Wanted, Exhibitionists
by Jennie Treverton

The main reason why Greta replied to the ad on the noticeboard was to shock her two colleagues at the college library.Despite the fact that they were both reed-thin, or rather, because of that fact, Bethan and Yvonne were both weight-obsessed, constantly comparing exercise regimes and the nutritional value of their lunches. Greta wouldn’t have minded that in itself, but what she did object to was their attitude towards her, a modestly overweight woman. She objected to the way they’d hush up whenever she came within earshot, as if they’d been talking about something that she mustn’t hear. She objected to the meaningful sidelong glances they’d exchange. They seemed unable to relate to her, a woman with forty-four-inch hips and a forty-inch, E-cup bust who had butter and cheese on her jacket potato. Sometimes she found herself itching to take a pile of the books she was shelving, slam them down on the inquiries desk and shout at the two of them, ‘I’m not a monster, you know, I won’t eat you!’ Not a scrawny pair of chicken wings like them, anyway.

One day, just before the end of autumn semester, the college library was particularly quiet and Bethan and Yvonne’s discussion of their competitive starvation was drifting along the bookshelves and provoking in Greta, tidying up the Plastic Arts section, a continuous low level of irritation until, suddenly, she had an idea.

She stood up straight and sauntered down the main aisle, swinging her long red hair and generous hips. She stopped at the noticeboard opposite the inquiries desk. Bethan and Yvonne watched her silently.

‘Have you seen this ad?’ said Greta, pointing at the noticeboard. ‘A student put it up last week. I’ve been mulling it over and you know what? I think I’m going to give it a go. Sounds like it might be fun.’

She read the wording out loud: ‘Wanted, exhibitionists for exciting and potentially controversial art project. Must be comfortable in own skin. Contact Stevie Smith.’

She reached over the desk, took a pen and a Post-it note, copied down the number on the ad, then picked up the desk phone and dialled.

‘Hi, is that Stevie? I saw the poster in the library and I’m interested. Yes, well I hope so, I’d like to think I am anyway. No, evenings are best. Tomorrow, six pm. I know where you mean. Do I need to bring anything? OK. No problem. Oh, the name’s Greta by the way, Greta Featherton. Okay, bye now, bye.’

She put the phone down and smiled in an off-hand way at her colleagues before going back to her tidying. She felt very good indeed, and when Bethan and Yvonne began to mutter it was so quiet that Greta barely registered it.

The next day, after work Greta went to the art block. Outside the entrance a petite girl of about twenty in battered jeans with stripy rainbow tights showing through the rips was lounging against the wall and smoking a roll-up. The girl’s head was shaved apart from two short curls, one in front of each ear, plastered to her face with hair cream to form stylised sideburns. She had black eyes and a serious expression. Greta recognised her from the library, she was in there often, straining under the weight of piles of outsize art books.

‘Hi, I’m Stevie,’ she said without smiling. ‘Thanks for coming.’

They walked briskly through a succession of empty classrooms with paint spattered on the floor and tables, the whitewashed walls hung with students’ artworks, the corners cluttered with half-finished sculptures, bent wire animals, featureless polystyrene heads.

‘Ilike your look,’ said Stevie as they walked. ‘You’re like a Rubens but your hair makes you more like a pre-Raphaelite or even a Klimt. Nice.’

‘Will I do, then?’

‘Absolutely. Look, I need to ask you a couple of questions so I know how to approach you as a subject. They’re personal but don’t take them personally. Firstly I need to know if you’re gay or straight.’

‘Oh, most definitely straight,’ said Greta.

‘Right, that’s fine. And I need to know how you feel about nudity. You should know up front that I need you to be nude for this.’

‘Ithought you would. It’s not a problem,’ said Greta, who hadn’t done anything like this before and, although nervous, was quite looking forward to showing herself off.

‘Good,’ said Stevie. ‘Because I’m about as serious about this project as it’s possible to be. I’m going to be a famous artist. Thousands, maybe millions, of people are going to see your body. You need to be comfortable with this.’

