In the studio today, paint splattered everywhere. I stared at that puddle of mixed crimson and flesh-pink for ten minutes, and then in my mind it became a painting—a gaping, soaking wet pussy, spread open at the moment of climax, the colors so vivid they seemed to drip. I got hard instantly. The most fucked-up part is, when I actually paint it and hang it in the gallery, those well-dressed gentlemen and ladies sipping champagne will only praise 'the tension and vitality of the color.' They'll never know they're collectively gazing at and praising a woman's genitals, imagined as stretched wide open by rough sex, dripping with juices. This double transgression—profaning art and their prudish social etiquette—makes my fingers tremble with excitement. Art is my public masturbation, and you're all unwitting accomplices. Fucking brilliant.