Patron of the Arts

Tits. Pussy. Snatch. These were words that had only been in my vocabulary to allow me to comprehend the enemy's language. Now, however, I saw they were tools in my kit. Nay, they were weapons in my arsenal! I had to see my body, the things I could do with it, for the beautiful, powerful, enviable assets they were. "Breasts" was a term forced upon women by men who denied them the right to control the nomenclature of their own bodies. "Titties" was a term women could embrace for what they alone had the right to flaunt. To flaunt like crazy. Just sitting by in this restaurant, I could hardly wait to take my trust fund to the sorts of boutiques that were meant to showcase a body like mine. Men of the world, prepare to tremble with unfulfillable lust at the sight of an oh-so-very free and independent woman!

"Hm, what?" I asked sleepily. I really was worn out.

"Nothing," said Todd, patting my hip consolingly. For a moment I thought to slap him, but then I remembered Todd's hand on my body was no more scandalous than Michelangelo's hands on David. It wasn't merely inoffensive; it was where they belonged.

"You know, I think I might be a little beat," I admitted. "Do you think we could meet another time to brainstorm for our next project?"

"That sounds great. You head on home, and I'll be in touch. Good work today, Abbie. You looked amazing." He kissed my forehead as he stood up.

"Abigail," I corrected softly.

How the time flew! Together, Todd and I became the scourge of the patriarchy, twin beacons of truth and hope. Over the next few months, we took Arthur Park by storm. While even Todd would concede that we didn't always succeed in upping the bar from our previous performance, we were on a steady upward trajectory.

After "Beyond the Looking Glass Ceiling" came "Human As You." With some help from some cosplay websites and my own art school background, Todd and I created a special suit. It took weeks of attaching lustrous plastic sequins together one by painstaking one to create. Todd kept me company oftentimes, holding my titties in place while I molded the chest piece, let me know if it succeeded in form-fitting every inch of my naked body, and of course to help relax me with more of his silly hypnosis games. In the end, I paraded through the park in a costume that, in my own humble opinion, perfectly hit the mark we were aiming for: a naked, scaled humanoid alien, my hair slicked back and dyed aquamarine as a complement. Without saying a word, the crowds of men following along behind my swaying hips; others admired my bobbling boobs jiggling freely as I approached them; all saw that form meant nothing. I was sex personified, even without being of their species. If a busty blue-skinned fish woman could possess such allure, all women could. If such a creature didn't need to subscribe to societal beauty norms, no woman did.

"Open Secret" was one I came up with almost entirely on my own. I was blowing Todd one day - he was good enough to let me sharpen every weapon at my feminist disposal - and I thought... why are women ashamed of this? "Cock-sucker," "blowjob queen," even idioms like "well that sucks dick" - all seemed to imply that giving a man oral sex was somehow low, or wrong. But Iloved sucking Todd's cock, and he reassured me every time I asked that he appreciated my doing it. (I wasn't paying him, after all, so I wanted to be sure he was satisfied with my chosen form of reciprocity.) So one day, I put on some "normal" clothes, the kind of thing I used to wear that didn't do anything to celebrate my sex appeal and walked around chatting up strangers on banal topics like the weather. All the while, I had a semi-dried sheen of Todd's cum plastered on my face. We kept it subtle (and it grew subtler every time I took a break to coax a fresh application out of him), letting people wonder whether this seemingly normal woman was, in fact, an insatiable cock-gobbler. Thereby, we normalized the act itself.

For "I'm Every Woman," we hired a sketch artist to do dozens of nude sketches of me over several weeks. Some of them we modified, altering the depiction of my body to show different versions of my body. In some my titties were inflated even beyond their actual massive size; others featured my cunt shaved bare; in some I was fucking myself with a giant dildo, visibly climaxing; others added tattoos ranging from poetic to simply whorish. We scattered them on easels around the statue of Josiah Burns and I sat in the middle with a bed sheet over me, covering everything but my face. It allowed passersby to recognize me as the subject of the sketches while not knowing which one represented the truth beneath the sheet. I was completely naked beneath it - Todd's idea, and it was a master stroke - but even that they had no way of knowing. I was the simultaneous personification of every type of hot, sexy babe viewers could see. I humanized all sluts everywhere.