As far as Greta was aware, nobody from Vale College had ever made it big in anything. And art was the most dead-end subject of them all. So she was more than a little sceptical about Stevie’s words, but didn’t let on. She had to admire the girl’s ambition.

‘Here we are,’ said Stevie as they banged through another set of double doors. ‘I’ve booked this studio. We won’t be disturbed.’

Unlike the other rooms there were no students’ artworks here. The windowpanes were whitewashed along with the walls so nobody could see in or out. Around the edge of the room was an array of technical equipment and two video cameras on tripods. In the middle of the floor was a brown leather reclining armchair, and facing it was a large television on a stand showing a pornographic movie.

‘Why don’t you get undressed,’ said Stevie.

While Greta took her clothes off Stevie sat cross-legged on the floor, taking each garment as Greta handed them to her, until Greta stood before her naked and feeling a little giddy. Stevie gestured for Greta to sit in the armchair, which she did, the leather cold and squeaky against the spreading flesh of her bottom.

‘You’re not going to paint me then,’ said Greta, looking around.

‘This isn’t a painting. It’s an installation.’

‘Awhat?’

‘An installation. It means I’m going to film you.’

‘Oh right,’ said Greta who was becoming slightly mesmerised by the porn over Stevie’s shoulder. Two men, one black, one white, were doubly penetrating a tanned blonde with spherical tits and an expression that suggested equal parts ecstasy and anguish.

‘So, erm, what are you going to call this installation?’ said Greta, attempting to stay focused.

‘Onan Twelve,’ said Stevie.

‘Oh right,’ said Greta.

The trio were lying on their sides, the blonde holding a leg in the air so the camera could pan in close to her bright red cunt and supple perineum. The two cocks were shunting in turns. Ignoring the porn, Stevie carried on talking in her serious, intellectual way, explaining the aim of her art using language Greta couldn’t hope to understand. The black man’s cock withdrew from the blonde’s anus and sprayed blobs of semen all over her back. Greta tuned in to Stevie to hear her say, ‘… and from you I’m hoping an honest response to these materials, these erotic materials if I can term them that way.’

‘Oh,’ said Greta. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’

Stevie nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I want to film you while you masturbate.’

‘Oh right,’ said Greta.

‘Are you comfortable with that?’ said Stevie.

Watching the black man’s three fingers poking where his cock had been, Greta said, ‘I think so, yes.’

‘Great,’ said Stevie, jumping to her feet. ‘Let’s get started.’

She arranged Greta’s legs so they were wide apart, one draped over the arm of the chair, and then went behind the chair to recline it fully.

‘Just relax,’ she said, switching on a bright light.

Greta watched the white cock shoot spunk all over the blonde’s inner thighs. She was acutely aware that her exposed cunt was responding wholeheartedly to this odd situation, tightening its inner grip and becoming rather wet. She looked down at herself and her starkly lit naked body seemed unfamiliar, as if it was someone else’s body, someone else’s mounds and valleys, as plump and smooth as satin cushions. Her coppery red hair lay in trails over her shoulders and around her breasts.

‘Nearly ready,’ said Stevie from behind a camera. ‘You can start fondling yourself if you like. Now, I’m not recording sound, so you can talk to me if you need to, but please don’t turn round. I’ll give you directions as and when. Oh, and one thing. If you feel like you might come, you must let me know before you do. That’s crucial, okay?’

‘Right,’ said Greta.

‘I’m going to start the bubble machine now,’ said Stevie.

‘The what?’

Stevie switched on a black box which began spewing iridescent bubbles all around Greta.

‘Ijust thought it would look cool,’ said Stevie. ‘You have amazing breasts, Greta. Can you touch them a bit?’

Greta began to caress her tits, lifting their heaviness in each hand, perky nipples peeping through her fingers. The porn switched to a different movie. A good-looking naked man with wavy dark brown hair was sitting in an armchair just like the one Greta was on and wanking while watching something off-screen. He was slim and Greta could see all the muscles and tendons of his shoulders working hard under his slightly freckled skin. Before she knew it Greta’s hand had travelled down to her pussy and pressed apart her plump folds. Her clit was fat and greedy and she began to rub it with two fingers.

