The Problem With Immortality Ch. 15

The Problem With Immortality

Chapter 15

By Gary LM Martin

Chapter 15: Creativity From Destruction

Artists were among the hardest hit by eternal life. When one has eternity to paint, to sculpt, to write, or to compose, what happens?

At first artists thought it would be wonderful. They would have an eternity to hone their ideas.

But after a hundred years, 150 years, 200 years, they all realized the truth.

They all ran out of ideas.

After all, how many times could you paint a house? Or a tree? Or meaningless horizontal colored lines?

Even abstract painters, who specialized in the kind of "pretend" art which was more and more popular as the centuries wore on, realized, over the decades, over the centuries, that they were grinding out more of the same crap, over and over again.

This caused a lot of depression among artists. The net number of artists on the planet actually started to dwindle.

Some of them got hooked on synthetic Weed, and slowly took their own lives in drugged bliss.

Others plugged themselves into the Dreamscape, reliving past glories, ending their lives at a slightly slower rate than Weed addiction as their bodies withered and decayed.

And still more volunteered themselves up at Soylent Green recycling centers, because, it's all about being good for the environment.

Bangh Mi Sonn was one of them. A renown Cambodian expatriate who had moved to Santa Barbara, he painted everything he could think of, before going through a black period where he literally started painting black canvases, one after another.

And then one day, in a fit of boredom, he looked at one of his older paintings, of a house on a hill in Buon Ho, and said to himself, "Wouldn't that look even better with a little fire?" And so he did just that, igniting it with his electric cigarette lighter.

As it started to burn, Bangh Mi Sonn was stunned. Watching his painting burn, seeing the colors peeling away and disappearing, his work was transformed. For a brief instant, it had become something else. It had become performance art, a new and uninhibited kind.

And thus, destructive art was born.

The movement quickly spread to art galleries and museums around the world, which had all been struggling with declining attendance, because of jaded audiences who had seen everything many times over.

Audiences streamed into The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York to see Picasso's Portrait of Gertrude Stein burned up. In Paris, the Louvre drew crowds when it burned the self-portrait of Vincent Van Gogh. The Chicago Octagon burned Kwimset's Horizontal wavy lines to cheers of hundreds.

Suddenly, destructive art was popular. At first, only copies of famous paintings were destroyed. The subject matter of each destroyed painting--whether it was a landscape, or a portrait, or abstract, or something else--always lent some variety to its destruction. Fire made landscapes burn most realistically; the faces of people on fire was exciting for some to behold; and abstract art was practically made to be burned, as it was putting one layer of abstraction over another.

And paintings were not merely destroyed by fire. All kinds of destruction of artwork--by flame, by explosion, by corrosive acid, by wild animals--evoked excitement. Each method of destruction mutilated paintings in distinctly different ways. Fire curled and changed colors. Shredding created new lines of thinking. Urine and excrement created new color palettes on top of old ones.

At first merely prints were destroyed. But art galleries found that they generated more attention, more controversies, and, more importantly, more donations and patronage when they destroyed originals. The Louvre raised a hundred million credits alone when it burned the original Mona Lisa.

And so destructive art became very popular in 28th century Earth.

********

"This is one of your more inspired ideas, Anson," said Jessica, walking around their Paris hotel room wearing only her underwear. Her hands were in her panties, rubbing herself casually. "Much better than almost being eaten by sharks."

"I've already apologized many times for that."

"I don't know if you can ever apologize enough for almost getting eaten by squids, or sharks, or Orcas," said Jessica.

"The life of a Fixer isn't always the safest one," said Anson, watching her masturbating inside her panties.

"Do you see something you like, Anson? Perhaps something you'd like to participate in?" Jessica asked, smiling as her hand kept busy inside her red panties.

Anson shook his head. "We have no time. We have to be at the Louvre in less than an hour."

"Less than an hour? You didn't tell me that!"

"What's wrong?"

"I called for room service," said Jessica.

"Well, uncall it," said Anson.

Jessica made a face and activated the comm. "Hello, front desk? This is room... Anson?"

"73."

"73," said Jessica. "Cancel that six incher I ordered. I'll reschedule later. Thanks." She looked at Anson. "Satisfied?"

"As much as you are, at the moment," said Anson. More and more, Jessica was starting to irritate him. When he stopped having sex with her, their formerly frictionless relationship started to become... complicated.