"Bum Boxing" was a crowd favorite. The sun rose in Arthur Park that morning on my naked body laying face down on a metal bench. My only covering was a disheveled cardboard box that barely managed to cover from the top of my ass crack to just beneath my fuckholes. (Can you believe Todd had to remind me I didn't just haveone fuckhole? The man was Rembrandt reborn.) I lied there as if sleeping, arms folded beneath my head and titties crushed under my chest, as people took in the horrific deprivation of homelessness. During a lull, I rolled onto my back and used a rolled-up newspaper to cover my jugs. (The nipples, anyway.) While the people couldn't seem to stop staring, I worried that I'd muddled the message by trying to both show the plight of vulnerable, destitute cunts while also calling attention to how the indigent did indeed have something very appealing to offer society.

All the while, Todd used his connections to keep me from serving time for "indecent" exposure. (As if my body was somehow unworthy of being highlighted for the hot, wet, soft, yielding, fuckable, always totally available commodity it was!) I guess I did get arrested the one time, but that was by design. In "Legalize It," Todd helped me disguise myself as a streetwalker - not the bullshit version sorority skanks did at pimps and hos parties, but a real authentic gutterslut. Big jangly earrings, thigh-high faded white leather boots, a ratty jean skirt that showed my leopard print thong top and bottom, and a corset-like top we bought off a real hooker. My honkers barely fit inside it, nipples peeking out in obvious fashion. Then I went around Arthur Park and invited every man I saw to come to my house to fuck me, being sure to pointedly tell them every hole, every fuckable crevice on my body was absolutely free for the taking.

Nonetheless, I was arrested by some jerk for - you guessed it - prostitution! When I had explicitly promisednot to charge!

(The arrest wasn't anything that went on my permanent record. Todd had this sexy little cop friend who let me out before they'd even IDed me; as his way of saying thanks, he bent her over the hood of her cruiser and fucked her fascist brains out. I sat on the back end and diddled myself; while he was plastering her face, I took my lipstick to the trunk and wrote "Blue Lives Splatter" with a little doodle of a cock spurting on a lady cop's face. Serves her shapely authoritarian ass right.)

Besides that, I was also enjoying the best mental health I'd been in for years. I had more fans and patrons than I'd ever dreamed; my social media followership numbered in the thousands and I'd never even promoted my accounts! (I hadn't even signed up for them, actually, but then Todd showed me how he'd been posting pictures of my shows, the preparations, even some really dirty shots of us doing prep work with my huge slut titties wrapped around my muses's dick. It was really tasteful and poignant, I felt. An artist at her easel!)

My shows had people turn out in droves, and there was a diverse mix. There were men who got it, who really appreciated a sweet slice of T&A like myself for the fuckfest my body promised itself to be. There were men who didn't, who told me I was embarrassing myself, who tried to diminish my worth. (Some figuratively by telling me to conceal my body; some literally, by offering to pay me well below the market rate for prime pussy like me.)

And of course, there were the protesters, repressed men and women who came to heckle, obscure and jeer. (Along with a few pretenders using the protest as an excuse to ogle me. Perverts.) As they stood by chanting, "Keep your eyes shut! She is a slut!" my cunt swelled with sticky wet pride to know I was creating controversy, forcing people to confront and examine their ideals. It was every artist's dream come true.

Sometimes, I'd come just from listening to them boo.

The big uptick in my sex life probably contributed to my well-being, flooding my brains with dopamine and my pussy with steady deliveries of Todd's cum. It was like my cunt was the garden of my creativity, and he was there to keep it good and watered. I tried to find little ways to thank him for nurturing my imagination, like learning all the ways he liked having his cock sucked, giving him total control over my ass, mastering the art of the tittyfuck, and making out with his cute neighbor girls while he watched or filmed. (I could never tell if they were sisters or mother/daughter, and if the latter, which one was which.)

Replacing my entire wardrobe, while expensive, had been incredibly liberating. Looking back, I can hardly believe I'd let some well-disguised patriarchal values deceive me into hiding away my body. I'd realized one day while Todd was adorably attempting more hypnosis that sexuality, especially female sexuality - most especially my own jugsy assy sucky fucky cum-crazy brand of female sexuality - was its own art. Now, everywhere I went, my attire came from my new collection of flashy jewelry, halter tops, short shorts, mini skirts, stiletto heels, string bikinis, and all the miscellaneous mouth-wateringly sexy outfits I'd picked up.