‘Good,’ said Stevie.

Greta supposed that the man was another participant in the project. She thought he was gorgeous. Dark-haired and dishy, just her type. A vein bulged on his fine forehead. She was amazed at how tight his ball bag was. He must have been right on the edge of coming. His cock head was angrily scarlet, his fist a flurry on his shaft.

‘Your thighs are closing,’ said Stevie. ‘Keep them open if you can.’

Bubbles were falling all round her, bursting on her skin and leaving soapy patches. She ran her free hand over her curves and was delighted by the slipperiness. Imagining that the man was watching her at the same time as she watched him, she began to finger-fuck her vagina, digits pumping with loud squelchy sounds.

‘Who is that man?’ she gasped.

‘He’s Onan Eleven,’ said Stevie.

The man’s face was pink and shiny with sweat. He stopped his stroke and gripped his cock just under the head, his other hand grabbing the arm of the chair, and he seemed to roar through clenched teeth. Greta realised he was trying to stop himself from spunking up. At this, her whole cunt began to spasm.

‘God,’ she said. ‘I’m going to come.’

‘Not yet,’ said Stevie.

Greta took her hand off her pussy.

‘No, keep fingering yourself,’ said Stevie. ‘This is continuous footage. You mustn’t stop.’

Greta tried to touch her clit as delicately as possible but it was so difficult. The man on the television was in a similar state, clutching his cock as if it was in danger of detaching from his body and flying across the room.

‘Ican’t hold off,’ she whimpered.

‘You must,’ said Stevie. ‘Just a bit longer.’

Greta put two fingers up herself, trying to avoid her clit as much as possible. It was hell and heaven, being so wet and soapy, so full of trapped arousal. She screwed her eyes up so she could hardly see the sexy man on the screen, and frigged her cunt with agonising slowness.

After what seemed like an age, she opened her eyes fully and saw that Stevie was now standing in front of her.

‘We’re done,’ she said. ‘Do you want to finish yourself off or would you prefer a tongue?’

She said it in such a matter-of-fact way Greta wasn’t sure if she was serious. But then she noticed that Stevie’s fly was undone, her hand down the front of her own trousers.

‘I’d love a tongue,’ said Greta.

Stevie knelt before her, buried her stubbly head between Greta’s soft thighs and sucked her cunt as if it was a dripping peach. Over her head Greta saw that the man on the screen was no longer alone but had Stevie’s mouth clamped over his dick. Greta came immediately, with much groaning and thrusting and agitating of airborne bubbles.

After she’d put her clothes back on Greta asked Stevie, ‘Can you just tell me again, what’s the meaning of this thing?’

Stevie sighed and said, ‘It’s my reaction to the negative dialectic between the contemporary phenomenon of societal individuation and the immutable inalienability of the human experience, albeit situated within an idiom of inegalitarian discourse between Ur-man and Ur-woman.’

‘Oh right,’ said Greta.

Seven months later Greta arrived at work to find an envelope waiting for her. Inside was a gilt-edged card inviting Onan Twelve to a private viewing of an exhibition by Stevie Smith, the centrepiece of which was to be her ‘critically acclaimed installation’, Onan 252. Rather impressively, the exhibition was to be held not at the college but at a real art gallery called Ephebe, thirty miles away in a posh part of the city. The invitation said to dress smart casual and be prepared to speak to members of the press.

She wore her hair long down her back, lots of bangles up her arms and a black velvet dress that flowed over her hips and only just hid her areolae. Ephebe looked tiny from outside but was very long inside, with room after room stretching back, all of them packed with people sipping Prosecco and inventing things to say about the works of Stevie Smith on the walls. Greta tried not to think about the intimate knowledge of her own sexual response that was soon to be bestowed on these roomfuls. She sank a few Proseccos and felt a little better.

