A Piece of Modern Art

It was premiere night at the museum of modern art.  New, rising, and “edgy” artists from the world over had come to show off their newest pieces, and Kevin hated every moment of it. His friend Bootheroy had insisted he come along after losing yet another date for the event, and Kevin was regretting accepting the invitation. There was nothing here but shapeless sculpture and collections of garbage welded together. Supposedly, it was all suppose to mean something, but Kevin couldn’t get any meaning out of anything he saw, beyond “Look at me! I’m an artist!” Even worse, he had lost Bootheroy, who had wandered off to discuss the verve of an oak tree

It was next to an 8 foot tall replica of one half of a pay phone receiver that Kevin finally found something that piqued his interest. At first it appeared to be nothing more than some rubber stretched between some steel poles, another pretentious piece of avant-garde furniture. Then, it moved. There was something in the rubber.

Sealed in the display was unmistakably a woman. She was clearly breathing, and no sculpture could ever take a breath with such grace. She was trapped in what seemed like a sheet of polished black plastic, clinging to her every curve. Though the plastic was thin enough that it could let every detail of her body show, it was also strong enough that she was held immobile, splayed wide for the world to see.

 Her generous breasts and gently curved hips were kept on display by a polished chrome frame. Sculpted in such a way that inspired thoughts of a willow swaying in the breeze, the frame kept her leaning back slightly, as if the girl was just on the cusp of falling into a waiting lover’s arms.

Even spread out for a museum audience, very the display left nothing of its subject to the imagination, save two details. Her face was completely obscured by some elaborate breathing device, a cross between a painter’s filter and a gas mask from some sci-fi milieu. Two thick transparent tubes emerged from this hood, winding around the entire display before disappearing into the frame itself.

The other hidden detail was her sex. The chrome piping that supported her protruded from its base towards the front a fair ways, before idly looping back and up. Reaching navel height, the piping suddenly twisted to point straight down, narrowing as it met the trapped girl between her legs. Rather than offering her a taste of dignity, it instead served to highlight her plight; an arrow signpost pointing directly to where she is most vulnerable.

It was then that Kevin noticed that the arm moved. As if barely connected to the rest of the frame, it swung slowly at the gentlest push. At the end of the arm, was a simple 5-dollar pocket rocket vibrator. The contrast of the sleek metal curves with the cheap plastic toy made it seem all the more vulgar.

The arm wafted towards the girl, barely grazing against her clit. Immediately, the figure trapped in the rubber sprung to life. She thrust her hips forward, as far as she could manage, trying to get more stimulation from the apparatus. In response, the arm drifted away from her. Desperate and frustrated, the girl tried to throw herself forward as best she could, but only managed to push the vibrator further away. Defeated, she thrashed against her skintight bonds, then slumped back, waiting for her next opportunity.

She must have been struggling in this manner for some time, for, even compressed, her ample chest was heaving as from the effort of the exertion.

Kevin watched this spectacle, both enthralled and shocked.

Bootheroy, having tired of analyzing a nude sculpture made entirely of used chewing gum, wandered back to his friend. “I see you finally found some art that speaks to you.”

“Is that all it is? Art? I mean, there isn’t a real girl in there, is there?”

“Of course there’s a real girl in there!” he snapped, “The artist, a Mr. Ovid, is well known for blurring the line between performance art and sculpture. I once saw one of his installation pieces in Munich that required he borrow an entire ballet troupe for a weekend to get the full effect, but I must say that he might have outdone himself this time.”

 “That’s not ‘art’. You can’t just put people on display like that. It just isn’t dignified.”

“Why not? This museum is dedicated to the display of art, of beauty and culture. By that definition, you have to admit that she is nothing less than a work of art. In fact, tonight she is nothing more than art, either. If you want to give her respect, respect her as a display. Anything else would trivialize her struggle.”

Kevin stood there dumbfounded.

“Truly, the artist put a lot of depth into this piece. It’s clear that he wants us to focus on the struggle with the armature. The subject, if I’m not mistaken, is completely isolated from the rest of the world except through its gentle touch. Within the rubber, she is blinded, deafened, and even her sense of smell is totally controlled by the sculpture.”

“What do you think she smells, then?”

“What? Does it matter? Vanilla frosting and cinnamon, if it makes you feel any better.”

