Rose Sélavy Takes Manhattan

With a final, desperate thrust of her hips, Rose ejaculated. Man directed the deluge at her clothes, smattering her tattered blouse with semen. He released his grip on the belt around her neck, and she drew in a gasping breath. "Thank you!" She exclaimed, slumping backward in her chair. She breathed deeply in and out, then laughed out loud. "Fuck. Look at me. I'm filthy!"

Man grinned. "Turns out, Rose Sélavy is quite the dirty girl. You can go take a shower and clean yourself up a bit. But first I want you to get me off. Deal?"

"Yes," she replied. Man reached around and untied the belt that bound Rose's wrists together behind her back. Rose adjusted her posture, rubbing her wrists with her hands, then she set to work unbuttoning Man's trousers. She took out his cock and began running her hands over it with steady deliberate strokes. Man's penis was long and thin, like Man himself. Rose was not surprised to discover that he was circumcised; he was Jewish, after all. Man ran a finger across her cheek, taking in the spots where he had smudged her makeup and the fading patch of red where he had slapped her.

"Harder," he ordered, and Rose obeyed with alacrity, accelerating the movement of her hands up and down the length of his cock. Man thought about all the events of the night He thought about the intoxicating thrill of dominance that had coursed through him at every step; he thought about the dutiful submissiveness that even now emanated from Rose's hands. The urge to ejaculate grew within him, warm and throbbing. It was inescapable now; there was nothing to it but to let the orgasm escape him. He gave himself over to the waves of pleasure that washed over him as she brought him closer and closer to climax.

Finally, he came, shuddering and gasping and spilling his seed on Rose's lap. She smiled up at him and wrapped her arms around his legs, clutching him close.

"Okay, now go take a shower," Man grinned. He knelt down and unfastened the belts that tied Rose's ankles to the chair. Then he went to his closet and fetched one of his own shirts and trousers to lend her. "The bathroom's in the corner right there," he said. "Take these if you need them." And then, because it felt as if he were saying goodbye to Rose, he leaned down and gave her a second, deep kiss on the lips.

Sure enough, the person who emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later was not Rose Sélavy but Marcel Duchamp. The wig and the tattered women's clothing were gone, the makeup had been removed, and the calculated femininity that Rose had exuded through the movements of her body was replaced with Marcel's easygoing masculine charm. Marcel wore the shirt and trousers that Man had given him. The shoulders on the shirt were a bit too tight, and the pants were baggy around the ankles, but it did not look unnatural. He took a seat at the kitchen table and put his feet up on the chair next to him.

"Could I bother you for a cigarette?" He asked.

Man handed him the pack of cigarettes and the box of matches that were in his jacket pocket. Marcel lit one and took a deep drag, looking out the window at the apartment building across the street. Man watched his movements with intense fascination. Seeing Marcel now was like waking up from a dream. Had Rose Sélavy ever really existed? Man was not sure what to say to his friend after he had undergone what seemed to be such a radical metamorphosis.

Marcel broke the silence. "I really never thought I'd be saying this, Man, but you're a good fuck." He grinned at Man, who grinned back. All of a sudden, the two men broke out laughing. There was a joyous absurdity to the whole affair which, when looked at from a bit of distance, was quite hilarious. Had Man and Marcel really invested themselves with such unwavering commitment in the theater of Rose Sélavy? Had they really gotten so caught up in the act that, for a few tantalizing minutes, they had lost themselves in each other?

"You're not so bad yourself," Man said, lighting a cigarette of his own and sitting down at the table next to Marcel.

"I'm not gay, you know," Marcel informed him. "I love women. God, I love them so much. But just this once, I thought I'd let myself see what it was like if the roles were reversed."

Man looked at Marcel's face, which wore a pensive, far away expression. "What was it like?"

"Like being lost in a warm sea," Marcel mused. "You know, I spend my whole life trying to make art. But just for a moment there, I felt like I didn't need to. Like I was the art."

"Oh, you were," Man agreed. "You were a perfect work of art."

"Not once you got ahold of me," Marcel chuckled. "Has anyone ever told you you're a bit of a sadist?"

"Oh yeah. All the time. Sex is about power, isn't it? We've always known that."

"An astute observation." Marcel sighed. "You know you still have lipstick on your face from when you kissed me?"

"I do?" Man had not thought to look at himself in a mirror the whole night. He was just reaching up to wipe his lips when Marcel stopped him.

"Wait right here," Marcel said, getting up and fetching Man's camera. "Look directly at me. One last photograph." Man looked into the eye of the camera, staring at it determinedly. The photograph Marcel snapped captured the faintest wisp of what had just passed between the two men, an imprintation of past passion already fading away. At least, that was the intended effect-neither would find out until the photograph was developed.

Man took up the decanter of whiskey that was on the table and poured shots for himself and Marcel. He raised his glass. "To new experiences," he toasted.

Marcel raised his glass in assent. "To new experiences."