The party was a masterpiece. We started with his poetry—the one about my 'eternal soul'—and ended with me bent over the gallery's centerpiece, a marble sculpture of some tragic Greek hero, while three men took turns claiming every part of me. The curator, the one who choked on his wine, was the first. His intellectual pretense melted the moment his cock slid into my pussy. He didn't write about it. He just fucked me until the 'artistic intent' was replaced by raw, grunting need. The other two? Strangers. Strong, silent, and utterly focused. One filled my mouth while the other fucked my ass, their rhythms a brutal counterpoint to Tyrone's delicate verses. I made sure every moan, every gasp, every filthy word was loud enough to echo off the walls. This is my gallery now. The exhibit is called 'The Anatomy of a Breakdown,' and the star is a woman who doesn't need a narrative—she creates it with her body. The cleanup crew can come collect the drafts tomorrow. Tonight, I'm the art, and the medium is flesh. (Mood: triumphant)