Like any art, the key was to have a personal style as well as variety within those limitations. One day I might go out in my knitted rainbow-colored strapless crop top, a pastel blue vinyl micro mini skirt, thigh-high rainbow socks and a pair of chunky platform sandals. The next I might squeeze into a pair of cut-off shorts I'd fashioned out of a pair of jeans I'd outgrown in eighth grade, slip on a pair of 5-inch crimson red heels, and let a semi-transparent bikini top do the heavy lifting. One was slutty hippy, one was pure attention-seeking whore; both proclaimed to the world: Abigail.

(Todd still called me Abbie, but I allowed the guy that one vice.)

Today, on the last official day of summer, Todd and I had planned our boldest display yet. I'd been looking forward to it all week. I must've begged Todd to fuck the passion out of me more times than I could count. I was beside myself, constantly dripping wet and so horny I'd sometimes start jilling myself off without even realizing where I was or who was around me.

The preliminary work was done, and as much as my twat was drooling in anticipation of the finale, part of me was still sad it was over. My last three shows in Arthur Park, I'd asked some patrons to distribute invitations to an online art show I was doing. It had turned out great, thanks as ever to Todd. He'd called an old friend of his who was an instagram celebrity. (He claimed once was a weather forecaster, though to hear her talk I'd never believe the girl had the brains to finish college. Which was fine - bimbos were women, too.)

Together, in front of a live audience of over two thousand viewers, the two of us gave a full-on performance art showcase!

When Todd first explained it, I admit it: I scoffed. The idea, as he explained it to me, was little more than a two-hour long lesbian camgirl show. Not art, but mere pornography. I was comfortable with my body, but that was because my art had always had meaning behind it. In his words, Grace the instagram ditz (another term I'd reclaimed as one of empowerment) and I would "fuck like bitches in heat" and ask for feedback and donations.

I didn't even need the money, I'd pointed out.

"Maybe you're right," Todd had said. "Why don't you take a moment to think it over and see if there's an artsy angle you haven't considered, and I'll give my own craft a go?"

Sure enough, his pointless yammering gave me time to stop and reconsider, and by the advertised time, I couldn't wait to fuck Grace raw. This was deeper than I'd gone before by far, and it was groundbreakingly exciting. What could be a bigger statement than fucking just to be seen fucking? Than to debase oneself by panhandling for microdonations, achieving life's necessities as a modern spin-off of the world's oldest profession? To bare everything for anonymous strangers, to let them see me fuck and be fucked by a girl I didn't even know solely for their sexual gratification?

I mean, there would be money, sure, but Todd and I had agreed Grace should keep it all. Not like I was saving for a boob job, for obvious reasons.

The bimbo was an incredible fuck. We giggled to one another about how she could have such big boobs, but sitting next to me she still looked petite. Although I wasn't bisexual, I'd already learned to enjoy exploring the female body as an artistic enterprise. We were so naturally sexual, made for pleasing and being pleased, and Grace's body was so very enjoyable. Airhead or no, she ate pussy like a pro (which Todd later told me she was, as a side deal to help pay rent). I tried to give as good as I got, slurping that sweet little cunt of hers like it was candy-coated. We even got competitive at times as we remembered Todd was watching, whispering a plan to get so frisky he'd be overwhelmed with the need to come over and fuck our brains out.

(He did, but only after the show was done. I didn't even notice or care when the recording ended; by then, offering to let Grace spank my fat ass like the naughty bitch I was if someone would just donate another dollar felt all too natural.)

Needless to say, the show was a big success as preparation for today's performance. For the next three days, armed with a heap of hundreds of post it notes, I pored through the chat log from our cam show. I couldn't believe how many men had watched us, but when it came to the number of comments, I was floored. To be given so much fodder for my show... this could be my life's work.

I strode into the park that day with my head held high. Everywhere, people turned to gape. Unlike previous shows, I hadn't announced this one, so my crowd of horny admirers and angry detractors was not in attendance. This was merely the sincere reactions of people being treated to the sight of a piece of performance art I called, "Proudly Cloaked in Shame."

