By: Kai Teo
Location: Gallery Griffin, Nobelvägen 34, Malmö, Sweden
Based on a true story
The summer rain had soaked through my clothes as I stepped into the small 30 m2 gallery.
I was supposed to write an article about Jean’s first exhibition, titled “Cosmic Relations”. The 30-year-old artist had created huge glowing orbs out of crushed glass, recycled plastic, and animal bones, covered them entirely in glowstick fluid and suspended them from the ceiling.
The gallery was dark except for the hanging spheres, which looked like celestial entities drifting in the abyss of deep space. Minimal psychedelic trance played softly in the background, filling the room with a mysterious and almost holy atmosphere.
“I was about to close up for the evening. We kinda ended the whole event about an hour ago,” a soft voice came from behind me.
I turned around and saw a skinny, almost anorexic silhouette of a woman. She was wearing white working overalls, which was splattered artfully with the same neon, glowing paint on the artwork. She looked like a divine being levitating in the dark, illuminated by multi-coloured stars, except that her face was partly shrouded in darkness.
“I’m sorry, I lost track of time. I can always come back another day,” I explained as I started towards the door, a little bummed out about having to step back into the pouring chaos.
“No, stay,” she said, and pushed a glass of red wine into my hand, “And tell me what you think of Cosmic Relations.”
I looked up and got a clear view her face, now just inches away from mine. Her skin was pale, adorned with a sparse sprinkle of light brown freckles. Her single-eyelid, purplish eyes stared straight at me with a childlike wonder, complete with a slight tinge of jadedness. They were highlighted by her neon green eye shadow, which gave her an unworldly aura that was hauntingly beautiful. Her lips were thin, like a pink paint stroke across a clean canvas made of recycled paper, and slightly curled up at the sides, conveying a little mischief. Her dark, straight hair gently rested on her shoulders. Their ends were dipped in bright pink paint, transforming them into psychedelic antennas that I was sure could make legit alien contact.
Jean was definitely the cosmic princess of the night.
I tried to say something clever about her art, mumbling and fumbling a little as my palms started sweating, “It’s gorgeous. Kinda reminds me of the relationship between humankind and the wondrous divinity of the entire universe. As much as we try to depart from being mere animals, our instincts, and our desires still very much point us back to the path of nature and oneness with the kingdom of beasts, and stars.”
I had no idea what I was babbling on about. And she noticed my cluelessness.
“That’s rather lame. But I think I know what you’re trying to get at. Like the more we explore outer space, the more we realise that we don’t know shit, and the more humble we become?”
I nodded. And she giggled a little as she walked past me with a lazy swagger, accidentally (or intentionally, I hoped) brushing her hand just very slightly across my thigh, leaving a glowing yellow paint mark against my black jeans. The contrast of the colours was intriguing, almost mesmerising. Ok, I really wanted my pants to be splashed with light streaks. For once, my clothes wouldn’t be so boring.
“Hey, could you do this again? With like… different colours?”
A surge of blinding orange flew through the air and landed on my chest with a wet splat. I looked across the room and Jean had dipped both her hands into a full bucket of paint and was about to launch her second attack.
I would kill this woman if that shit got into my eye. I’ve heard weird stories of people going blind and stuff like that. Instead of doing the most logical thing, which was to try to shield my eyes from her neon rainbow onslaught, I reached for the nearest can of “Nostalgic Sunset” and poured it over her head, drenching her entirely in a coat of sticky orange.
That didn’t seem to hold her back.
A sudden streak of “Explosive Lime” flashed across the darkness and landed on my neck, slowly flowing down my chest, beneath my Cheap Monday unicorn Tshirt, in between my cleavage and down to my navel. That shit better be washable. It was limited edition, from Berlin. Or maybe I stole it from the guy I went home with last weekend. I couldn’t remember.
Then I felt her delicate, yet strong hands grab my breasts, covering them with two fluorescent yellow handprints. The sensation was intensely comforting and soothing, like the ultimate party sports bra, you know, those that they’ll advertise with lines line, “Only the tennis balls should bounce”.
It wasn’t the first time I had my tits so lovingly held by another girl. There’s been Anna, Ana, Brittany, Bianca… and a few others. But this time, I swear, it was different. It was the first time they were properly cradled by an older woman. It felt like her hands transferred an electrifying excitement deep inside me, almost stopping my heart for just a split second, and it immediately tingled my nipples and made them grow hard like little sundried raisins, yes, the tasty ones.
She laughed, as she bit her lower lip and looked at me with the sparkling naughtiness of a 3-year-old.
I plunged both my hands into “Lightning Blue” and watched them drip onto the floor, forming long, gooey strands of sensual glow that trickled steadily with every move my fingers made.
I moved my hands up and rubbed them against Jean’s chest, and that somehow triggered her primal instincts and prompted her to move in for the kill.
She pressed her lips against mine and tugged at my top, exposing my left breast in its full, not so much of a handful, glory.