Anson couldn't fully express, even to himself, why he stopped having sex with Jessica. It wasn't like he was married to anyone. It wasn't like he was being faithful to Jennifer. Jennifer would never know, or care.

But then he remembered that she did seem to care. The last two times she had seen Jennifer, she had asked very pointed questions about the sexual relationship between the two of them.

But it didn't matter, it shouldn't matter, since he was no longer with Jennifer.

And yet, it did matter, to Anson. He had simply lost interest. He saw Jessica, and her gorgeous, pouty breasts, and the sight of her masturbating herself aroused him, as she had intended, and yet... the drive wasn't there. It was sexy, but not arousing enough to make him want to take action.

It was as if, after having Jennifer, there wasn't another woman on the planet he'd rather stick his penis into.

It was a very disturbing and depressing thought.

********

The viewing gallery was nearly packed, an area that could seat nearly 500 in a newly built auditorium at the Louvre, with bulletproof glass between the audience and the stage, so no one would get hurt.

The first painting was "American Gothic", a painting about an old man and an old woman holding an old fashioned pitchfork. A curator with a flamethrower lit into it. The old man's bald head was the first to get lit on fire, giving him a comical appearance that made people laugh. The old woman's chest went up in flames, giving her the brief appearance of titties (in the painting she was totally flat chested). The flames gradually spread covering both of them, and the last thing they could see was the old man's glasses, burning in flames.

The audience clapped hysterically as the formerly priceless work of art was turned into a smoking cinder.

The next painting to be destroyed was the "The Grand Odalisque", a painting showing a naked woman with a large ass. This time a curator yelled, "Fire in the hole" and tossed a vintage 20th century hand grenade into the demolition area. His aim was perfect and it landed right next to the painting.

It exploded with a loud bang. Everyone clapped. When they looked into the monitors, they saw that the woman's backside and asshole had been peppered with shrapnel. Everyone laughed.

"I think Odour might enjoy this," said Anson.

"I think you're right," said Jessica, watching a curator dressed up as an ancient Japanese Samurai approach the next painting with a sword held high.

The next painting showed a woman, obviously extremely pregnant, her legs spread, about to give birth. The woman had chestnut brown hair and dark blue eyes.

Just like Jennifer....

********

It had been 306 years ago, but Anson remembered the moment just like it was today.

Jennifer had given birth to Judy.

Jennifer had wanted to have a baby for a long time. They had tried for a while, and had to go to the doctor for help, but eventually Jennifer got pregnant. It was the happiest moment in her life when Anson impregnated her. She hugged and kissed him and cried out.

Jennifer had a remarkably smooth pregnancy, except for the normal anxieties. Anson remembered how her belly got big and round. Every few days she got a little bigger, and she would always look critically in the mirror, and say, "I look fat and ugly, don't I?"

And Anson would have to hug her and reassure her that she wasn't ugly.

"I do, Anson. We shouldn't lie to each other," said Jennifer. "I'm ugly. If you have to satisfy your needs with another woman until I get pretty again, I understand. I won't be offended."

And Anson would have to kiss her, and make love to her, to convince her he really found her attractive. That got harder and harder to do, especially in the lattermost part of the third trimester. It was like making love to a larger and larger beach ball with a small hole in it. Towards the end he was having to fake his orgasm just to keep her happy because there was no way he was going to be able to climax by making love to an enormous bean bag that sloshed around every time you banged against it. Plus he was worried that sex would make his baby seasick, and he even privately wondered if his penis went too far in if it might be able to poke the baby's eye out.

He didn't tell Jennifer that, of course. Privately, however, he wondered how long he was going to have to wait to make love to her after she gave birth. He knew that Jennifer's tight snatch would be stretched to garage door proportions, and wondered how long it would take to shrink down again. If it ever did.

But Anson knew how anxious Jennifer was about the pregnancy, so he buried his sexual concerns deep and smiled confidently at her.

Jennifer insisted they use her gynecologist, Dr. Hildo, to deliver the baby. When she told Dr. Hildo that she wanted to have a natural childbirth, with no painkillers, Dr. Hildo frowned but said it was her choice. She also said there was a new natural method of reducing pain, involving the stimulation of the sexual areas of the body, which should cancel out most of the discomfort.