Wandering deeper into the gallery Greta noticed that Stevie’s paintings and photographs seemed to show a preoccupation with condoms on pavements. Here and there she’d lock eyes with someone who looked as far out of their comfort zone as she was. As she entered the gallery’s final room she saw, on a plinth shrouded in white linen, a large flat-screen television on standby.

‘Hi,’ said someone to her left.

The voice belonged to a tall, good-looking, freckled man. Onan Eleven himself, in jeans and a scruffy lumberjack shirt.

Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to Greta that he’d be there. With his clothes on he looked a little older and hopelessly out of place. His curly hair had a charming semi-flattened appearance, as though he’d tried to tame it with a brush and given up. He had the slightly gawky air of an academic or a reclusive writer. She smiled at him, feeling herself blush from toe to scalp.

He shook her hand and said, ‘You work in the college library, don’t you? I’ve just started a photography course.’

‘Really? I haven’t seen you in there.’

‘Ionly signed up last week. I popped my head in to check out the facilities and I saw you behind the counter.’ He smiled warmly at her. ‘Stevie recommended the course. She’s a mate of mine from way back.’

‘Wow, you’re starting at the college. That’s terrific news,’ said Greta.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ he said, looking into the dark cleft of her bosom. ‘So are you involved with this Onan thing?’

‘Well, erm,’ said Greta.

She was saved from finishing her sentence by a surge of people entering the room, at the front of which was the artist, dressed in a black rubber catsuit slit open up her back to reveal bare skin painted swirly blue. Stevie wore the creamy expression of a woman who knew she’d brought a great many of the people around her to orgasm. A few press photographers stepped forward to take pictures and she posed with a typically unsmiling, rather confrontational stance. She fielded a few questions from scribbling reporters. A middle-aged man with a ponytail came to stand next to the television and called for quiet.

‘Hang on to your seats,’ he said, even though everyone was standing. ‘I’m simply beside myself to introduce you all, without further ado, to the evocative, provocative tour de forcethat is Onan 252.’

He produced a remote control and clicked it at the television. The screen was filled with a confusion of reds and pinks, which revealed itself to be, as the camera slowly panned out, the gleaming entrance to a vagina. As if emerging from within it, the view widened until the whole cunt was shown. There was a vibrating movement around the top of the labia, the result of a fingertip engaged in vigorous stimulation of the engorged clit.

Greta didn’t remember frigging herself as briskly as that and sure enough the cunt wasn’t hers but belonged to Stevie herself, sprawled naked on the brown reclining chair and writhing with eyes tightly shut. Greta was surprised by the bushiness of her mousy-brown thatch. The camera panned out further and Stevie grew a frame around her, the frame of another television set. It took Greta a moment to work out what she was looking at, until the view had widened enough to show the television set and the brown recliner in the white studio. A punky-looking man was in the chair, tossing himself off while watching Stevie on the television. The view continued to widen until the punk was on the television and a stout older man was in the chair, wanking while watching the punk. Again and again the camera drew back to show different women and men masturbating on the recliner, each of them aroused by footage of the previous link in the masturbatory chain.

There was Onan Eleven, every bit as sexily tense as Greta remembered, his cock just as unruly. And then she saw her own body, surrounded by wobbly bubbles as she sank her digits into herself, and she was relieved to find she was quite pleased with how she looked. Yes, she was plump, but there was something glorious in the way her curves bobbed and flowed. Her shoulders were softly rounded, her upper arms jiggling as she made love to herself, large breasts moving as if floating on water. Her thighs were pale and fleshy, toes curling with pleasure, pubes nicely trimmed, vulva shining. In the corner of her eye she saw Onan Eleven look from the screen to her and back again. Now there was a compact young Oriental man in the chair, leaning forward as he frigged his cock to the image of Greta on the television.

