Over the Edge

Reader: If you're looking for a stroke story, this would probably disappoint you. It's not about fucking, but the story does contain sexual elements. Because it involves public nudity, I've entered it in the Nude Day contest. If you finish the story (all two pages!) and want to vote or comment, that would be appreciated. Thank you for stopping by.

I met her at an art gallery. What, you ask? An art gallery? Yes, an art gallery. Were else can a guy go to stare at life-sized nude women without having to pay a ten dollar cover?

She wasn't nude, she was fully dressed, a tall skinny straggler in a group of college students on the guided tour. I've always liked the combat-boots-with-a-dress look, which is why I may have been accidentally following her, waiting for an opportunity to strike up a quick conversation. It's not something I normally do, but there was an undeniable magnetism drawing me to her. The long stringy hair, hunched shoulders and anxious laugh were a dead giveaway. She had "no boyfriend" written all over her freckled face. Seeing as how I had "no girlfriend" written all over mine, I assumed we'd be a perfect match.

"I like the blue part," I said, inching closer to her without invading her space. The painting we were looking at was pretty horrible; garish colors and freakish angles colliding in a headache-inducing jumble, but art is, after all, subjective

"The blue part?" she said, an amused quality in her voice.

"Yes, the blue. It's... um" Now I was stumped. I'm no art critic, but I had to say something. "The blue is so... you know, transparent, but yet heavy, like water."

"Interesting," she said. She thought for a moment. "I like the yellow. It reminds me of the wheat fields back home."

Sensing a hint of interest on her part, I continued: "So what do you think it is?"

"Too much coffee?" she said, flashing me a shy grin.

I had to disguise a giant sigh of relief. She was beautiful, in an ordinary sort of way, and I realized why her shoulders where hunched. She was trying to hide a pair of very nice, full, pointed tits. It's funny how some women stick them out and others don't. I figured, because she didn't, she may have had self esteem issues, which would be another win for me.

I know, I sound crass, but I've learned a few things over the years. One is that I don't chase women who stick their tits out. These women can be difficult and demanding. Who needs that? Give me a homely gal who's satisfied with a car that runs and a man who doesn't smell bad and I will win her over every time.

"Speaking of coffee..." I said, realizing that her group was trooping off into the next room and she had to troop with them, "if you ever have some free time..."

"Sure," she said, slipping a slender hand into her overstuffed woven bag. She handed me a business card -- turquoise and orange -- that said: "Veronica Williams, art for art's sake," followed by her number and email.

"Great," I said, trying to hide my stupid grin. "See you soon." As she strolled away, I considered my incredible stroke of luck. After a three-month dry spell, I was finally getting somewhere with a woman. Granted, she may have been a little out of my league, but sometimes those younger gals go for the older guy with the wisdom and the cooking skills and the sexual sophistication. Too bad I possessed none of those traits, but she didn't know that.

Speaking of sophistication, I was feeling rather unsophisticated that afternoon when I found myself literally skipping home. I was that happy. Just that brief encounter told me everything I needed to know about her. She was a dreamer, she was far from home, she was pretty, she smelled nice (lilacs) and the tits. Did I mention the tits?

By the time our third coffee date had rolled around, it was as if she and I were lovers, even though we'd never even touched each other. She'd talk about art, and women's issues, and missing Iowa, and the family dog she had to leave behind, and I'd just sit there, looking into her amber eyes thinking dirty thoughts.

On that third date, her hair was up in a ponytail, giving her an air of total innocence. Why is it innocent looking women give me such dirty thoughts? I couldn't help but wonder, if I kissed her neck, would she giggle and blush? If I put my arm around her slender waist, would she wriggle away, her ponytail flailing like a prancing horse? Her ponytail did remind me of a ten year-old girl in her Black Beauty phase, and I had to laugh to myself. What if she painted nothing but horse pictures? That would have been a deal killer, although I probably could have put up with it for a while.

She didn't paint horse pictures, she painted figure studies. She showed me on her phone; women and men. Naked women and men. I didn't ask her where she found them. I was afraid to. What if I got jealous? That would be lame. No, I had to play it cool, even though I knew I was falling in love with her. Yeah, I'm that kind of sap, but I'm pretty sure she was falling in love with me too. How would I know that? How does anyone know when the right one comes along? It's a dance between fantasy and reality, and I was one dancing fool.

