Meghan's Performance Art

My buddies and I meet once a week to play poker. My place is the preferred venue, since there are no wives here, the furniture is very comfortable, and the beer is cold and plentiful. Any time my four buddies come over, I tell my niece, Marissa, to make herself scarce. She's finishing up her MFA at the university, which explains why she is living with me while she finishes her degree. She will be leaving after this semester, to get a real job in a big city, I hope. She's a talented artist, she's been told. Myself, I have no artistic sensibility, so I can't judge. I do have a sense of propriety, though, and I don't want her around my degenerate poker buddies.

They know she lives with me. Each time we play, they ask about her, usually within the first twenty minutes. I can't blame them. She's a beautiful young grad student, and they are slobbering old lechers. I feel a the traditional familial obligation to my sister to protect Marissa from their hungry stares and wandering hands.

Marissa stays away on those nights for as late as she can. Occasionally, the grind of her studies and her jobs force her to come back to her room. When she enters the room, she tries to slip by with a minimum of social contact. She says hi, smiles, and can't help flounce as she walks. The guys turn red, clear their throats, and grumble their own hellos. She often wears her jeans fashionably tight, her short fashionably brief, her shoes and sandals fashionably bare, but her tops are decidedly unfashionably revealing. They hug her generous young curves and sway a bit as she moves. I wonder how she doesn't get groped as she walks down the street most days.

Of course, it's not my place to comment on her sartorial choices. She's a beautiful woman with a sunny personality and most people would agree she's nature's gift to anyone who meets her or sees her. She seems to enjoy her role as eye-candy, but never acts loose or cheap. She's a naturally effusive, ebullient, happy person and everybody loves to be around her.

The warm weather had arrived early this spring, and Marissa's inclination was to set her body be free from encumbrance. She spent several weekends at the beach, carrying a towel, a tiny bag that held her sunscreen, her moisturizer, her phone, her pencil for sketching. It didn't appear that there was any room for a suit in there, even the most revealing. But she had to have a suit, didn't she?

"Where's Marissa today, Ned?" Joe asked after downing a beer and belching. "I haven't seen her around much. I hope this doesn't mean we have to keep playing cards until three in the morning!" The guys all laughed, but I was convinced that they would all be willing to wait until dawn for a chance to see Marissa.

"She's putting together her final art project for school. She said she might be gone all night."

"Does she ever use your backyard to sunbathe?" Wolfy asked, his narrow yellow eyes flashing the thoughts he held. "I bet she likes to lay out nude. She does, doesn't she? Mmmm." His long, narrow tongue flicked like he was tasting the air.

"Marissa is too busy just to lay out. But I promise, if she every does, I'll be sure to take pictures for you."

Everyone laughed, but Wolfy said, "Pictures, hell! I want video. Better yet, call me and I'll take the video." He and the fat guy, Chubs, did a high five, after Chubs moved his slice of cold pizza to his other hand. The last guy in our group was the quiet one, Tingle. He was usually busy scratching himself somewhere, so I controlled my desire to call him "Scratchy" not Tingle.

Our money changed hands like it usually did among friends. Up a couple hundred, down a couple hundred, roughly even by the end. The pizza was gone, the beer was cold but no longer refreshing, and the air was stale with cigar smoke. Joe used his hands on his lower back to crack it before standing. Wolfy rolled his head on his shoulders. Chubs burped long and deep then rubbed his stomach, and Tingle used the Ace of Hearts to scratch behind his ear. The game was breaking up.

Then Marissa showed up. "Hello, Uncle Ned." She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. Wolfy leaned forward to try to look down her blouse, but what more he expected to see than what was already clearly outlined by her clingy T, I couldn't imagine. Force of habit on his part.

"You take yourself to your room, dear," I said. "We can talk more in the morning. Good night." She straightened up, smiled to each man in turn, and shrugged her shoulders. She was wearing those damn tiny shorts again, which made her thin legs appear to bulge at the thigh and calf muscles. She raised on her toes before leaving.

"I wanted to ask a favor, guys," she said. "It's for my school final project. Would you be my first patrons?"

Wolfy agreed though there was no way he knew what a patron might be. Chubs knew, because his fat cheeks turned bright red. Joe looked stumped, probably caused by the number of beers he had consumed. Only Tingle raised his hand, tentatively. Marissa called on him by pointing her pretty manicured finger.

