He wants to be a painting of a pale woman.
He wants to look into the eyes of Medusa and
watch as his body slowly transforms into
the marble figure of Venus de Milo.
He wants her body to be sandwiched between oil and canvas and
she wants to be hung in the Musée D’Orsay and
make European teenagers on class trips have
sexual realizations and awakenings.
She wants his perfection to be scrutinized by an art collector who
holds a magnifying glass in one hand and an erection in the other.
She wants to be a Greek myth.
She wants his balls to be ripped to shreds by vultures at the end of each day, over and over.
She wants to be still and dry and lounging on a fresh coat of paint but
she doesn’t want to be the subject of some
pastel and coy Rococo.
She wants to be confident and unabashedly stare at the viewer with a smirk because she knows that he is a
piece of fine art, painted or sculpted by one of those undeniable greats and
who are you to be looking at him? Why are you staring? She knows you’re staring. She’s not a piece of pornography. He transcends pornography. Masturbation wouldn’t do him justice. She is a hyper-pornographic, forever-to-be-preserved-and-cherished, hyper-artistic piece of spiritual wet bliss and euphoria. A Trojan Magnum opus.
The wooden floorboards of an art museum creak more slowly but with the same rhythm as a spring
mattress being pounded with the love of two people.