Kevin couldn’t imagine that anyone cruel enough to put someone into such a predicament would use vanilla. In his mind, she was drenched in the scent of her own exertion, the sweat and juices collected by the sculpture as they ran off her body in rivulets shaped by the rubber. Each breath reminded her of how hard she had to struggle to achieve nothing, speaking of her frailty. Perhaps the tubes were instead scented with the same rubber that now trapped her, telling her that she was a simple object on display, or, most cruel of all, perhaps the tubes didn’t go anywhere. Instead, they contained all the air she was allowed, and all her exertion only making it ever harder to get a breath, yet she struggles on.

Bootheroy continued his critique, never even noticing Kevin’s attention wandering. “So the vibrator is what defines her existence. While it stays hidden from her most of the time, she is always aware of its presence by virtue of it being the only thing that, if you don’t mind me saying, stimulates her. It’s both her goal and her reward. Her escape from the present and dream for the future. In a very literal way, her desires have been shaped by her world, yet her world is only her desires.

“Yet, every effort she makes only drives the object of her affection further away. The more she fights, the less she wins. And still, she cannot simply give up, since every time the arm swings back around, she’s given just the faintest taste of the release that she desperately wants. The faintest lick of the device against her clit both keeps her going and refuses to let her rest. Makes a rather depressing comment on the frustrating nature of human endeavor, doesn’t it?”

The arm had finally completed its arc, and again came into contact with the girl. Determined not to make the same mistakes again, this time she tried squeezing her legs together to try and trap the toy between her legs the moment it made contact. As she strained every muscle in her body to move even slightly, folds appeared in the sheeting, faintly outlining her mons. The rubber, however, was just as unyielding as it always was, and soon the pendulum had begun another arc. Again, she slumped back, breathless, letting the display support her.

Although she had barely moved, Kevin found the spectacle heartbreaking. “So what if I just lean over and get her off? Doesn’t that kinda kill his point? Girl gets to cum, she gets to rest, and a happy ending is had by all. She looks like she’s about to pop, and I don’t think that anyone would stop me.”

“Why don’t you?”

Although it was easy to forget it, lost in the possibilities of the mysterious woman’s predicament, Kevin still stood in one of the most prestigious museums in the country, during a major event. All around him, bohemians and society’s upper crust were circulating the galleries, discussing the displays. On the other side of the girl, now writhing under the rubber to try and find a better position, stood an elderly couple dressed like they were going to the opera. Perhaps they were having a similar discussion about the nature of her struggle. Or, perhaps, they were discussing how shameful it is for a clearly attractive woman to let herself be used like this.

Kevin was suddenly very aware of all this. Were any of them noticing him? How long has he spent in front of this display? How long was he supposed to spend? Did that make him some kind of pervert? What do bohemians and socialites do to someone who breaks the rules? Stare disapprovingly? Call the police? Blacklist his career?

“What? With all these people watching?”

“Why not?”

“But, they’re watching!”

“Isn’t it just? You’re sitting here watching this poor girl, trapped in an endless torment and are fully capable of freeing her. You want to, and I’d daresay that you’d enjoy it. Yet, you don’t. You’re as much a prisoner of your own social mores as she is of the rubber.”

The girl let loose a moan, barely audible through all her equipment, as if to punctuate this last point.

“Perhaps this was the artist’s true motivation. We are not supposed to examine the girl, or her plight, but rather examine ourselves. Here we stand, idly discussing art, rather than going out to change the world. Why don’t we do more? Is it because we’re scared of what the world would say? Is it that we are ashamed that we wish to do these things? Or is it simply that no one else has reached out to touch the girl yet, and we do not wish to be the first.”

Kevin considered the girl again. She was glorious as she was, her form reflecting the harsh light of the display’s spots. What did she look like under there? Is she some kind of pervert to put herself on display? Would she mind being touched? Would she want it? What would she feel like?

He could imagine his hand sliding effortlessly over her body, slick from whatever it was that the artist used to polish her curves. He would only brush past her full tits, ignoring temptation so long as he had a mission. Settling his hand between her legs, he’d get to work, gently massaging her clitoris, giving her the relief she yearned for. He would feel her orgasm, her every muscle straining explosively against her bondage, and, for just one moment, to just one person, he’d be a hero.

Kevin tried to will his arm onto the display, but he simply couldn’t.

Bootheroy interrupted his train of thought. “But I digress. What do you think of the piece?”

“I think you think too much.”

 

28.07.09