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From: taria29b@aol.com (Taria29b)
Subject: Art Appreciation Part 3 by Taria #1/3

Please move right along if you are:
(a) Under the age of legal consent for erotica
(b) Under the influence of Dworkin and McKinnon, who think I am just      
perpetuating the oppressive patriarchal social construct, or
(c) Under the impression that "erotica" is just "porn" misspelled.

I personally find this story very arousing, which makes sense, since I
wrote it.  But it has a lot of words and spends some time setting the
scene, and if you want more instant gratification you should try Mike
Hunt, who seems like a good quick cure for what ails you (no, Mike, I am
NOT being sarcastic).  The rest of you are welcome to join me, and read
on.
_________________________________________________________
All of "Art Appreciation" is archived at Slowhand Luke's Place:

http://dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/avenue/xgs37
_______________________________________________________


Art Appreciation Part Three: Denouement
by Taria


     Beep-beep.  BEEP BEEP.  BEEEEEEEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEEEP!  I leaned on the
horn of my Toyota, my wussy Made-In-Taiwan little Road Runner "meep-meep"
ain't-I-cute horn.  I sighed and extended my lower lip, blowing upwards so
a stray tendril of hair wiggled a little but pretty much stayed put,
dangling down in front of my pointy sunglasses.  I wasn't going anywhere,
and what's more, I knew I wasn't going anywhere.  So did all the other
drivers spending their dinner time stranded on the Parkway (or as I liked
to call it, the "Parking-Way") along with me.

     I was tired, cranky, and tense.  I could tell I was tense by the way
I sat in my too-narrow bucket seat, hunched over the steering wheel I was
clutching with both hands.  That and the fact that I was barking insults
at the perky Afternoon Radio Nitwits and pounding away at my so-called
horn out of sheer cussedness.  MEEEEEEEEEP MEEEEEEEEEEP MIP**  I quit
pressing in a hurry as I noticed the guy in front of me gesticulating
wildly out his window.  "Aaaaaah, screw you," I responded.  But I only
whispered it under my breath.  His hand quieted down, withdrew back into
his car.  I could see him looking angrily up at his rear-view mirror. 
Suddenly the traffic began to move.  His brake lights flickered out. 
*Blink!* On they went again.  We all crawled forward two inches, and then
came to a dead stop.

     Jeez...what a day...and it looked like the evening wasn't going to
get any better.  Actually, it hadn't been so bad.  Just weird, that's all.
 My so-called "office," my little cubicle with brown padded walls,
occupies a strategic location where I work.  It's right by the little
water cooler and coffee stand (they're too cheap to even get us a real
kitchenette) where everybody tends to congregate as often as possible. 
Unfortunately it's not right next to the refreshment stand, but right
behind it.  That is, the caffeine is on the other side of my brown padded
wall.  To get there I have to get up, turn around, make a quick left, a
right, another right, a short left and a quick right, making sure I don't
bang my knee on the printer stand with our three printers (nowhere nearly
enough for the fifty-five people working in the office).  I always feel
like a lab rat trapped in some horrible felt maze before I get my caffeine
pellet.  It'd be quicker to just hurdle the wall.

     Of course, being three feet from the water hole severly impedes my
working habits.  That is to say, I can never get anything done, because
I'm too busy eavesdropping on everybody's gossip.  I always figured
everyone knew I was listening in, but then again, they might not.  I'm
pretty closemouthed at the office, and besides, if I ever let on that I
knew everyone's dirt it'd spoil the fun.  This way I get to listen in
without having to pretend I'm not listening when I really am.  No sidewise
glances or elaborate pretense for me--I just stare down at my desk and
listen with all my might.

     Most of the time it's just bitching about who's not pulling their
weight, who got promoted, who's a pain in the ass.  But I knew coming in
this morning that today was going to be good.  It was a Monday, the first
day back after a Pay Day weekend and the Friday paycheck.  That meant the
good stuff...drinking, fighting, romance, heartbreak, maybe a little sex,
wild and passionate or completely forgettable (maybe with someone they had
already forgotten).  After a
couple years of marriage--and especially after a couple months of my
hubby's El Projecte Grande--excitement of any sort was welcome.  A live
soap opera, and all I had to do was be a voyeur.  Frankly, it was a cheap
thrill and I was looking forward to it.

