"Case dismissed," I said, as I hung up the phone after a lengthy conversation with Greta who was still down at the court waiting to celebrate with her lawyers. "And she was awarded costs, much to her relief."
"Yesss!" said Amy with some feeling. I knew Amy in particular would be as relieved by the outcome of the trial as I imagined Greta must have been. Amy had been more outraged than I was that our work might be officially labelled 'obscene'. In some way, she felt that the case was more a personal attack on her than on the paintings and drawings, that her freedom to be herself and explore her own sexuality was in some way being prosecuted and she was deeply offended by this.
"Why was it dismissed?" asked Mike in his best TV interviewer manner. His camera was pointing at me because he had been videotaping us working in the studio when the phone rang, and he had then taped whole phone conversation. "The media seemed to think the prosecution was pretty confident of winning this one."
"Apparently the prosecution argued that what was on the walls of Greta's gallery would fail the Supreme Court's 1973 obscenity test, but the judge wasn't convinced they had made a good enough case, so Greta said he dismissed it without even hearing the defence."
"Good for Greta, I say," said Amy. "She never let them intimidate her and she made it quite clear that she would take it all the way back up to the Supreme Court if she had to."
"What is the Supreme Court test?", asked Mike, with his camera still focused on me, tape rolling.
"I think it says that my pictures had to be deemed 'patently offensive', 'predominantly prurient', and 'lacking serious artistic value'."
As I said this, Mike twisted the lens of the camera to zoom out from my face, then he panned, slowly, onto and then past Amy who was sitting naked and cross-legged on the dais, to a series of finished and half-finished artworks stuck up around the walls of the studio. He held the camera stationery for a few moments on a picture of Amy reclining back away from us with her legs splayed and hanging over the edge of a bed, then he shut off the camera, lowered it from his shoulder and turned back to face me.
"That sounds like a pretty good description of your work, Dad."
"Thanks very much, Mike. I do try my best."
"That's not funny, guys," protested Amy, lacking her normal ability to laugh at almost anything on the planet, no matter how tasteless or repugnant. "I think this is very important, and it means a lot to me."
"I know," I said, hoping that Amy wouldn't stay up on her high horse for long. "It means a lot to all of us. Especially Greta. She's had some terrific PR from this."
"Most of it negative, from what I've been reading," said Mike.
"I don't suppose people who buy our sort of pictures care much what the papers say," said Amy to Mike.
"And Greta would have doubled her prices again already, I bet you," I said, rubbing my hands together in an impression of Lawrence Olivier playing Shylock.
"I can't believe you are so mercenary," said Amy, clambering back up on her high horse again. "This is about Art, and freedom of speech, not money."
"Amy, it's OK. We won."
"Yes we did, so how about opening some champagne, paint boy?"
"I don't think we have any," I said, ignoring her friendly jibe. "One of us will have to go down to the liquor store."
"I think it has to be someone with clothes on," said Amy. She looked down at herself and threw her hands up in surprise. "Well, how about that! Guess it can't be me."
"That let's me out, too," I said, turning towards Mike, who bowed to the inevitable and headed for the door, fumbling in his pockets for his car keys.
As soon as she heard Mike's car backing out of the drive, Amy stepped down off the dais and walked over to the sofa where I was sitting and, facing me, straddled my legs and sat on my knees taking my cock in both hands and gently stroking it.
"He'll be gone at least fifteen minutes," she said, quizzically raising her eyebrows and giving me her 'wanna-fool-around?' look.
"Don't you want to wait until the camera's rolling again?"
"Of course not. He's making a documentary about our life and our work, not a porn flic of you and me fucking."
"What were we all doing in City Plaza, then?"
"That was different. That was in public. We had an audience. Now we don't."
Even though I completely understood what she meant, I had to laugh at her unusual logic. if we fucked in public, with an audience of strangers, that was Art, so it was OK to be filmed doing it, but if we made love in the privacy of our own home and let Mike film that, it would be 'porn'.
Amy walked forwards on her knees until she was over my expertly stiffened cock which was hovering at the entrance to her vagina. She used the tip of my prick like a dildo to stimulate her clitoris and get us both nice and slippery, then she firmly sat down on it so that it slid into her in one breathtaking movement, and leaned forward, pressing her hard-tipped breasts into my chest.
We sat with our genitals enmeshed, holding each other close in a silence long enough for me to be quite sure that there was nowhere else on earth that I would rather have been at that moment.
"When Greta was here, did you like the way I tried to get her to play Hide the Sausage with us?"
"No."
"I didn't think so. But I did think for a moment that she might just say yes, didn't you?
"I was afraid she would, and I was wishing that you hadn't made her the offer."
"I couldn't help myself. Sono fatto cosi."
