The kindly old man at the ticket booth of the Museum of Contemporary Erotica reminded me of my father, except bald and plumper. But he had the same big nose, and his bald head was so smooth and round—it made me think of the head of a penis—to be sure, not my dad’s penis—I’d never seen my dad’s penis—and the ticket man’s beard was so dark and full and soft—it made me think of my pussy fur when I don’t bother to shave for a few months. The ticket-man smiled and his eyes twinkled and he winked. And then his voice. Just like Dad’s. He said, “May I check your coat, Mademoiselle?”

“Oh no, that’s all right,” I said, for my little jacket was all that concealed my breasts.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Well then unfortunately I won’t be able to sell you a ticket.”

“Really?”

He nodded solemnly. “Dress code.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I am,” the man admitted. “But it would make me so happy to be able to check your coat.” He looked at me with my father’s eyes, and I couldn’t resist. Not that my father had ever asked to see my breasts. But now that he was gone, I somehow regretted that. Not that my breasts are anything special, but nevertheless, I wanted my father’s admiration. So I took a deep breath and shrugged off my jacket and held it out to the man. His smile was so rewarding. I smiled back.

“Now that that’s settled, would you like to rent some headphones?” he asked.

“No, I’m okay,” I replied.

“They do add a lot to the experience.”

I thought about it, maybe a moment too long, and his eyes moved to the couple behind me. I felt a wee bit abandoned, discarded, dismissed, so I declined the headphones with a shake of my head and ventured into the galleries.

Not wanting to make a display of myself, I sought those less crowded, though really there were very few in attendance, and their attention was on the art (as it should be) and not on me and my bare breasts.

In truth, though, I was a bit self-conscious—more than a bit—and perhaps I didn’t appreciate the art as much as I otherwise would have.

After perhaps half an hour of strolling through the rooms, I found myself in an almost empty gallery. No pictures on the walls, only a statue in the far corner. The figure was of a boy, perhaps in his late teens. He was of smooth marble but exquisitely carved, or whatever they do to sculpt marble, and he was lovely to look at, and he was holding his penis, which was quite large, and apparently he was masturbating. He looked like he was close to coming. So close. I found it difficult to take my eyes off his cock. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to kiss it. I wanted to suck it. But did I dare?

I glanced up, into the statue’s eyes. They were looking right into my eyes. “Go ahead,” they seemed to say. “Taste me. Please.” Surreptitiously I looked around. The gallery was still empty. I bent close. Close enough to feel his need. My need. Our mutual need. I was about to—my lips parted, but I thought I heard something. A squeak-squeak, like someone’s sneakers on the floor. Instantly my mouth snapped shut and I backed off.

Almost immediately a young couple entered the gallery, and I turned, ferociously embarrassed, and hastened away. About to leave the museum, I realized I’d forgotten to retrieve my jacket. That would have been something—to venture out into the real world bare-breasted.

The man at the ticket counter handed me my coat and asked if I’d enjoyed myself. I nodded, sure my face was still flushed. “Come back soon,” he said. All the way home I thought about that statue, that cock, those eyes.

The very next day I went back. This time I dressed in fancy shorts and long leggings and a top that could be pulled down below my breasts if necessary. The ticket man with the pussy fur beard was not at the counter—just an ordinary person who resembled my father not at all. He sold me a ticket without comment. “Um, do you have headphones to rent?” I inquired. He seemed a touch reluctant, a wee bit miffed, but he handed them over. I wasted no time making my way to the gallery with the statue of the masturbating boy.

He wasn’t there. The bright white pedestal stood empty. Disgruntled, I let my eyes wander about the smallish room. Now there were pictures. I was sure there hadn’t been any the day before. One of them was of a couple looking out a window. The man had a hand on the woman’s breast. She seemed to be enjoying his touch. By their dress I could tell they were from a time centuries ago. But wait, wasn’t this supposed to be contemporary erotica. I noticed no information tag on the wall next to the art. Then I remembered I was wearing the headphones. But they were silent. Could it be I hadn’t turned them on? I took them off. No controls that I could see. I put them back over my ears and was about to head back to the ticket counter to get instructions or a refund when I noticed another piece of art on the adjacent wall. My mouth opened. It was me!