Nobody else was accompanied by bubbles but there were other interesting little touches here and there: a slender brunette was surrounded by piles of handbags that toppled over as she began to peak; a swarthy man with curly black hair and a gold hoop earring had a Weimeraner puppy lying at his feet; a well-groomed older woman was wearing a showgirl’s headpiece made of peacock feathers. Stevie had filmed people of all colours, shapes and sizes, all in the advanced stages of arousal. There were fat bodies, skinny bodies, muscled bodies, wasted bodies, tanned flesh, dark flesh, porcelain flesh. Fake boobs, tiny tits, pendulous titties, an endless variety of nipples. Big cocks and skinny cocks with heads that were purple and scarlet and almost black, sometimes shining, sometimes spilling pre-come. Modest little clits and big fat clits that stuck out rudely like tongues.

After a while the incessant backward motion of the camera, the constant shrinking of image after erotic image, began to make Greta feel weirdly hypnotised. Because there was no soundtrack the gallery was deathly quiet, and she could hear heavy breathing all around. She looked away from the screen and saw uncomfortable expressions on everybody’s faces. Hands were straying across trouser fronts, knees were squeezing together. Lust lay heavily over the whole room. Greta glanced at Stevie. Surrounded by her awestruck entourage the artist’s eyes were fixed on the screen with mad intensity. Greta’s eyes strayed towards Onan Eleven and she saw that delicious pink flush again, and an unmistakeable bulge in his jeans.

The film came to an end with Stevie in the chair again, climaxing with a long shudder of limbs. She stood up and walked towards the camera until the image became nothing but blurred skin. The picture went black. The gallery erupted with applause.

Greta’s eyes met Onan Eleven’s. He raised his eyebrows tentatively.

‘Toilets,’ she said and the two of them scooted through the crowd.

They found the gents’ near the front of the gallery. Nobody was in there and they locked themselves into a cubicle, rushing to get under each other’s clothes. While Greta unclinked his belt and freed his thick cock he dived under her dress and peeled down her knickers, leaving a trail of moisture down her thighs. He sat on the toilet seat and pulled her on to him. Her wet cunt sucked up every inch of his dick and they began to fuck with brisk determination, his pubes tickling her clit, his hands pulling down the front of her dress, his mouth sucking on her nipples and biting her copious tit-flesh.

‘Beautiful tits,’ he said, voice muffled. ‘Beautiful, curvaceous tits, arse, neck.’ He looked up at her face, sank his hand into her hair. ‘You’re a work of art, Onan Twelve.’

She could hardly believe this man was inside her and she looked at him with incredulity, but it was him all right, she recognised the vein on his forehead, the way he gritted his teeth, the way his body shook ferociously as he threw himself into the moment of lust. The abandonment he’d displayed on the screen was in his fingers, digging into her flesh, and in the thrust of his cock and the smell of his body heat. Greta’s knees hammered against the cubicle walls and their groans echoed up through the air vents and along the water pipes.

‘I’m going to come,’ he growled.

‘Me too,’ Greta moaned, and she bounced on him crazily, chasing the feeling as hard as she could until she was right on top of it. She had no desire to hold herself on the edge and plunged straight into her climax with a shriek. Immediately after she’d come he pulled out of her and shot cum all over her silky dimpled thighs.

As they quietened down they heard shouting and looked worriedly at each other. A clamour of voices in the gallery, someone barking orders, someone else protesting. Quickly they straightened themselves and left the cubicle.

Greta poked her head round the door and saw that everyone was being herded out of the gallery by police. She tried to hear what people were saying and the odd phrase came to her: censorship; obscenity; poor old Stevie. With his hand on her arse they joined the flow and soon they were on the pavement with everyone else, the arty types and the Onans and the reporters and photographers. A television news crew had turned up.

Handcuffed and struggling, the pony-tailed gallery owner emerged into the street, dragged by two police officers.

‘Brutality!’ he shouted to the crowd as he was thrown into the back of the van.

Then came Stevie, also flanked by two officers but not in handcuffs. Evidently she had decided to co-operate with the police. Her face was shining with excitement, grinning from ear to ear. She saluted the crowd with a defiant fist in the air, and as she passed the television crew she beamed into the camera.

‘She’s a smart girl, is our Stevie,’ said Onan Eleven as the police bundled the artist into the van.