I remember the first time I went to the art gallery. Walking down the stairs, and up to the small glass entrance, I saw three women drinking coffee in their morning robes. As soon as they saw me coming, two of them quickly undressed and lay down on a table. The third woman took the tray with cups and disappeared in the back.
Entering, I hesitated to go near these bodies. Instead, I looked at a painting of a girl, carefully inspecting the thickness of paint and the composition. I wanted some time to pass bofore I started walking round the gallery. There is nothing wrong with a genuine interest of a certain painting. But, it struck me, the two women were probably just waiting for the next coffee break. I almost had a bad conscience, for watching a video installation for nearly three minutes. Finally, I had to approach the table of women. I saw their oiled legs, one of the had thicker thighs than the other. I saw their hairy cunts and the breasts resting at their ribs.
A few weeks later I heard coincidentally about a vacancy at the very same gallery. The recruiting process was a formality, no one else had applied. I lived in a small town without artistic education, and every talent from my generation had moved out, a process we called the big braindrain. The owner was an immigrated excentric. During the interview, she looked at me under thick red glasses, wondering if I was willing to work odd hours. Above her head hung a portrait of her, it was obvious, naked on a divan. The hairy bush in her crotch melted, in my perspective, with the hair on her actual head, which explained why my answers were a bit distracted. The impression I left her must have been that of a motivated but stupid young man.
A warm summer day, I was for the first time promoted to guard the exhibition on my own. The whole room was dark for the purpose of a video installation. It showed a sunset, black and white, a very slow sunset. It took about five minutes to see the sun move. I sifted through some documents and found a pile from the previous exhibition. There were polaroids of the women from the table, their names and adresses written out. It struck med, that one of them was my teacher from the university. Seeing her naked had failed to remind me of her well-dressed appearance during lectures. To rip those clothes by force, standing on the knees in front of her, just breathing on her wet pussy must have been every second students secret dream. I felt my pants getting tight around my growing cock. I went to the WC, where I could unzip and let my organ stretch out in empty darkness. But I did not want to masturbate, It was after all my first day of responsibility. Besides, I heard, just then, a thumping sound from the exhibition.
On the floor, just on the spot where I had seen the naked women, a young woman lay in a business suit, apparently unconscoius. Her thin black hair was touchingly spread around her shoulders. My thoughts began to wander. For a moment, I considered dressing off and laying beside her, with my arm stretched out to let her breathe on my chest. When she would wake up, I could explain that I was a part of the installation. It would not be completely unrealistic. But perhaps she would remember that no one was there before, and my hard-on would disclose me. Instead, I took a wet cloth for her forehead. A few seconds later, she moved her head, whispering about the sun. Of course, the contrast between the pale sun indoors, and the merciless sun outside, was too drastic, I immediately understood. Her eyes were weak. I tried to be understanding, explaining that many people get dizzy in here. She shanked me for the help, but wanted to get up on her own, and quickly evaded from the scene.
On the floor, she had left a small scarf, an expensive Italian bone white silk scarf. I picked it up and placed it on a table in the bak room. Then, I went back to the pictures of my naked lecturer. The woman beside here looked very much alike, if perhaps a bit more sturdy. Perhaps it was a sister. The eyes and cheek bones were the same, but the other woman had broader hips, perhaps a hormonal change after bearing a child, but she did not look older. That explained the title of the installation, "Two sister". I wonder how it feels for two sistersto lie naked beside each other at a gallery, I myself have never had siblings. I imagine the university job takes so much time, that children are out of the question, at least for a period. So, the sister would probably have another profession. With lower social status, she could have childre. Truly, two lives are different, but who can judge which one is better? The only thing I could judge was the perfection of the narrow hips on my former lector, and the line between hip and tummy, the line leading toward her pulsating sex. She reminded a bit of the scarf, with her pale legs and elegant form.
I played with the scarf in my face, and smelled it, when the phone rang an annoying sound. It was the scarf lady. Breathing fast, she asked if it was still at the gallery. Around eight, she would take a train, so she would definitely come by before that and pick it up, if we were open that long. I answered politely that I could stay until nine if that was the case but it was hardly necessary. Before we hung up I eagerly told her my name, but she did not reciprocate but simply repeated the time she would arrive at the latest. So much for carrier women, I thought, they don't have children and they don't say their name. I, on the other hand, a man whose postgraduate unemplyment just had been replaced with running errands for an art gallery, I longed for contact with women, as if they somehow would save me from myself.
Later, my manager called to ask if there had been any visitors. I told her about the incident with the woman, and that she would come back around eight. My boss showed a surprisingly big interest in this, and instructed me to prepare a surprise for the lady. I should give her a special experience so that she could understand mine, the manager explained. It would also be a test of my work moral. The instructions were very detailed, I should drag the table to the exact spot where it used to be during the previous exhibition, undress, spread some flour on my face and stomach, and lie down on the table with a thin piece of cloth wrapped over me. A bit weird it might seem, but after todays events it seemed like anything could happen. I wanted to sohw my loyalty, but most of all test my own limits. Acting a nude model was something I had considered seriously, and this was not a big step away. I did not know the woman in question, so it would not effect my daily life. The owner continued by telling me it would make an impression on a potential customer, and that rumors are good for business. She also offered me a special money bonus if I did it.
With hesitation, I undressed in the back room and rubbed some flour on my skin. Rubbing it in my crotch was especially funny, It gave me an almost subhuman glow in the roof light, and my sweat disappeared under a thin white layer. The cloth I was to have for cover was in a tiny locker. It felt like a soft caress against my skin, very thin, but still ever reminding of my sensitive nerves. When I momentarily had hard-ons in the slight breeze, a big piece of hte fabric was lifted from my upper thighs, but I managed to fold it so that it somewhat hid that phenomena. A moment went by, and the black and white sunshine was projected on the fabric.
Suddenly, I heard the owners voice in the door, along with another female, eagerly chatting. She said she was unprepared of such a celebrous visit, but that she could, of course, give an evening show since there was interest. The other voice commented on the sunshine and asked for the price for registering the copyright. Then, she wondered if the body on the floor was made out of wax. I understoood she meant me. The owner got tangled into a lie about a new material, resembling wax, but less reflecting of light and therefore more realistic. Under the cloth, she explained, the model was almost frightingly realistic. I thought about my loyalty, and did oddly not have a hard-on dispite the exciting new situation. There I was, eyes closed, not knowing who was inquiring about my body. I did my best not to move a millimeter, something I was well trained in from my days at the theater. The other voice, and now that it came closer it was familiar, asked if she could feel it. The owner was very reluctant, but could not deny one of her best customers to experience the material in "the most expensive piece at the gallery". All said, and more carefully than I had ever experienced, I felt a hand on my left leg, drawing a line along my knee. It felt good, a soft touch by a hand that did not want to make marks on this fine object. The voice gave me compliments for my realistic features, and asked where I was fabricated. The owner answered self-assured, referring to her connections in London. Then, they mumbled something to each other, and I think I heard them kiss, but i still did not dare to look. They moved around the table, and something sounding like a hand clapping was answere with moans. At this point, I had to, very carefully, open one eye a bit. No one would still see it under the cloth.
.... There is more of this story ...