Her tongue reached into my mouth and she started exploring my it. She tasted of day-old Marlboros and cheap red wine. I liked it. She tasted dangerous, like a vagrant hyena running amok in the gloomy city streets.
She then reached for my now bare breasts with her psychedelic rainbow hands and gave them a firm, passionate squeeze. I felt myself become engorged with wet desire.
I lost track of all time and the entire outside universe as I let my loose in Jean’s cosmos of sensual pleasure. I reached into her overalls and gently caressed her tits. They were smaller than mine, and when I pressed a little harder, I could feel her ribcage underneath it. I sunk my fingers in, and she let out a soft moan and tugged me by my braid.
We were both breathing heavily into each other’s faces, letting our tongues wander along every contour, every sleek line on our bodies. We impatiently pulled off each other’s clothes and before long, we were lying stark naked on the cold cement floor, taking turns to pin the other one down, smearing our skin with the synthetic luminescent lubricant.
We were two naked astronauts in a disco space orgy. Our faces, necks, arms, breasts, stomachs, thighs were covered with the paint. It was our performance, the gallery floor was our stage, our bodies were our props, and I’m gonna make her orgasm my glorious finale.
I grabbed hard on her protruding hipbones and went straight down to her hairy, sweet smelling pussy. It was covered with paint and I was dying to eat the fuck out of it. But hey, what if I get like, paint poisoning or something? I really didn’t want that glowing shit in my throat.
I felt her hand grab the back of my neck and she pushed my face down with an uncontrolled urge and demanded, “Paint me.”
Ok, if I die tonight, at least I die licking pussy.
I stuck my tongue out and pressed its tip against the area just under her grand entrance, circling that sensitive region and wetting it even more with my saliva. There wasn’t much of a taste, considering that what was in my mouth now was a haphazardly blended concoction of glowstick poison, sweat, juices and my own saliva.
I let my tongue flick an upward stroke on her. Dipping the tip just slightly inside her, then running it up along and exiting with a teasing brush on her swollen clit. She went ecstatic. With one hand still clutching tightly to my messy hair, she pinched her nipple and tugged at it hard with her other.
I liked that response. And I continued licking her in slow, upwards, long strokes and watched with satisfaction as she flinched and moaned lightly, rolling her eyes back, unsure of where to put her hands, occasionally slapping them on the ground, splashing the paint in the air as they left trails of light in the darkness.
I went faster and faster, and inserted my finger inside her. She was very warm, very wet and very tight. It was as if her slippery path to her hymen was the one refusing to let my finger go, drawing it deeper and deeper inside her.
Her jaws were clenched tight, and I could hear her pant through the gaps of her teeth. She was going to come.
And I want to taste it all.
With one final thrust of my fingers and a decisive stroke of my tongue, Jean’s entire body tensed up, her knees buckled, her fingernails duck deep into my sweaty back.
“God! Oh! Yes, yes, yes!” she exclaimed and heaved a sigh of intense joy.
I brought myself up to her face, my chin glistening with her neon climax, and I gave her a light peck on her cheek.
I would’ve expected her to collapse in pure indulgence and stay dormant for at least a minute. But she summoned her quivering body up from the ground and pushed me down. With her pussy now rubbing against my clit.
She started gyrating her hips slowly. I felt our juices mix as our pussy lips interlocking with each other. Fuck yea. This woman is crazy. Crazier than me.
She reached behind her and grabbed a pink glowstick.
“Fuck me with it,” I begged.
She pushed it straight inside me. It was thin, and I could feel its plastic edges gently scrape against my insides. It went all the way in, then she pulled it towards her, upwards, and she hit the spot. I gasped. I wanted it, again and again. She pulled it out, almost all the way, but not quite, and then jammed it straight in again.
Fuck, it hurt. But it was the kind of pain that I wanted. The pain that brings forth 8 million times more pleasure than it hurt.
My mind was whirling, the room started spinning, the glowing orbs looked like they came alive as they floated around the room, around my mindscape, as I surrender myself to my master.
She continued riding me, rubbing my clit with hers, and drilling me with the glowstick. I felt my wetness trickling onto the ground. It was warm and slippery, as my ass slid around the floor, watching her reflection in the little puddle we’ve created together.
With every entry, the glowstick painted trails of exhilaration between my thighs. It was like a work of art. We were a work of art. A masterpiece.
And I came. It was one of those orgasms that made you feel like every fucking muscle in your body contracted, almost to the point of cramping up, and I squeezed every last drop of divine bliss out of my body, as a testament to our private moment.
I must’ve screamed a little. Not like I could help it. I wasn’t embarrassed. I wanted her to know that she pleasured me to the point of perfection.
I lay there, staring into the starry ceiling and caught my breath. Jean lowered her face down to my breasts and lay there, listening to my irregular, 189 bpm heartbeats, with her right fist still clenched tightly around the glowstick.
The artist type. Now you have it. Even sex becomes something cultured, something that we wanted to exhibit in the gallery. And she did.
Because she left the floor as it was – a mess of colours, wetness and animalistic emotions – for the entire 2-week duration of her exhibition.