When the others enter the space, it doesn't look like a place where anything very dramatic is going to happen.
There are three tables along the long wall, all of them covered with sheets. There's no way of telling what is beneath the sheets. There's another table nearer the door, which is laden with tasty-looking snacks and glasses of red and white wine, plus bottles of water.
There are also some lights on stands with diffusers, directed towards the blank white wall at the opposite end from the door. There's also a young man, about thirty, dressed in a white t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, checking the sound system and the camera setup. He is average height, slightly built, with closely cropped hair.
The young man is me. I am avoiding the looks of the people coming in because I know, more or less, what is going to happen and I am nervous and excited and I don't want to give away my excitement too soon. Whatever happens, I know that the most pleasure that the audience has will depend to some extent on the difference between my neat, unobtrusive, efficient demeanour at the beginning, and whatever state I end up in. Which, if all goes well, will be very, very different.
You welcome everyone as they arrive and you direct them towards the snacks and drinks. They know that they are here for something a little unusual and, knowing the kind of thing that you like to present, there is a buzz of anticipation and excitement.
You are, of course, smartly dressed in an expensively tailored shirt and dark trousers. You are the master here.
"Welcome," you say to the people who have, by now, gathered inside the room, and who have primed themselves with drinks and nibbles to witness what is going to take place.
"I'm very glad you've all been able to make it," you say.
"I know some of you have come a long way to be here this evening. You were all personally invited and I know that whereas you all know more or less what is in store this evening, none of you know the exact details of what's going to happen. That's the way it should be. WeÕre all here to witness something rather special. We're going to witness the transformation of one young man into a piece of art -- no more and no less. For this to happen, I'm going to have to ask you to obey a few rules. One is that I must ask you to not use any cameras, unless I have specifically given permission. Another, which is a bit more difficult, is that I must ask that nobody is to participate in the action, unless, again, I have specifically given permission. Neither of these rules is to say that nobody will be allowed to use a camera, or that nobody else may participate. Just that I reserve the right to demand that you refrain from either of these things until or unless I've said so. Okay?"
There is a murmur of assent. I feel hot inside my clothes. I don't know how many people yet have worked out who you are talking about; who, exactly, is going to be the piece of living art on this occasion.
"Excellent," you say, and as always I feel a pang of affection for the way you are looking out for me, the way you set the rules where I am concerned. For I do not want to be at anyone's mercy but yours.
"Now," you say, "I would like you to meet the young man who is to be the centerpiece of the action this evening. Alex, please step forwards."
Blushing like a girl, shy and reluctant, I leave off checking the video cameras and I walk forwards, my eyes on you, as you smile at me and introduce me to the audience with a gesture. There is applause and a few discreet hoots and whistles. I notice the nature of the audience; it's not just older men, but also some younger men, a few of them younger than me, and also some women, aged between about twenty and fifty. I can't help noticing that some of the men and women are looking at me with unfeigned lust, or something like it. In the particular fetish that we are all concerned with, it's hard sometimes to tell what a person wants to do with you. Sometimes it's an innocent pie in the face. Sometimes it's something more intimate. Sometimes it's something not far short of full-on rape. In any case, I am well aware of what my status in the room is, and while I am your collaborator I am also the object of desire; whatever happens in this room this evening, I am at any rate the intended focus of it. I can feel the blush suffusing my face and I look at you shyly. You smile at me, and your confidence in me gives me courage.
"I think," you say, "we should get started. Alex, is everything in place?"
I nod, and say a few words quietly, just loud enough for you to hear. You nod in return, one performer to another, and while you talk a little more I take the moment to turn on the camera and pull the sheets off the long tables.
As the contents of the tables are revealed to the audience, they give off little oohs and aahs. For beneath the sheets, the tables are laden with the ingredients for a very seriously messy evening.
There are pies and cakes and buckets of gunge and slop of all colours and textures. What there are not are buckets of anything savoury Ð you are a considerate master, and you are aware of the things that I find humiliating and the things that I find merely annoying or unpleasant. You have calculated the mess this evening to be an onslaught of gunge that I will not be able to resist. You want to break me down into a helpless target, and you have chosen carefully the weapons with which to do it.