"Will this cost us anything?"

Marissa's laugh flowed through the room like fresh spring water over a stony brook, bubbly and sparkling. "Of course not! You'll just be my test subjects. But I promise not to hurt you."

Wolfy looked slightly disappointed.

"Thank you guys so, so much! Good night!" She skipped to her room. The guys were quiet, looking at each other, until I broke them up.

"Okay, okay, quit listening for her using the washroom. Time to go, my friends."

"Man, I'd like to bite that round ass," Chub said. The others laughed nervously.

"I love her tits. Lovely little tits. I bet they get sharp when she's horny," Joe said.

"I'd like to see the whole package," Tingle said, trembling at the thought.

"But When?" asked Wolfy, "when does she want us to help her? Tomorrow? Next week?"

"It'll be soon, guys. I'll let you know, I promise. It'll have to be no later than our next poker game, okay? She's graduating soon."

That satisfied them, and they gathered up their stuff and left me with the mess, as usual.

I liked getting up early in the summer, because the sun always beat me awake. It was there, shining its welcome to a new day. I made enough coffee for Marissa and me, poured myself a cup, and sat down to wait for her.

She showed up around 8:30 in the morning, pretty early for a college student. She wore a short terry-cloth robe that opened half-way down her front, and her thin, shapely legs poked from underneath. She grabbed a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and sat down across from me.

"Do you want to tell me what you have in mind, Marissa?" She smiled, but didn't answer.

"You have to be careful. My friends are old, from the 70s and 80s. They were raised to think about women in a more aggressive manner, you know? I don't want you to get hurt."

"I need this, Uncle Ned. My final project is based upon my hero, Marina Abramović's work, a retrospective."

Her wet, pixie-short brown hair framed her innocent face. Because she tended towards the thin side, her eyes looked too big for her face, especially when she looked up, like now. I couldn't believe she wanted to emulate that wild Serbian performance artist, Abramović. "Do your professors agree that performance art is really, truly art?" I asked, knowing it was a silly question.

Marissa shook her head. "I don't think they do, so I want to show them."

"You know, my poker friends found that music video you did on the internet, prancing around with barely nothing on. They watched it for hours when they found out it was you on stage. My point is, they are sick."

"That's why I need them. If I can perform in front of them, I can perform before any audience. You see?"

I looked at her. She was simple, a country girl in the big city, pushing what she thought were the boundaries of exhibitionism. I knew it was a cruel world though, and I hated to see her exposed to the grimy underbelly of male desire.

"Don't you have a boyfriend you could try this out on? Or a group of artist friends?"

She smiled demurely, then brushed the suggestion aside with a flip of her hand. "Demming has seen me naked already. It would mean nothing if he saw me nude again. He's an artist. The human form is merely an action that has paused. No, I need your friends' reactions. I need to know how I would react to their impression of my work."

"So you want to be naked in front of my friends? Couldn't you just go to a nude beach or to a strip club and get the same impressions?"

She laughed at my naiveté. "Uncle Ned, I've been to nude beaches. Nudity is not unusual there, it is accepted. And I've even tried stripping, just for fun of course, at one of the clubs. Nudity is not unusual there either, it's expected. It's been paid for. What I'm looking for is your friends' reactions to my performance piece. Please! Uncle Ned, please!"

"So you want a group of farting, snorting, lecherous old men to give you a reaction when you show up naked? I can tell you what their reaction will be. It's a lot like what you saw at the strip club."

She giggled a little and poured more coffee. "I want to see your reaction, too, Uncle Ned."

"Oh, no. You're my niece and I love you. I don't need to see you naked at age 25, and I don't need to see other old men gawking at you in my own house."

"Actually, I was hoping you might provide a little protection for me without intimidating the men. If I brought Demmming, your friends might be shy about showing what they really feel. So, please, Uncle Ned?"

"Where do you want to do this, in the back yard?"

"I was thinking on the screened-in porch. It's big enough to hold everyone comfortably. In the back yard, others might see and egg your friends to do things they might not otherwise try."

I studied her closely, but she would not meet my gaze. I had an idea what she had in mind, involving her nudity before the guys, but nothing in my imagination prepared me for what she eventually set up on the next poker night.

