The Washed Up Artist

"As our most famous, living, past student we would like to invite you to be the guest of honor at our final year student exhibition."

Mulqueen smiled at the piece of paper, "Fuck they must be desperate."

He didn't get many invites these days, out of favor and considered more of a 'dirty old man' than the revered radical artist. He smiled again, was he a dirty old man? Probably, he'd certainly been a dirty young man or 'a game changing young subversive' as a fawning reviewer had once said.

Penny, the course director and exhibition curator, greeted him enthusiastically, embraces and pecks on the cheek rather than handshakes.

He found her almost instantly forgettable, only the sensation of her big boobs, pushed into his chest, lingering.

"This way." Penny said, leading him into the large exhibition area.

There were paintings, sculptures, installments, projections, every kind of art. He was bored; the artists were young and talented, earnest and enthusiastic, but he felt no connection. Maybe he was the washed up, grumpy old fucker that a recent, much younger, lover had said.

"There's just one more exhibit." Mulqueen followed Penny's plump ass, becoming more interested in that than the exhibition. "I'll let you view it alone."

He walked into a darkened room, spotlights shining on two figures about six feet away, a barrier stopping you going any closer. They wore plain white masks and were naked; their heads slightly bowed, stood back to back, skin to skin, turning slowly.

The man was facing him, he was tall and broad shouldered but lean, as only the young can be. Mulqueen studied him; long limbs, sinewy, defined muscles, a nice sized, flaccid, circumcised penis.

The models were in profile; their bodies pressed together, their fingers interlaced, a feeling of oneness.

'And a nice pair of tits.' Mulqueen looked away, silently chastising himself for his stupid, childish thoughts. Had he really become this base parody of himself, the dirty old man parading as an artist? No he hadn't, this was beautiful, evocative art and he loved it.

The female faced him, auburn hair reaching shoulders that pushed into the man's back, an aura of pride despite the bowed head. Certainly young, but also womanly. Elegant, defined collar bones; smooth, toned arms; high, full breasts; flat stomach; wide hips; finely muscled legs; shaven. Beautiful.

He moved closer to the barrier and small lights came on, one behind the models hinting that someone else was there and another, a computer tablet, inviting the viewer to read.

"A collaboration between artist and models. A collaboration between mother and children."

'Cripes' he wasn't expecting that. He re-read the top line and looked at the scene again, trying to see the figure behind the model.

He read more, "Sensual and Natural or Depraved: You Decide."

Artist: Mother.

Models: Patrick and Siobhan, Twins.

"We invite you to put on the headphones and decide what sounds the models listen to."

He looked again and saw the blue-tooth earphones on the models. Placing the headphones attached to the tablet on his own head he heard, "Press1 for: it sounded like two people arguing, screaming and shouting. Press2 for: it sounded like the same couple having sex, grunts, groans, banging headboards and screaming orgasms included. Press3 for: the gentle sound of bird song played in his ear."

He looked at the screen, nervous and confused, checking to see if anyone could see him, he pressed 2.

Their heads shot up, their muscles tensed and their hands gripped tighter as the audio began. They reacted to the audio, small, barely perceptible movements. Patrick's glutes tightening as the man thrust forward or Siobhan's nails digging into Patrick's hands as the woman cried out with pleasure. It was intense and even the more obvious signs of arousal, such as Patrick's erection or Siobhan's hard, jutting nipples were so intimate that it was difficult to watch.

Mulqueen removed his headphones and tried to gather himself. He moved along the room towards the exit, closer to the figure behind the models.

A silhouette bathed in darkness, only the hands and a pad were visible, the artist's delicate hands lovingly sketching the models.

Mulqueen moved through the exit, his mind whirling, something familiar tugging at him.

Penny was beside him, "What's the artists' name?" He asked quietly.

"Isobel, she's quite remarkable. She attended this college previously but left suddenly, twenty years ago. It was her who persuaded us to invite you. In fact she was insistent." Mulqueen froze.