The artist
STRAIGHT
An artist makes the ultimate sacrifice for her art.
My masterpiece was nearing completion. I had completed some smaller, similar
pieces and these were now in private collections. This was to be my entry for
the Turner prize. Something that would definitely shock, but that was also
beautiful.  
All I needed to complete it were one, perhaps two, more contributions.  
Here in San Francisco I hoped to make my final collections. The Embassy Club
is well known for its lesbian clients. I wore my shortest skirt and tightest
top. It was mid-week and fairly quiet, not too many people about to recognise
me later, should anyone want to. I found a dark corner to sip my drink and
observe the other clients. I wanted someone on their own, not too old.
Eventually I spotted a dark haired women, mid-twenties, good figure, perhaps a
little too well built. She was looking at me. Our eyes met. She was
interested. So was I, but not for the same reasons as her. She walked over to
me and sat down. Good. We talked. I was a stranger, on my first visit, and
lonely. She was single at the moment. We understood each other. She invited me
back to her apartment. This was better than my hotel room for what I had in
mind.  
Her apartment was well laid out, but with the signs that someone else had left
recently, taking their things. There were gaps in cupboards and shelves. We
got down to business quickly. I was eager to examine her pussy lips, but not
for what she wanted. Wow, they were huge. Like some strange painting of an
orchid by Georgia O'Keeffe. Great mounds of wrinkled flesh, a huge cream cake
of a hood. I gently got my tongue underneath to explore. Yes, just what I
wanted. A clitoris like a mini penis. It would be one of the centre pieces of
my art work. I wondered if the current owner would ever visit a gallery and
look at her organs and recognise them.  
I went to make a coffee. Strong and black. She sipped it, slowly, resting on
the bed. Did she taste anything different? No, it was just hot. I waited while
she closed her eyes and fell asleep. I found some plastic to cover the bedding
and some old sheets. Opening my bag I took out the implements that I had used
many times before. A clamp, sharp blades, needles. I looked greedily at her
organs and quickly clamped them. While I waited I washed up; no point leaving
evidence. On my return she was ready. A single, slow cut from top to bottom
and her hood, clitoris and labia were mine. I dropped them in the preserving
solution, then stitched her up. With my trophy in my bag I left by the back
door and walked back to my hotel.  
I replaced the solution with fresh and worked quickly so as to preserve the
colour. These were in mint condition, still slightly pink. Over the next few
days I replace the fluid with resin, being careful to keep the shape and
texture.  
My masterpiece was now almost complete. I looked at the materials. Some of the
contributions were larger than others. The majority were small and black.
These were collected from circumcisers in various southern African countries.
They were black because they had not been well preserved, but they provided
quantity. They were small, like black, shrivelled peas. Some I had painted in
bright colours, reds and pinks mostly. Their former owners, young prepubescent
girls, wouldn't miss them. Some I collected myself. These were in better
condition and larger; I didn't do girls. My final contribution was in the
centre. There was however one gap at the tip. I had decided to make it my
contribution as an artist to her art.  
It had been difficult finding someone in the West to perform the surgery.
Luckily I had met a French doctor who was willing to perform the sacrifice for
me. It was not easy for me. Not the physical loss, so much as the fact that my
most private place would be seen by thousands of people. It frightened me and
yet attracted me. The surgery was soon arranged. A small private hospital. A
local aesthetic, I hated the thought of being unconscious. It was very
surgical and clean; not much pain, more discomfort. He was very professional
as if he did this every day. Perhaps he did.  
A last it was complete. Hundreds and thousands of dots and lines, black,
brown, pink and red. A huge painting of a penis made from women. I called it
"Envy". I hope that you like it.  
  

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