"Oh, by the way, Uncle Ned, the owners of the strip club said I could have a job there any time I wanted." Then she slid the terrycloth robe off her left shoulder, rolled it, and laughed as she left the kitchen.

The day of our next poker game came too quickly for me and seemed to be taking forever for my friends. They each called me several times during the week and called me repeatedly on the day of the event."

"She hasn't backed out, has she, Ned?" They each asked.

"I'm afraid not."

"This is going to be epic! I'm bringing my camera," Wolfy said.

That afternoon, Marissa spent her time setting up a chair for each man in the designated porch area. The screens on three sides offered some privacy I thought. She set up bright lights that would focus on her, showing her own cameras what changes would happen to her own complexion, her own smile, her own flesh. Then, she erected a long white table near the focal point of the lights. She could easily reach whatever she placed on the table from where she would be standing.

Thunder rumbled overhead. The wind shifted to the east and felt colder. Outside I saw burgeoning blue black clouds rolling towards us, perforated by shafts of lightning.

"Second thoughts, Meghan? It's not too late to reconsider, my dear."

"Your friends better not reconsider. I need this grade, and I need this run-through. See those cameras?" She pointed to three different cameras set at different heights, but all pointed in the same direction as the bright lights. "Those cameras will be my proof that this is a valid piece of art."

"Are you sure you've thought this through? I've always been confused when I try to define beauty or art or aesthetics."

"I know what art is, Uncle Ned. I'm trying to understand my role in the artistic experience." She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. Her eyes studied mine for any hint of disapproval. I didn't disapprove, but I was worried for her.

Then she began to place items on the white table. I didn't count them all. There was a pot of blue paint and of white paint, a hat, a feather, a mirror, a comb, a bell, some bread, some honey, a bottle of red wine, a pair of shoes, a stool, a pen, a drinking glass, some flowers, and a box of matches. To these she added scissors, a whip, a pocket knife, some bandages, a metal spear, a box of old-fashioned razor blades, a pistol, and a bullet.

My throat tightened when I saw the last two items. "Those are not real, are they?"

She smiled sweetly. "But of course they are."

She laid a coat on the table. Then she took a piece of white paper and wrote, "You may use any of these objects. I am an object as well." Signed, Marissa.

"So now what? You just stand there naked and let them do what they want to you?"

"No. I won't be nude. I'll be dressed. I thought at first I should wear a swim suit or a bikini or a thong, but I think that might give them thoughts in only one direction, you see? I'll dress much like I am dressed now. A skirt, a blouse, sandals. Any suggestions?"

"Chain mail would be my vote, Marissa."

The wind blew a little stronger, and I felt the soft, cold spray of occasional rain drops pressing through the screen. The thunder rumbled louder.

The door bell rang. My friends had arrived. Marissa took a deep breath, set a timer for three hours, and then settled herself under the camera lights.

When I answered the door, my four friends Joe, Chubs, Wolfy, and Tingle gathered together, plus one more to my surprise. Joe's wife had come along, looking dour, distrustful, and spoiling for a fight. Her name was Peggy Sue, I believe, but I could be confusing her with the song title. She stood nearly as tall as Joe, with dark hair (probably dyed), a slim, wasted figure, and makeup that made her look Turkish and mysterious. When she unwrapped the scarf covering her head, golden hoops dangled at her earlobes. She didn't apologize or introduce herself, the others gave her a respectful distance, as she bulled her way past me into my house.

"Welcome, everybody. Can I get anyone something to drink?"

Joe and Chubs wanted a beer, Tingle a sparkling water, and Wolfy a double shot of bourbon. Peggy Sue answered my question with a dismissive sniff.

"Well," she said, "where is the little slut?"

"She's not a slut. She's my niece, and if you want to stay, you'll show her respect." I glared at Peggy Sue and she glared right back.

"It's okay, Uncle Ned," her voice sailed from the porch to the front door. "They can all come back."

I thought I saw Wolfy rub his hands together, fairly skipping toward the porch in the back. Chubs and Tingle walked together, giggling at things the other said that I couldn't overhear. Joe put his hand at Peggy Sue's back, and guided her to the porch.

I kept the bottle of bourbon with me.

The porch was brightly lit and warmed by the lights. In between the occasional grumble of thunder, I could hear the whirr of a camera motor. The other two must have been digital.

