes promised her he’d give her a good quote. He said he might even show up. If so, she thought, it better be a hell of a quote.

Vince popped his head in through the curtain to her right. “You okay?” he whispered.

Her face was still a little flushed from the last encounter. “I think so,” she said.

He entered the room, stood beside her, squeezed her hand. “Any takers?”

“Just one.”

“Already? It might be a long evening then.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m just out there shaking everybody’s hand,” Vince said. “You’ve got the hard part.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. What I mean is… we talked about what this might be like, but it’s kind of different when it’s actually happening. Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“After doing all this? Of course not, honey. It was your idea. And it’s a good one. Let’s see it through till the end. You should always finish what you start.”

Doriᛋᛋ smiled. “You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve you. I love you, Vince.”

“I love you too.” He caressed the back of her smooth hand.

Doriᛋᛋ drew in some air. Her eyes bulged slightly. She hadn’t been expecting it. God, this was a big one. Jesus Christ….

She gripped Vince’s hand. “Oh, fuck,” she groaned. “Oh, Christ….”

Vince continued to hold her hand throughout. 

Tight, tighter, tighter….

“Let me see your cock,” she whispered.

She didn’t have to ask twice. Vince unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants to the floor, revealing the fully formed erection that had been straining to be released since her moans began.  Doriᛋᛋ let go of his hand and gripped his cock just as tightly. She stroked it fast as the stranger on the other side of the wall pounded and pounded and pounded with what must have been a nine-inch-cock. With each violent thrust, Doriᛋᛋ continued massaging that tender spot just below the head of Vince’s penis where his foreskin was now stretched taught with eagerness. 

“Oh, Doriᛋᛋ,” he whispered, “I love you,” his semen spurting all over the spotless tiled floor. Love comes in spurts, Doriᛋᛋ thought, suddenly remembering the lyrics from an old Richard Hell song. 

“Ohhhhhh, uhhh, I love you too,” the artist whispered as her spine tingled with the heady rush of an oncoming orgasm, as she felt the sudden telltale jerking spasms of the anonymous cock deep inside her, hot semen pooling into a cold latex tip. 

The anonymous art lover withdrew, just like the previous one, and wandered away, leaving room for the next. 

Vince kneeled beside Doriᛋᛋ, held her hand, and said, “Oh God, I love you. I love your talent, I love your mind, you’re the only woman for me. Forever and ever.” 

“Forever and ever,” she said, never feeling more in love with him than now. They locked eyes, seeing each other again for the first time. Then he rose. He stuffed his slick, softening cock inside his underwear, zipped up again. 

“I better wash my hands before I go out there and continue the meet and greet,” he said.

“Meanwhile, I’ll do my own meet and greet back here,” she said. “Get back to work.”

“Back to work,” he whispered, smiling sweetly. He squeezed her hand one more time, gazing at her with pure love, then left the room.

A second after he passed through the mauve curtain, she felt another cock inside her.

***

After about two hours, around nine o’clock, Vincent took to the stage. He approached the microphone. A curious, indefinable, excited atmosphere had descended upon the gallery. The men seemed happy and smiling, flushed with joy, laughing and joking and getting more and more drunk off the red and white wine provided by the gallery. All the women, somehow, seemed confused and agitated, as if they suspected something might be wrong here, somewhere, but they didn’t know what….

Vincent cleared his throat into his clenched fist, tapped his fingernail against the microphone, then said, “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention. My name is Vincent DeLasario, and I’d like you all to bring your hands together and give a proper welcome to the artist of the evening who brought you this splendid exhibit, my lovely fiancée, Ms. Doriᛋᛋ Dae.”

The applause that erupted from the crowd was enthusiastic, to say the least. Again, the men seemed far more excited than the women for some reason.

Doriᛋᛋ emerged from behind the mauve curtain wearing an elegant one-piece black gown that accentuated her slim figure, petite breasts, smooth skin, long swan-like neck; her flowing black hair appeared lustrous beneath the overhead lights; a split up the leg revealed just enough flesh to be enticing. She looked so beautiful, so infused with raw sexuality, that not even the obvious bulge in her stomach could detract from her natural loveliness. In fact, many of the women in the audience might have said that the child growing in her womb made her a thousand times more attractive.

The men in the audience slowly ceased their applause as the women grew more and more confused by the looks of consternation and guilt on the faces of their husbands, brothers, and boyfriends. Doriᛋᛋ proceeded to give a speech about her project, so long in the making, the intention of the photographs and how they all tied into the overall theme of the main exhibit, about the book being written that would chronicle the entire experience; how it was a one-of-a-kind experiment, as you really couldn’t expect to get away with it more than once. “After all,” she said, smiling, “the advantage of surprise would be gone from here on out.”

She laid out in stages how the idea had occurred to her while idly masturbating in the bathtub early one morning. As she spoke about the exact nature of the main exhibit, in great and exacting detail, a low groan of anger and sadness and despair swept over the gathered hordes. The men seemed to grow more and more nervous while the women grew angrier and sadder. Some broke into tears. The photographer from the L.A. Times was the one who caught the award-winning shot that night as an old woman threw a chair at the artist, missing her head by only a few feet, calling her a whore and claiming she’d destroyed a perfect marriage. 

Doriᛋᛋ smiled and said, “But what did I do?”

***

How many relationships were “destroyed” that evening is not known, but Ms. Dae’s (now Mrs. DeLasario’s) unique exhibit/experiment continues to be controversial amongst psychological, sociological, feminist, and Conceptual Art circles. 

Robert Hughes did indeed give the entire affair a rave review in Art News; however, as late as 2012 (the year of his death at the age of 74), he insisted he had not chosen to participate in the main exhibit. 

Few believed him.