Wednesday, February 22

Veins & Arteries

The package came parcelled. It was tied with string and wrapped in a sketch, or at least a photocopy of a sketch. As is my habit, I took my time opening it. First I admired the wrapping, then I read the note attached—‘I hope in some strong way this takes you by surprise.’ Crisscrossed with twine, I carefully opened up the sketch wrapper. (At this point, and for this tale only, I will forgo describing the gift itself.) Laying it flat upon my writing desk I was able to see that, xerox’d, this was a sketch of a woman being fucked in the arse. Her hairless twat looked somewhat like a weeping eye. She had no labia or pubic hair to speak of, which I considered most suspicious. The penis, upholstered in veins, was threatening to tear her anus. There was come everywhere. The man’s testicles were quite spherical, and to sustain this orderly appearance he wore polished shoes and trousers. The woman was spread symmetrically, like a Rorschach test. The space between her vagina and anus was quite large, almost expansive, but she was in the throes of anal stimulation and in no position to answer queries on anatomical distances.
Running my hands over it and smoothing out the creases, I was greatly impressed and I thought of anal sex and became aroused. On the edge of the sheet was a description of the piece; it mentioned not the artist’s name but the title. Who would draw such a thing? Some research revealed the artist to be Hans Bellmer, who I was unfamiliar with, until I saw his sculptures. Why, I remembered his sculptures! The style to his sketches was lovely, enviable even, but it was his sculptures that pulled me by the scruff toward my youth. Hans Bellmer, you dead pervert!
School-trips were always an occasion, although my infant mind found no particular event in travelling to London. A school-trip was a school-trip; the greatest joy was the journey: sweets and laughs and frolicking, and so on. Mostly it was the motorway that passed us by. At such an age I gave little thought to art galleries.
Then I saw one of Hans Bellmer’s sculptures. It was a sexual monstrosity! It was the work of an adolescent mind allowed free reign (the biggest threat to anything). My young mind was delighted! It was a collection of doll parts connected grotesquely, fused together by someone who probably struggled to make it through a Christmas dinner without masturbating at least once in their host’s perfumed cloakroom. The way the thing was put together brought together memories of my life. The joints were the rolls of fat that everyone has when they are in a certain positions, arising from a sunbed or sitting on the toilet. The vagina reminded me of S—h E—t’s – who stood not a few feet behind me – as it was bald and long, extending upwards toward the line of hiding that a swimsuit affords. She had shown me hers in a simple exchange for a view of mine and we looked at each other’s, deep in Sunday school sin. But, forgive me, I found, even at that age, something to be interested in; an interest that shimmered down my body and each drop of it coming to dribble along my sex that was not quite a sex. This man was surely a genius. I was terrified, intimidated and aroused at once. What magic had he cast? I wanted to touch it, to lay my fingers upon its curves. My fingers were quite clean. I had an obsession with cleanliness, even back then. I would wash my hands constantly, to the point that my mother thought it strange. She remarked to me—‘In playschool you didn’t like finger-painting because you didn’t like your fingers getting dirty.’ My fingers were quite clean, if I could just touch the sculpture, but there was a man in a uniform watching.
I owned an art book. Every page with a nude in it was folded over so that each was easily accessible. I went home and folded over every page with a nude in. Every page was then checked again, in case I had missed a nude. Always I thought of Bellmer’s sculpture. The nudes in the book were more beautiful, but none more astonishing. Upon my infant penis I noticed, stretched against the feeble erection, that some were veins and some were arteries; some were coming, some were going; some were blue, some were red. Were those in the blue satisfied that they had done their job? I did not know. It was all very strange. The art book had its pages folded over. I got off the toilet and flushed it, to maintain the ruse, and pulled my trousers up.

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