Jennifer was eager to try it.

So, when the day came when Jennifer's water broke and she was brought to the hospital, she was stripped nude and her legs were spread right apart. A nurse came to shave her luxurious pubic hair but Jennifer refused. She was not going to be some baldie holoporn star, she insisted!

The contractions were coming closer and closer together and soon it was time. Jennifer was all sweaty and crying out in discomfort. Dr. Hildo started to take some gel and rub it on Jennifer's nipples and clitoris.

"What is that, Doctor?" Anson asked, as he held Jennifer's hand.

"It's a sensitizing gel," said Dr. Hildo. "It's intended to increase the sensitivity of the nipples and the clitoris." She smiled at Jennifer, and started to rub her clitoris gently.

"There... how's that feeling?" said Dr. Hildo, as she smoothly rubbed circles around Jennifer's clitoral hood.

"Good... ah.... I think it's helping, Doctor."

"I know it is," Hildo said, looking intently into Jennifer's eyes as she professionally diddled her clitoris with one hand, and fondled a nipple with the other. Jennifer stared back at the young blonde doctor and started to pant.

Anson smiled inwardly. He knew that Dr. Hildo was a lesbian, as most women gynecologists were, but didn't blame her for enjoying an attraction to Jennifer; Anson could never blame anyone, man or woman, for being attracted to Jennifer, who to him was the most attractive woman in the world.

Jennifer cried out, and the baby's head started to appear. The assisting nurse spread Jennifer's pussy lips and started to get a grip on it.

"Squeeze, Jennifer, squeeze," said Dr. Hildo.

"I am!" Jennifer cried, sweating bullets. "But the pain! It hurts!"

"I know dear, I know," said Dr. Hildo. "I know something that will help you push." She rubbed Jennifer's clitoris more intensely now, even touching the exposed part below the hood.

"Oooooh!" cried Jennifer, and the baby's head started to emerge.

"Push, Jennifer, push!" said Dr. Hildo, rubbing her clit more frantically now. "It's an orgasmic push reaction," Dr. Hildo said to Anson. "If we can get Jennifer to have a powerful orgasm, her natural reaction could push the baby out. Anson, fondle her nipples!"

Anson obeyed the doctor. He reached over and started to gently caress Jennifer's nipples.

"No time for that, Anson. Harder!" Hildo ordered.

Anson pulled hard on Jennifer's nipples. Instantly, they became erect. Jennifer moaned.

Hildo pulled aside Jennifer's clitoral hood and was stroking her naked clitoris directly. Jennifer screamed, and her body shook.

The head of the baby popped out.

"Good girl, good girl! Keep coming!" Dr. Hildo cried. She stroked Jennifer's clitoris more rapidly now, with a practiced forefinger moving in the practiced pattern lesbians knew and love.

"Ooooh! Ooooh!" Jennifer cried.

"Come on, Jennifer! Come for me, Girl, Come for me!" Hildo cried, diddling her furiously.

"Ooooh!" Jennifer cried again.

Dr. Hildo reached over and gave Jennifer a passionate kiss, slipping a tongue into her mouth. That combined with her vibrating finger on her clit sent Jennifer over the edge.

"OOOOOOH!" she screamed. Her pussy contracted, spitting the baby out, practically shooting it into the nurse's hands.

They heard the baby cry out. Anson saw it for the first time. It was a beautiful baby girl. Gorgeous! Even when covered in blood and piss.

"Good girl, Jennifer!" Dr. Hildo cried, kissing her again on the lips. "Such a good girl!"

The cord connecting the baby with the life support system inside of Jennifer's vagina was cut, towels were applied, and the baby was wiped clean. In moments it was resting in Jennifer's very tired arms.

"My baby," she said. She looked up at Anson. "We have a baby."

"Yes, my love," said Anson, smiling broadly.

********

Anson blinked, and found himself back in the museum's viewing gallery. Only a few seconds had passed. The Samurai was hacking the painting of the pregnant woman to shreds. Anson wanted to shout out, and scream, as if it were Jennifer being cut up. He felt too pained for words.

********

Jennifer and Carl were in the new performance gallery at the San Diego Museum of Fine Art. They were looking forward to quite a show.