After showing me her artwork on her phone, Veronica had to run off to art history class, and then her part time job at an art supply store, but before she left, she asked me if I wanted to go to a performance of Yoko Ono's "Cut Piece"

"Isn't Yoko dead?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes. "No silly, it's John who's dead. Yoko's still around, but it's not her doing the performance, it's me." She beamed at me, and for a second I though we were going to kiss.

"How do you perform 'Cut Piece'?" I asked. "Does it have something to do with hair? You've got beautiful hair, you know. It would be a shame if..."

"Don't worry," she said, laying her hand on my forearm, "I'm not cutting my hair, although 'Cut Piece' does involve scissors."

When she touched me, my pulse rate jumped about 20 beats per minute. I pretending like I didn't even notice her soft soothing fingers on my arm, even though her touch warmed me clear down into the dark depths of my soul. "Scissors?" I asked, hoping she'd explain.

"Google it', she said, letting go of my arm so she could fish a flyer out of her bag. "Here," she said, getting up to leave. I got up too, and as she handed me the flyer, she grabbed my shirt, tugged me closer and gave me a peck on the cheek. "So you'll come?" she asked, as she turned to go.

"Sure," I said, the smell of her flowery shampoo lingering in the air. I watched her walk away, although "flounce" might be a better word for it. She had that youthful exuberance that seems to disappear as women age. Her ass was still firm and round, her legs were still long and lean, and the bounce in her step screamed "healthy." As I headed home, I vowed to start running again. I certainly didn't want to blow my chance with this stunning little hottie by being too old and out of shape.

When I got home I googled "Yoko Ono Cut Piece". This is what I found:

First performed in 1964. She kneels on stage, a pair of scissors at her feet, and invites audience members to come up and cut off pieces of her clothing. She remains stoic, unflinching, while the hands of strangers carefully undress her with the scissors. The first two performances ended with her in her bra and panties, but in London in 1965, she was rendered naked within 20 minutes.

Holy crap! My future wife was going to be naked in front of a bunch of strangers? Before she even gets naked for me? That sucks, but what could I do? The performance was the next night, not exactly enough time for me to break the ice with her, get her into the sack, and nail down our monogamous status before she had a chance to stray.

It was a stressful 24 hours, waiting to see her again, but I survived. I ran a few laps around the park. I ate an avocado, (which is not bad with yogurt.) I cooked up a pack of instant brown rice and grilled a piece of salmon. I knew it wasn't realistic to remove fifteen years of my life and drop ten pounds in 24 hours, but it kept me busy and on a positive track.

The next day, I was at the theater a good half hour before they even opened, hiding across the street so she wouldn't find me there like a homeless dog, wagging his tail when he finally gets petted on the head.

A few minutes before seven, people started filing in for the pre-performance reception. I waited till I saw her flounce in, a knapsack hiked up on her shoulder, and then I gave her another ten minutes so I could make a fashionably late entrance.

Five minutes later (yeah, I couldn't wait ten minutes) I strolled into the room as if I belonged there, but I didn't belong there. I wasn't a young, beautiful but troubled artist, or a professor, or a critic from the campus paper, or even a nude model, I was just a working class dude with his hands in his pockets, pretending to enjoy the horrible screeching music cutting through the air like barbed wire. (I would later find out that this horrible screeching music was actually Yoko Ono.)

I dropped a five in the "donations" can and grabbed a glass of wine. I don't normally drink wine, but for Veronica, I could make an exception. In fact, I had a feeling I'd be making a lot of exceptions for this woman if things worked out the way I planned. I took a sip of my wine, pondering how the twisted metal sculpture in the middle of the lobby looked just like the music sounded, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Hey," Veronica said, "you made it." She grabbed my arm and cuddled up next to me, as if we were a couple, and had been a couple for a long time. I was definitely okay with that. She had a glass of wine in her hand. "Want some?" she asked.

"Got one," I said, watching her take a huge gulp. "Nervous?"

"A little" she said, looking at the floor.

"I can imagine. You're very brave, you know."