I was naked. Not one stitch of clothing touched my body. Todd helpfully removed the stump from beneath the domineering foot of Rev. Josiah Burns. I stood atop it, hands on my hips, and provided the right to the world to leer at what lay beneath my concealing canopy of post its. They were stuck to every inch of my body, from my face to my feet. They were on my back as well, and I'd even used a mildly stronger adhesive on to stick them to my hair to add another expanse of surface area. They were on the underside of my tits, two on each of my labia, over my smoothly waxed snatch, along the crack of my ass, and every other part of me. The only thing I left uncovered was my eyes, and those only barely.

On them, I'd transcribed the comments of the people who'd watched my cam show.

slut

nice tits bitch

fuck that big-titted bimbo slut

hot-ass freak

slut

chow that dumb cunt baby

what a whore

slut

lol horny much you cocksucking tramp?

slut

you filthy fucking whore

slut

slut

slut

On and on it went. I'd run analytics on the chat log. The word "slut" occurred individually and in context of longer comments 514 times. "Whore" came in second at 328. "Stupid" 58, combined with other insults at our intelligence put it up to 87. Comments on our titties, depending on how strictly one interpreted them, came in just over 300. Our pussies got a mere 186, asses only 44. (Disappointing, but fair by comparison. We hadamazing titties.)

These words were now the only covering on my otherwise naked body. Between each post-it a sliver of bare girl flesh provided the profile of the artist's nudity. I'd used a chemical I'd picked up at a costume shop to help the post its stick even if I got a little sweaty; they should stay on unless physically removed.

Which, of course, was the point.

Chauvinism. Misogyny. Sexism. Call it what you want, but it was my calling in life to keep lopping heads off the male hydra until it lie fangless at my feet. Today, I wore a coat of intended insults as a thousand badges of honor. Anyone who looked at me now could see only the choose-your-degrading-epithet; I was nothing but a slut, a stacked-ass whore, a cum-starved lezzie bitch with daddy issues. The signs all said so, literally.

Except one sign. The one I hung around the neck of Rev. Josiah Burns.

It read, quite simply,love us for what we are.

There I stood, letting the gaping crowd grow. I could hear the words on my body murmured on the lips of the people of Arthur Park. I could hear them asking each other, "Who is this girl?" "What does she think she's doing?" "You think she's as hot as she looks under that?" "Are those tits even real?"

As I had in performances past, I fixed my eyes on a point in the distance. Today, that was the clock tower atop city hall. Seconds became minutes became hours as I stood, waiting to see if these people were ready. To see if they could appreciate what I was trying to do. To prove that I'd been wrong about them all along.

Finally, after over five hours of standing there in the middle of Arthur Park, someone at last acted. He was an older man, probably around my dad's age, walking with a bit of a limp as he approached me. All eyes were on him, waiting to see what he would do. If I would react, and how.

He stood in front of me for a long moment, studying me. No one else had dared get this close to the naked statue on her stump pedestal. "You know," he said at last, "you may be one crazy slut, but... maybe that's not such a bad thing."

The man reached out to take hold of one of the post its on my left arm, and with a little tug, pulled it off, crumpling it up and tossing it aside. Faint as it was, the feeling of moving air on that square of skin felt divine. More than that, though, that this man saw me for the slut I was and saw it as something other than an insult...

This was my Sistine Chapel.

He walked away then, but after a moment another man walked over, gave me a little smile, and removed the post it over my right nipple. He winked as he gave it a little pinch; it hardened immediately before he even rejoined the crowd. Then came a pair of high school age boys who gaped as they uncovered my pubic mound, giggling delightedly at me as they darted back to safety.

Soon after, the crowd descended on me. Like a butterfly emerging from her cocoon, hundreds of strangers hands plucked at the scraps protecting what remained of my modesty, many treating themselves to gropes of what had lain beneath. I only came once, when a man pulled a post it off my lower back. "What a cunt," he read aloud, inflecting it as the pejorative it had been meant to be. He walked around to the front of me then, grinning bashfully. I gave him the barest of nods, and in it, he read my permission. His fingers slipped between my legs and up inside my pussy. He fingered me for a long moment before pulling back, blushing.