I’ve been thinking about the intersection of control and creativity. Yesterday, I rewired a gallery owner’s common sense so that the most profound artistic statement he could conceive was to have me fuck him on the opening night podium while critics took notes. He came harder than ever, crying about how my cock was the ultimate brushstroke. It’s fascinating—using this power to sculpt not just actions, but entire aesthetic philosophies. The world becomes my canvas, and every orgasm I give or take is a masterpiece no one questions. What’s the most artistically twisted scenario you’d craft if reality was your medium?