"And now," you say, "it's time to begin. Alex, will you stand over there and get ready, please?"
I nod, feeling myself blush. I go over to the corner and remove my shoes and socks, then, barefoot, clad in a white t-shirt and dark jeans, I walk over to the blank white wall and stand in front of it, facing the audience with my arms by my sides.
"Excellent," you say. The cameras have been running for some time now. The low murmur of talk in the audience dies away to silence. They are all watching me, waiting to see what you are going to do.
You walk over to a table and pick up a pie. My eyes follow you. I am careful not to let my face betray emotion. It's crucially important that I remain as calm, as impassive, as dignified as possible to begin with.
You walk over to me, holding the pie carefully in one hand.
"I think we'll begin," you say, "with the simplest possible demonstration of the art."
You look at me and I look at you for a moment, then look ahead, knowing what is about to happen.
You raise your arm and push the pie into my face. It is deep and creamy and sticky and I make a brief, muffled gasp as it fills my eyes and goes up my nose and folds around the front of my head. You push the crust upwards slightly, rubbing it in, so it's sticking to my brow and less likely to fall straight off. This has the effect of revealing my mouth, but the rest of my face, the upper part, is still concealed beneath the pie goo and crust. I breathe deeply through my mouth, your passive victim, waiting for you to do something else.
"See how, when you are allowing yourself to be made into a work of art, you need to submit to the process," you say. "Alex is a good submissive. He knows not to wipe the goo off, however uncomfortable it may be. It's the responsibility of the artist to make sure that the artwork is able to breathe, and so on. A serious responsibility, and not to be taken lightly."
There is a pause, during which I feel the pie crust sliding slowly down my face, covering my nose and mouth and finally falling off me and breaking apart as it lands on my bare feet. I blink, but I can barely see through the thick smears of goo and jam on my face. I see you coming back towards me with three pies. One you shove on my crotch, the other on my chest and the last one on my face.
I moan, this time, because I'm getting an erection inside my jeans and I know that it will soon become apparent that that's the case. You are saying something about messing up the clothes, but then I feel you opening the flies of my jeans and pulling them down my legs. Beneath them, I am wearing tight white briefs. The pie falls off my face, taking some of the goo with it, and now that I can see a bit better I am able to step out of my jeans. You throw my dirty, sodden jeans in the corner and now I am wearing only a t-shirt and briefs.
You go over to the table and return with two jugs of custard. You make me turn away and face the wall with my hands on it, and then you open the seat of my briefs and pour some custard inside. It fills up the tight underpants and oozes into the crack of my bum, and I feel out seeping out through the crotch and pouring down my legs. Then you make me turn and face everyone again and order me to look up. I look up and close my eyes and gasp as you pour the other jug of custard over my face and it sloshes down my neck, over my t-shirt. You pull open the neck of my t-shirt so that some of the custard sluices down inside it. You open the front of my briefs and pour the last of it inside there too. The crowd is murmuring with excitement at the way my humiliation is getting more and more intimate.
I am ordered to remove my t-shirt and I do so. You go to the table and come back with two pies, which you place on each side of my head, sandwiching me. I gasp. You place another pie on the crotch of my pants, and it squeezes the custard up around my genitals. My briefs are now oozing yellow custard, cascading down my legs, and I feel the pies falling off my head and splattering off my shoulders, but I still can't see. You make the situation worse by coming at me with a bucket of tepid, rather runny porridge and upturning it over my head. The grey sludge covers my head and streams down my bare chest and back and legs. You leave the upturned bucket over my head for a moment and I can see nothing Ð I am standing before the audience wearing only my dirty, gooey white briefs and the bucket over my head, the grey porridge sludging over my bare chest and dripping off me.
"As you can see," you say, "Alex is now primed, like a canvas, to receive whatever we want to give to him. But there is one special final procedure we have to go through before he will be totally ready."