    The morning's entertainment was strictly lowbrow stuff.  A few of the
Marketing
blowhards came by early to meet 'n greet 'n eat, spewing donut crumbs all
over each other while they rhapsodized about some playoff or other. 
"Arfle marfle JORDAN?!?"  "FrrrFrrrf Greffshky, Man..."  I zoned out for
Monday Morning Sports Talk and got cracking on some late reports.  The
next thing I knew it must've been midmorning--no windows, so of course I
couldn't tell--and I was dropping my report, craning my neck so I could
get closer to the wall.

     "Ah'm tellin' ya, honey,"--that was Rhonda; the way she spoke always
reminded me of Isabel Sanford, with that husky Louise Jefferson "Movin' On
Up" attitude.  "He was really SOMEthin'.  Mmm, mmm, MMM!"

     "Aw, c'MAWN, Rawn-daaaa!"  Carla.  Had to be Carla.  She was a
Melanie Griffith (remember "Working Girl"?) secretary straight out of
central casting.  "I just gotta get maw than thaaaat.  Dee-tails! 
Dee-tails!"

     "Well, you know, honey," Rhonda chuckled, a dry throaty sound.  "I
ain't one to kiss and tell, but that man sure knows his way around a body.
 He can just...mmm-MMM!"

     "Sooooooooooooo..." said Carla, trailing off nasally.  "Whaaaat???" 
Silently I echoed.  Whaaaaat?!?!?

     "I tell you, girl-FRIEND.  A little of THIS...a little of
THAAAT...and then..."

     And THEN?  And THEN?!?!?

     "Mmmmm-HMMM!  Best damn souffle I EVER saw.  It had that nice crust,
you know?  And it was browned, and tasty??  I tell you..."  Their voices
trailed off, and I heard Carla say "Oh, yew are just SOOOO lucky that he
can COOK, I'm telling you, MOYYYY JER-reee he is just com-PLETE-ly LAWST
any time he has to make his own dinnah..."

     FOOD?!  If I wanted to hear about hot food I could get a job at
McDonald's.  I wanted something juicier and spicier than a souffle today,
but it didn't look as if I was agoing to get it.  The Sports Guys returned
shortly later--"Frrrrckn A!  Whrrrt ur frrckn PLAY!!!" <SLRRP>--followed
by the Whiny Accounting Guys, the Boss-Hates-Me Girls, and the Flirty
Interns.  Actually the Interns weren't too bad, but after a while they
started to grate on my nerves and I started dropping phone books on my
desk.  The sudden revelation that they were not alone sent them scurrying
back to wherever it is that Interns go to stay out of the line of fire,
and again I was alone.  I was getting desperate for something, anything,
that might add some life to the dullest Monday I could recall.

     My salvation appeared late in the afternoon, when most of the office
was sunk deep into a haze of work-performing concentration.  I was
stretching, my arms extended over my head, my face turned unpleasantly
into one of my pits, a little grunt of work-related displeasure on my
lips.  I felt gritty and grumpy, I smelled bad, I was out of sorts, and to
top it off the week was just beginning, and tomorrow I'd be waking up to
start this all over again.  As I rubbed my eyes and returned to the blurry
report in my hands, I noticed the brown "wall" before me bending in a
little.  Then I heard a whisper, so low that I could not recognize the
voice of the whisperer.  "He did WHAT?" the voice hissed, conveying
amazement and fascination at the same time.  I leaned forward and listened
closer, the report forgotten.

     "I mean, up until then it was just so great," the other speaker, a
woman, responded.  "I mean"--I heard her voice drop down an octave,
turning sultry, intimate--"he was just so hot, with his big arms and his
tight buns and his tight little jeans.  We were just all over each other
practically right away, at the bar.  I mean, we slow danced, and he was
rubbing against me, and I was rubbing against him, and he could even
dance, you know?  And when we left and we got a cab back to his place, I
just thought "oooo, yes...let's just go on up, Stud..."