The first rare painting to be destroyed was "The Birth of Venus", showing a woman with small titties and a pot belly. Jennifer thought it was criminal for women with small breasts to let themselves get fat so that their bellies stuck out more than their titties. The other remarkable feature of the woman in the painting was that she had long red hair covering her vagina. But the painting was a little hard to see because it was smeared in peanut butter.

They found out why in a moment when an elephant, a real live elephant from the San Diego Zoo, was brought in. Immediately attracted by the peanut smell, it wrapped the fragile painting in its trunk and tried to eat it, but quickly discovered it wasn't edible, after taking a single biet. It immediately howled with rage and started bashing the painting against the wall with its trunk. Wack! Wack! Wack!

The audience went wild, clapping.

But the elephant wasn't done. It dropped the painting, and then stomped over it several times. And then, for a finale, it dropped a large piece of dung over it.

The audience was cheering. Now this was performance art!

The performances after that were much tamer by comparison--destruction by a hail of bullets, or laser fire, or by a massive shredder.

But one painting in particular caught Jennifer's eye. It looked like a painting of an old fashioned graduation ceremony, the one where people wore flat hats on their head. Only in this ceremony, everyone wore red hats.

Red hats...

********

It had been nearly 300 years ago, but it had been one of the proudest moments in Jennifer's life.

The day her little girl was graduated from Oxford.

Judy was near the top of her class. She looked so young, and so brilliant in her graduation outfit, her black gown, and the red cap on top indicating that she was one of the highest achieving students in her graduating class. When, as the Salutatorian, she gave a speech to her fellow students, Jennifer was bursting with pride.

"We produced that," said Jennifer, more than once to Anson. "We made that," she proclaimed.

"Yes we did," said Anson, giving her a kiss.

They celebrated with Judy over a hearty meal after that, but Jennifer's mood changed when they went back to their hotel room that night.

Anson saw it immediately. "What's wrong, dear?"

"I don't have a baby anymore," said Jennifer, starting to cry.

"Oh, dear," said Anson, hugging her. "You haven't had a baby in years."

"I know that," said Jennifer, sniffling. "But it's just struck me now. Our little girl just graduated from Oxford!" She hugged him tightly. "Why didn't we ever have another one, dear? Why not?"

"We... we were both busy with our careers," said Anson. "I was getting my first start as a Fixer, and you were launching your career as a concert pianist."

Jennifer remembered. After she gave birth to Judy, she had had her ovaries deactivated. Temporarily, she thought. There was no need to make a bloody mess in her panties every month unless she decided she wanted to get pregnant again, right? It would only be temporary, until she and Anson were ready to try again.

But months turned into a year and a year turned into years and somehow Jennifer never reactivated her ovaries. Partially she had an aversion to periods. "Why must women endure this disgusting mess when men don't have to?" she said to her girlfriends, more than once. But part of it was fear, fear that she would have to give up part of her career, which only now was taking off.

By the time Judy was 12, she didn't require such close supervision. They could have hired a robot to take care of their next baby, but Jennifer didn't want to leave her baby in the hands of a machine.

And so she never reactivated her ovaries, and they never had another child.

The evening of Judy's graduation, Jennifer regretted it mightily.

"We made such a perfect baby, didn't we, Anson?" she said, looking into his eyes.

"We did," said Anson, consoling her as best he could.

"Beautiful, brilliant... we should have made more. With my eggs, and your wonderful, wonderful sperm..." Her hands moved down, and started to rub his groin. She looked up at Anson. "Make a baby with me, Anson. Put a baby in me, tonight."

Anson knew that was not possible. Jennifer's ovaries were deactivated, as they had been for years, since Judy had been born. First they would have to be reactivated before they could have another child.

But he saw, emotionally, how Jennifer needed to feel she was getting pregnant again, even if it was all play acting. Even if they both knew it was not real.

"Of course," said Anson smoothly, kissing her. "I'll put a baby into you right now. It would be my greatest pleasure."

They slowly took off each others' clothes, with love for each other reflecting in both their eyes. When they were naked, Anson started to kiss Jennifer's body all over, and to rub her body. Jennifer shivered under his touch.

But she couldn't wait to get into bed. She couldn't wait to be inseminated. She grabbed his penis, and jerked it hard a few times. Then she grabbed it and pulled on it, using it like a rope, to pull him to the bed with her.