"Not brave," she sighed, shaking her head, "just stubborn. And idealistic. It's extra credit for both my art class and my sociology class, but I sort of wish I'd picked a different piece."

"It is a rather daring performance," I said, checking out her latest goodwill dress. This one had a distinct church lady vibe -- big yellow flowers on a faded purple background, with a lace border framing her pale collar bones -- and I realized what fun it would be to shred it with a pair of scissors. I continued: "According to what I read, you can stop the performance at any time, right?"

"Theoretically, but I'll be handcuffed to the chair, so anything could happen."

"Handcuffed?" I gasped. "What's up with that? 50 Shades of Gray?"

"No," she sighed, "it's a metaphor for the oppression of women. Plus, I don't want to have the ability to alter the performance. I want to be totally at the mercy of the audience." She gave me a little squeeze, and I think I might have felt a little bit of her left breast pressed up against my arm. What I definitely could feel was a boner coming on.

"So," she said, turning to me and running her hand up and down the buttons of my shirt, "if we get to a point in the performance where the audience is afraid to continue, you'll come up and cut something off me, right?"

"If you want me to," I said, certain I was blushing. "Do you have a preference for what I should be cutting?"

"Well...," she thought for a moment, "I hate these stockings." She looked down at her black pantyhose, reminiscent of what Yoko wore back in 1964. "If I still have them on when you come up, you have my permission to cut them off. I mean like, totally off. I'm wearing panties underneath, so it's not like you'll be violating me or anything."

Just my luck I was dating a mindreader. At that very moment I was violating her in my mind, my engorged dick popping into her tight little cunt like a straw plunging into the plastic lid of a big gulp. My biggest hope was that she was on the pill, and I was her first sex partner since she'd left the Midwest, so we wouldn't have to use condoms.

Snapping out of my fantasy, I realized the conversation had stalled, so I asked her: "Will the performance end when you're down to your bra and panties?"

"It depends," she said, suddenly serious. "I honestly don't know how it's going to end. Being the only naked person in a setting like this could be empowering, or it could be totally humiliating. I'm not planning on finding out, but that's the beauty of performance art. Although there's a script of sorts, the interaction with the audience determines the outcome. If I end up naked on the internet I'm sure I'll regret it, but that's the chance we take these days. Anything we do could end up on the internet. My landlord could have a secret camera in my shower for all I know. He's certainly creepy enough."

A chill went down my spine. She had been reading my mind, and now she was warning me about being creepy. I froze. Did she know I was, at that very moment, imagining her long, languid form all naked and soaped up in the shower? Just then, an older lady strolled up and took Veronica by the elbow.

"You almost ready Hon?" she asked, totally ignoring me.

"I guess," Veronica replied as the lady dragged her away. I watched wistfully. That should be me dragging her away to my bedroom. Perhaps tonight would be my big chance. Perhaps she would end up being naked on stage, and, with that out of the way, fucking with abandon would follow.

A moment later, the house lights flickered. As the crowd ambled into the theater, I slipped into the last row, thinking, hidden back here, no one would notice I really didn't belong in this theater, even though the star attraction herself had invited me.

The murmur of the crowd grew silent, as if we were in church. People started whispering quietly, leaning into each other so they wouldn't have to raise their voices. I could hear the creak of the floor boards and the squawk of a chair being moved behind the red velvet curtain, and my hands started to sweat.

Finally, the lights came down and the curtain opened. Veronica stood at a mic, her billowy dress making her look like a model from a Sears catalogue circa 1950. Her hair was up in a bun, and I detected the faintest hint of lipstick and eyeliner, something I hadn't noticed earlier. She took the mic stand with one hand, and held a three-by-five cue card with the other.

"Welcome to the Valley Arts Council performance of Yoko Ono's 'Cut Piece'. My name is Veronica Williams, and I'll be interpreting the work with a few updates to reflect the realities faced by women today. For one thing, we're using a chair. Ergonomics you know."

The crowd chuckled. Then she continued.

"I've decided to have my hands cuffed behind the chair. Choose your own metaphor for that."

The crowd chuckled again, and I realized it was a very supportive group -- definitely much more civilized than what you'd find at a female oil wrestling match, (not that I've ever been to one of those.)