     I was thinking "oooo, yes," myself.  I was listening so hard I was
almost forgetting to breathe.  She paused a minute, probably sipping
coffee or something. The other person--now I could tell it was another
woman--prompted her, as eager for details as I was.  "...And?"

     "And so we got up into his place, and we were, you know, making out
on the couch, and one thing led to another, and let me tell you, he looked
better out of his clothes than he did in 'em. I mean, just rubbing that
chest with my hands was incredible, it was so broad, and so hard and
smooth.  And he was kissing me, and undressing me, and it was so hot!"  I
wondered if she was smiling.  She sounded like she might be.  "So what
*happened*?" the other woman asked, a little urgently.  I wanted to know,
myself.

     "I mean, it was just so FREAKY.  I mean, one minute we're hot and
heavy, and we're in the bedroom, and I'm about to ask him if he has a
condom or something, and the next thing I know he turns over, and he's
sort of...I dunno, hunching his ass or something."  I heard a sharp intake
of breath from her audience.  "I'm telling you, he's, like, thrusting his
ass up in the air, and when my hands touch it a little he's moaning, and
he's spreading his knees apart and I'm like, just hold ON a minute what
the hell is going on here, and he says "yes, yes" and I am NOT with
this program, whatever it is."  "Holy shit!" interjected the other woman. 
"I am *telling* you, it was really odd," she continued.  "I mean, I don't
know if he wanted me to play with his ass, or get into some kind of weird
anal thing or something, but I just could not deal.  I mean, he was just
so strong and buff-looking, and such a great kisser, I just never figured
him for some weird kind of anal pervert!"

     "So what'd you do??" asked the listener, and I watched as the woman
bounced a little off the other side of my padded cubicle wall.  "I got the
hell out, is what I did.  I mean, my one hard-and-fast rule is NO FREAKS,
and I wasn't about to get into anything with some guy I just met at a
bar!"  I heard both women drop something in the little trash receptacle by
the coffee stand, their half-full coffee cups, by the sloshy sound of it. 
As they walked away I could hear the
listener murmur "you never can tell, can you?", and then they were gone.

     I blinked my eyes a little in a sudden flash of sun as I came around
a curve, and I pulled
down the visor to cut off the blinding flash.  This traffic mess should
clear up soon, I thought,
figuring that the Expressway exit should come up any minute.  Thinking
back, I wasn't exactly
sure about why the woman had been so upset about the whole encounter. 
Sure, it might have
been a little weird for the guy to have been moaning and wiggling his ass
like that, but why
should that be so awful?  She was willing to sleep with the guy, after
all, to let a total stranger
stick his penis right into her.  So what, then--her orifices are OK, but
his are off-limits?  I
chuckled, wriggling around a little in the hot interior of my car.  Well,
girls who play with strange
dicks have to expect some assholes, I thought, and in her case that was
literally true; I felt a
giggling fit wash over me.  But then we were moving, and Mister Angry Guy
in front of me was
angling right to get off onto the Expressway, and as my lane sped up I hit
the horn twice--MEEP
MEEP--in a Road Runner salute, and then I *was* the Road Runner as my car
sped up and
rocketed down the Parkway until my exit, and I hit all the green lights
and didn't slow down until I
was home.

     I clomped in through the front door and dropped my stuff in the
living room--screw it, let
him yell at me when he gets home, if he gets home at all--and was halfway
down the hallway
when I noticed a light on in the kitchen.  "Sweetie?" I called, a little
shocked at the possibility that
Mark would be home before I was, especially lately.  I popped into the
kitchen, ready to squeeze
the life out of him with an anaconda hug of pure love, when I was brought
up short.  On the table
was a single white rose, and a note.

     You bastard.  You damned son-of-a-bitch.  I was cursing before I even
opened the
envelope.  It had been months now that he had been working on this
project, putting in late hours
every night, working weekends, jetting off to other cities on business
trips, breaking dinner dates
and standing me up.  What was next?  "Sorry, Baby, but Larry says I gotta
go to Uzbekistan for
more specs?"  Extended project deadlines that would last through July
1998?  Prepared for the
worst I mangled the envelope open.