When the men saw Meghan, they smiled, but they were clearly disappointed. Peggy Sue crossed her arms triumphantly and tapped her foot. Meghan wore strappy sandals, a short leather skirt that wrapped around, ending at mid thigh and beginning a few inches below her navel. She wore a blouse striped red, black, and white, open to the curve of her bosom, and cut to reveal her flat stomach. The material clung so closely to the slopes and valleys of her breasts that it might have been soaked in fragrant oil. It was clear that Meghan was braless and that she did not need to wear a bra yet. Her nipples were high and tight.

The men applauded, figuring that they had seen the show. It wasn't exactly what they had expected, but they did like Meghan.

Meghan held out the white paper note she had written. When Tingle took it and read it, Meghan passed her hand over the items on the table to bring their attention to the objects. I heard Wolfy gulp.

The room was quiet. Meghan stayed still, voiceless. Outside, the first few heavy raindrops slapped against the patio.

Fifteen, thirty minutes passed. The only movements were the guys' eyes, glancing at each other, at Peggy Sue, and at Meghan.

Then Peggy Sue shook her head. "All right. I'll get things started." She took the pot of blue paint and dipped her little finger into it. Then she used the glob of blue paint to outline stars on each of Meghan's eyes. Then she took the white paint and outlined Meghan's mouth. The effect was to make Meghan's lips seem even redder. Meghan stared straight ahead, implacable, a living statue. As Peggy Sue ended her efforts, Meghan's eyes shifted to look deeply into hers. Peggy Sue stared back, startled at first, then more warmly. Before she stepped back to stand near her husband Joseph, I would have characterized the glances exchanged between the two women as sisterly, which surprised me.

Joe walked up to Meghan next. He grabbed the bottle of red wine and proffered it to her lips. The wine dribbled down her lips and onto her chest. That surprised Joe and he grabbed his own handkerchief to blot the wine from her lips and chest. His vigorous drying loosened her blouse, which hung open. Joe tried to button her blouse ineffectually, then apologized to her. She looked warmly into Joe's eyes, too, and he let go a breath he had been holding and smiled.

Peggy Sue pulled him back to her side, setting him into the chair that was set for him.

Chubs jumped up next. He used a comb on Meghan's hair. He put a hat on her head. With the feather, he tried to tickle her and make her laugh, but unsuccessfully. The feather did move her blouse so that her breasts were marvelously exposed, moving slightly forward and back with each of her breaths. He looked back at the others for some kind of guidance, then turned to the table. He touched each item with his meaty fingers, finally settling on the squeeze bottle of honey.

He let the thick, sweet, viscous liquid drip onto each of Meghan's perky breasts. Each nipple held up a dollop of honey that otherwise slid down each soft white breast. He used his thick thumbs to spread the honey evenly. He bent down, extended his tongue, and spread the sweetness even more.

Meghan still looked straight ahead. Wolfy's pants tented at the sight of Chubs suckling her youthful tata's. Tingle danced from foot to foot, eager to begin his turn. Chubs knelt down in front of Meghan, and let the honey slowly fill her navel. He spread the honey on both sides of her abdomen, pulling his sticky hands away reluctantly.

When he finally stood, Meghan was topless, her red, black, and white blouse pooled at her heels behind her. He smirked and looked at Meghan, and found she was looking into his eyes as well. He stopped what he was doing and just looked back at her. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He backed away and sat down.

Tingle stepped forward, scratching his chin as he chose what to pick up. When his hand stopped at the pen, he clicked the tip a few times and then approached Meghan. With a whip of his hand, he pulled at Meghan's skirt. It slipped down easily, revealing that she was naked underneath. He clicked the pen again, grabbed a handful of her ass, and wrote his name with a magnificent flourish. He looked defiantly at her, and she returned a benevolent gaze. He scratched his elbow and sat down.

Wolfy jumped up, and ran to the table. He scooped up the whip, the pocket knife, the scissors, the metal spear, and the matches. But when he gingerly fingered the box of razor blades, Peggy Sue stepped forward and grabbed his arm.

"Please don't interfere," Meghan said to her.

Peggy Sue's mouth moved but no words came out. She looked at each of the men, including her husband, and saw a pack of hungry, desperate, angry predators. "I can't let them touch you," she said.