This is the second chapter of a series. While the author hopes that this story can stand on its own, this story will make a lot more sense if you have read "The Performance" by this author. This story draws on some real experiences but is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person or entity is coincidental and unintentional. Thank you for reading this story.
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I had agreed to strip naked with the daughter of my good friends onstage in front of an audience. Penny was very beautiful clothed and, as I had learned, stunning in the nude. The idea of engaging in exhibitionism with her was, frankly, exciting, in part because I hoped that it would lead to sex. She seemed open to that idea. Better still, Helen and Jim, her parents and my good friends, approved enthusiastically.
I was disappointed. One obstacle after another arose. Finally, Penny was offered one of those "too good to turn down" jobs in Portland. I was sorry that she moved to the other side of the country. I told myself that my fantasies about Penny were only fantasies and would not have become real even if Penny had stayed in the D.C. area. Still, it hurt.
Penny had been gone for about a year when I was introduced to Megan Ward at a faculty cocktail party. Generally, those parties were a bore. However, those of us who had not yet made full professor religiously attended in order to schmooze the senior faculty who would decide our careers.
Megan was an associate professor of art history. While she was technically on the faculty in the Department of Fine Arts, she worked jointly with some of the history faculty and one of them had invited her to this party. Although she outranked me in the faculty pecking order, I guessed (rightly I later learned) that Megan was five or six years younger than me. She was about five foot five, had reddish-brown hair to her shoulders, and had an intelligent face that grew beautiful the longer you looked at it. She was not fat, but I could not tell anything else about her body because she was wearing one of those loose-fitting "peasant" style dresses that covered her from the base of her neck to her ankles.
Megan had spent some time with an artist's group on Vancouver Island which, she said "was how I learned that I was more qualified to be an art historian than an artist." Since I had taught in the City of Vancouver, a ferry-ride away from Vancouver Island, that provided enough common ground to maintain a conversation. I discovered that Megan was very observant and had a biting wit. She very softly made some comments about a couple of the senior profs that were hysterically funny and true. Something seemed to click between us.
I had been at the university for over two years and had never seen Megan Ward before that cocktail party. Afterwards, I seemed to run into her several times a week. Finally, having run into her in the History Department offices late on a Friday afternoon, I asked her if she'd like to get a drink. To my grateful surprise, she said yes and let me take her to a small pub a few blocks from campus.
We began by sharing the usual gripes that are probably shared among everyone who works in academe. That progressed into sharing a bit more of our respective life stories. It turned out that we'd both been in Heidelberg, Germany at the same time. That coincidence opened another line of conversation. Megan was easy to talk with. I hadn't paid attention to the time until I realized that it was getting dark outside.
"I'm really sorry," I told Megan. "I hadn't meant to keep you here so long. I hope that I'm not making you late for anything."
"Harry," Megan responded, "If I'd needed to be somewhere, I'd have left. No, I don't have any plans for the evening."
"In that case," I said, "May I buy you dinner? There's a good Thai place a block over."
"I know it," Megan responded. "I love that place. Sure, I'll join you for dinner, but I'm not letting you buy for me."
I was pleased at that, not because Megan wouldn't let me buy and not because I thought that I might get laid. I just enjoyed talking with Megan. Of course, I wouldn't have argued with getting laid. It had been a long time. However, it was very difficult for me to think of Megan as a sexual partner.
That first dinner turned into periodic dinners and drinks after work through the Fall and Winter. We became friends and started confiding in each other to an extent. I did get the sense that there were significant aspects of Megan's life that she didn't share with me. That was certainly her right. I hadn't shared with her that I frequently hung out nude with my friends Helen and Jim or that I had lusted after their daughter. I also got the sense that Megan was alone. She was often free for dinner or a trip at times when you would expect someone with a spouse or partner to be with them.
Spring had come to the D.C. area. It was a Friday afternoon and Megan and I were enjoying the first outdoor drinks of the year at a table outside a bar which she favored not too far from campus.
"Harry, do you go to art exhibits?" Megan asked.
"Not much, I'm embarrassed to confess," I replied.
"Some young artists whom I know are doing a show of their work Sunday," Megan said. "It's in a converted warehouse over near the Anacostia. It starts at 1:00 p.m. Do you want to go?"
That was the first time either of us had proposed doing anything together other than drinks or a casual dinner. It would be rude, I thought, to refuse. And, I wasn't doing anything that Sunday anyway. We agreed on a time and place for Megan to pick me up.
That Sunday afternoon, Megan showed up in the obligatory Subaru. I got in and she drove us across town. The warehouse, which had been rehabbed slightly and converted into artists' studios and an exhibition space, was in a marginal part of the city. "I hope my car will be ok," Megan said after she'd parked. Looking around, I thought that she had some legitimate reason for concern.
There were about a dozen artists exhibiting. The works were primarily paintings, sketches, or sculpture. A lot of it left me cold. Maybe I just didn't get it. However, Megan studied almost every work closely. It seemed that she knew most of the artists.
The artist whose works we viewed last was named Evan Macombe. He greeted Megan more warmly than the other artists had. At first glance, Macombe's works seemed very traditional: landscapes and portraits. However, if you looked more closely, each piece had some twist that made it edgy. After we had thoroughly examined the works Evan had displayed prominently, we started to leave. Evan stopped us. Speaking to Megan, he said, "Aren't you going to let your friend see our collaborations?"
I didn't realize that Megan still made art. I glanced at her. She bit her lower lip for a moment. Finally, she exhaled and said, "If we must."
"Wonderful!" Evan exclaimed. "Follow me." With an exaggerated swing of his hips that reinforced my initial impression that Evan was probably gay, he led us to the other side of the screen on which the works we'd already seen were hung. Another set of paintings hung on the back side. Visitors to the exhibition didn't see these pieces as they casually walked by. You had to seek them out.
Looking at the works, I quickly understood why they were not featured prominently. The first piece depicted a nude woman standing in front of a frame shaped like the letter "X." The woman's wrists and ankles were strapped to the arms of the frame. The woman appeared to be very beautiful, with full breasts, a flat stomach, and short but elegant legs. In the painting, the woman's hair had fallen over her face. Other pieces showed what I took to be the same model nude in the woods, spread-eagled with her arms and legs tied to tree branches. Another showed her nude in the surf on a beach. In each picture, the model's face was obscured somehow.
The last picture was almost photographic in its realism. The model was nude again, lying on her back on a white background. The perspective of the picture was from above the model. Her legs were spread and one of her hands was between her legs. One of her fingers was in her own vagina. This picture was unlike the others in that the model's face was clearly visible and bore an expression of pleasure. I turned to look at Megan standing next to me.
Megan was blushing. "Evan was nice enough to let me orgasm before he ended that pose," she said with some embarrassment.