     "Hi Sweetie," read the note, in his neat, tiny little handwriting. 
"Before you blow up, read
this:

Sleeping in our Big Old Bed
Is a Husband who is Dead
I know that I have been no fun,
But my Project, she is DONE
Two days are allotted me
For my quick recovery
For most of that time I sleep
Far away in dreamland deep;
I'll arise upon Day Three
And devote myself to Thee
What you want is what you'll get
And I LOVE YOU--don't forget!!!!

>From Thursday and on I am yours until after the weekend, and I promise to
make up for
everything.  I love you,  MARK."

     I put the note back down and tried to scowl at it, but the frown
turned upside down and I
was smiling by the time I walked over to my bedroom door.  Inside I could
just make out the big
lumpy shape of my exhausted husband prostrate on our bed, snoring softly. 
Quietly I disrobed
and got into some more comfortable clothes, and then returned once again
to an empty kitchen
to prepare a lonely dinner for one.  But tonight I was humming as I stuck
the frozen Vegetable
Entree in the microwave, and I munched happily as I thought about three
days from now.
Thursday!  I could hardly wait.

     Mark had barely moved a muscle by the time I awoke on Tuesday to go
to work.  I
dressed in silence and had my morning coffee near the open doorway to the
bedroom, watching
him as he slept.  The poor man.  I had been so angry so often, but now all
I could think was how
much I had missed him and how tired he must be.  With a sigh I got myself
together and tiptoed
out the front door, closing it softly behind me.

     By the time I got home that night the apartment had undergone a
massive transformation.
The living room was a mess.  There was junk food everywhere--potato chips,
popcorn,
mallomars, empty bottles--it looked like a horde of ravenous teenagers had
trashed the place
while I was at work.  Bunched up on the couch were blankets and pillows
scattered haphazardly.
Well, that explained the mess--Mark had spent most of the day vegging out
in front of the TV.
No doubt if I turned it on I'd tune in to some all-sports network, the
volume turned up to the
maximum.  Unwilling to find out for myself, I ignored the set, kicked a
few stray candy wrappers
out of the way, and began stalking toward the bedroom in high dudgeon.

     When I got there and swung the door open, I found a darkened room and
a familiar lump
on the bed.  Bastard, I thought, destroy the house and then go to sleep to
escape my wrath!  But
then the VCR clock at the foot of the bed caught my eye, the bluish
readout flashing 10:31 at
me.  Was it really that late?  After a brief flashback I realized that I
*had* been pretty caught up
in work today, so busy that I had paid no attention to water hole
conversations, so busy that I had
never even called Mark at home to see how he was.  The guilt washed over
me--here I had been
a whining "business widow" for so long, and when I finally get the chance
to talk to my husband I
blow it!

     That also explained the mess in the living room.  For my
anal-retentive husband to create
such a pigsty he must have been really mad, or else just really zoned-out.
 Then again, maybe
he was both.  He *had* said that it would take till Thursday before he was
fully recovered from all
of the stress and sleeplessness.  Mollified by my own logic I turned to
exit the room again, when I
heard a *crunch* under my heel and felt some kind of wrapper or something
beneath my shoe.
Vowing to begin my wifely clean-up efforts here and now I reached down to
pluck the offending
litter off the floor.  As I returned to the kitchen to throw it out, I
noticed abstractedly that I did
not hold a food wrapper in my hand.  It was a paper bag.  Lavender.  With
flowery writing on the
outside.

     I stopped dead in the kitchen, my hand poised over the open garbage
pail.  What was that
particular bag doing on the floor, instead of on the shelf of my closet? 
More importantly, why
was it empty?  I blinked twice, still holding the bag, and suddenly a
welter of images came over
me in a rush: me making my purchase at The Garden; the way I looked in my
bedroom mirror as
I held it in my hand; the blur of heated passion I shared with Kathy; the
feeling at my center as I
repeatedly ravished myself from behind, my head pushed down among the bed
pillows; the
photograph of Rose and Christiaan.  Without even dropping the empty bag I
turned and almost
ran back to my room, slowing down as I entered it so I would not wake
Mark.  I practically
climbed into my bedroom closet, my hands roaming frantically around my
upper shelf in search
of my hidden secret.  It wasn't there.  And my art catalogue, the
pictorial how-to guide that had
attracted me in the first place, was gone too.

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