Beauty and Prettiness

Art’s correlation with pretty things is entirely orthogonal. Real art is concerned almost exclusively with beauty. Beauty has a great deal more breadth and depth than prettiness. Prettiness is shallow, cloying, and completely convinced of its own virtue. Prettiness is reducible to simple, mechanical aesthetics. It’s self-assured and emotionally tone-deaf. Beauty is not so simple. It doesn’t need to make an effort. It is its own content. Beauty is a tool for processing the world around us, and it can be found anywhere. It reconciles all of our ugliness with our conscience. It has to strike close to the bone and hurt at least a little bit. That reconciliation is the role and purpose of art.

Unrequited Love

Art is the most miserable bitch I’ve ever known. I fell in love with the narcotic joy of making art before I got laid for the first time. I also fell in love with that, but art has always meant more to me. In early adolescence, when I first realized how much I enjoyed indulging myself creatively, I decided immediately that art is what my life would be about. I haven’t changed my story since. Everything in my life that’s not my art is just an accessory to it. Unfortunately, the art world doesn’t feel the same way about me. I pour and pour myself into it but get very little in return. I’ve sold a total of one painting, ever. I don’t even know who bought it. I don’t know how well they’ve cared for it or if it means anything to them. I’ve done my share of exhibitions - 35 to date - with two more coming up. Those who like my work always seem to really like it. I suppose it’s just a bit too raw to look right hanging over a couch or fireplace. My work probably won’t match your décor. My work has nothing to do with video games or comic books. My work isn’t academic. My work has nothing to do with important social causes or virtuous ideals. It won’t make you smarter or morally superior to anybody else. My work is time, weight, solitude, and suffering, manifested as wood and paint. If you don’t get it, I don’t care. If you don’t like it, you’ve got bad taste. I’m going to continue pouring. I will be quite content to throw my life away chasing this ungrateful bitch. The act of artistic creation is humanity laughing in the face of its own mortality and finitude. Art is an obscenity in church and that’s why I love it. It represents a triumphant rejection of lesser gods. Art is my religion.

The Waves of the Ocean

There are rhinestones on the back pockets of this woman’s jeans. They form a little pink wave on each pocket. It’s like her ass is an impressionist painting of the ocean at sunset. It’s not a very big ass, but it swells and moves fluidly as her weight shifts from one leg to the other while she stands in line waiting for her food. When the light hits her ass properly, it shimmers and twinkles. Doubtless I’m not the first person to admire it. Her ass is a proud and willful thing. It’s likely that she doesn’t adequately appreciate this thing that she’s wrapped in rhinestone-encrusted denim, like putting spray paint on a marble statue. It’s kind of a godless thing to do. Like so many beautiful things, its glory goes unappreciated by those closest to it.

The Secretary

They were very nice people, a married couple exactly our age. They were the second one that we had met for swinging. The first date went very well. He was about my height and build, but without the long hair. He was a hockey player (not pro), a bit of an ex-hippie, and a wonderfully friendly guy. His wife was gorgeous. She was tall and quite fit. Her hair was light brown and bobbed relatively short. She was really very beautiful, a classy beauty. Outside of these strange circumstances, she wouldn’t likely have had anything to do with me. Her job involved cancer research. If she wasn’t yet a doctor, she was very close to becoming one. It seemed like she was cut from very different fabric than me. She was one of those rare people who actually do something noble with their lives. Regardless, we all got along very well. As it turns out, their apartment was in a development where I used to work as a life guard, back in college. I remembered it well. The units were all very close, the walls were somewhat thin, and they had nosy neighbors. It wouldn’t likely be a good location for what we planned to do. So, when we made plans for the second date, we set it up at a nearby hotel.

The second date started at the hotel bar. My wife and I had finally abandoned our Straight Edge convictions. We all got buzzed pretty quickly and headed up to the room. Things got moving without much difficulty. The female portion of the couple had told us about her favorite movie, The Secretary. She was very into the dynamic between dominance and submission. I got the clear impression that she wanted to be dominated. Frankly, neither I nor my wife was sufficiently comfortable with the concept. I’m just not very domineering by nature. I think sex is best when it’s mutual and all parties participate equally. I don’t like to feel like I’m exploiting somebody. Regardless, we all started by undressing her. She enjoyed that, and her body was marvelous. She had tiny, firm breasts. Her box was shaved completely smooth, and it was surprisingly plump, given the rest of her being so lean. Next, the rest of us disrobed together, and my wife made first contact with her. The two women went at it for a while and it was really an incredible show. My wife was getting better and better at being with other women each time we were with one. As this new woman got more excited and closer to climax, her back turned bright red. It was a very strange and exciting thing. Not scratch marks. Not hives. Not a sunburn that I had previously failed to notice. Just bright red. Her husband and I both joined in the pile. As she twisted and fucked on her hands and knees, the length of her back turned brighter and brighter red. It was incredible. Whatever that is, you can’t fake it. It’s a clear indication that you’re doing something right. We all had a very good time, and sometime in the early morning we all left and went home.

Feast and Famine

The ashtray is full. It cannot possibly accommodate another snuffed cigarette butt, though undoubtedly it will. We will cram and pile them into and onto the small mountain that is still accumulating. Nobody will empty it. Nobody will simply pick it up, walk it down to the end of the bar, dump it out into the garbage can, and return it to its resting place. Paralyzed, miserable, and helpless with self-pity, we have elected to make the ashtray share and suffer the burden of our ennui. There is a special on bottles of Yuengling. Everybody is nursing from one, like infants suckling their mothers’ tits. The bartenders are extremely vigilant about removing the empties. Were they less so, the bar would look like somebody had robbed a Yuengling delivery truck and immediately consumed the spoils of their crime. Instead it looks like a commercial for shitty beer and depression. Instead of attractive young people having fun, we have ugly, old-looking young people having misery. We are pigeon-chested, spaghetti-armed, pot-bellied, acne-scarred men, and scowling, hipless, assless, chubby women, with cigarettes and oddly shaped breasts. We all want romance, decadence, and salvation. We are all drunk, desperate, and urgent. We all lack. The ashtray, however, does not lack. Whereas we each have emptiness, the ashtray has overabundance.