"We're adding another twist," she said. "Before you cut off the piece of clothing you want, we'd like you to reassure the performer - that would be me - with a soothing caress or some whispered words of encouragement. We're going for a seduction vibe here. This will increase the bond between the performer and the individual audience members, which could lead to a more nuanced interpretation of the piece." She paused, flipping her cue card over, and then resumed.

"We have a video camera in the back of the theater to document the performance. With that in mind, please refrain from taking cell phone video. This is a live performance between me and each one of you in the audience. It's not a performance between me and millions of internet perverts."

"Darn it," a man's voice said. The crowd chuckled nervously, looking around to find the offender, who appeared to be a bald guy in the front row. Unfazed, Veronica continued.

"Anyone who might have questions or comments is welcome to join me backstage after the performance."

She stepped back from the mic, and there was a smattering of polite applause. She turned towards her chair of doom and then froze. Returning to the mic, she said: "Sorry, I forgot to thank Miranda Lopez, the owner of the Bright House Gallery. She rented the theater tonight, and she'll be the one in charge of the handcuff keys, so don't let her run off until we're finished, okay?"

The audience chuckled again as Veronica walked dutifully to the chair and sat down. Miranda, the older woman I'd seen in the lobby, appeared wearing dark pleated slacks and a billowy white shirt with an ascot tucked up under her neck. With a dramatic flourish, she unlocked the handcuffs and secured Veronica's hands behind her back. Then she produced a pair of red-handled scissors from her back pocket and placed them on the floor at Veronica's feet.

"You may proceed," Miranda announced, her face distorted into a snarling grin.

Silence. Obviously, no one wanted to go first. Finally, a plump girl took the scissors, paused to whisper something in Veronica's ear, and then snipped a small, pie-shaped section off the side of her dress. Veronica remained motionless, eyes straight ahead, lips pursed, a slightly pained expression on her face. It was creepy to watch, and yet it was arousing. Already, I could feel the tingle of my dick waking up.

The cutting continued. Swatches of her dress disappeared into the hands of strangers as they whispered and rubbed her back. Someone cut off a sleeve and her bare shoulder was revealed, white, innocent looking. After a few more minutes of creative cutting, her dress was reduced to a raggedy patch of dangling cloth remnants, revealing her long legs ensconced in the black pantyhose. A few more snips and she had holes in both knees of her stockings. Then a longhaired blonde woman put a hand on her shoulder, whispered in her ear, and snipped the tops of the dress, being careful not to cut the straps of her undergarments. With the last snip, her dress fell down to her waist, revealing a lacy slip with a bra underneath.

Veronica remained totally passive, although as the caresses continued, I could almost see her leaning into them like when you pet a cat. It was as if the scissors-wielding participants were playing her body like a musical instrument, and she was responding with a concerto of desire.

The pace quickening now, a small Asian woman sliced the front of her slip open clear down to her waist, and a heavyset woman finished the cut, all the way down to the hem at the bottom. The slip dangled open now, revealing her plain white bra. Several more cuts opened her stockings clear up to the tops of her thighs, and all the way down to her ankles.

The bald guy from the front row crept up, touched her shoulder gently, whispered in her ear, and then cut both straps of her slip, accidentally catching her left bra strap at the same time. As the slip slithered down, the bra flapped partially open, snagging on her stiff little nipple. There was an audible gasp from the crowd as Veronica glanced down, perhaps determining whether or not to continue. The guy apologized, trying to lift the bra panel back up, but it wouldn't stay. Finally, he slinked back to his seat, looking like a dog caught peeing on the floor.

At this point the performance stalled. Perhaps it was the partially exposed bare breast that had the audience holding back. Whatever it was, I realized it was my cue. Fortunately, my intermittent hard-on was in remission, so I got up and walked towards the stage, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. You could hear a pin drop.

When I reached the stage, my hands were shaking. I took the scissors and laid them on her bare thigh. She flinched every so slightly, not enough for the audience to see, but enough for me to realize I hadn't given her the soothing touch first. 
I slid my hand lightly up her thigh. "You okay?" I whispered. The look on her face reminded me of when my sister and I were up on the ferris wheel and she thought it was broken and we were never coming back down.