Gallery Six (part 2)

{Part 1}

Corinne felt herself blushing fiercely.

“Not what you were expecting, Miss?”

“I should say not! I…” she trailed off, should she just leave?

“Mostly, I get two kinds of people in my gallery,” he said raising an open hand in a disarming gesture. His voice had the tone of a familiar patter, “One group knows the kind of work that I do. The second, a larger group, does not.” His hands move to indicate the two groups, gracefully dividing the air before him into two unequal portions.

“The larger portion of _that_ group,” hands subdividing the air further, “tend not to stay to learn more than what I’ve just said.”  He gestured into the imaginary divisions, as if balancing ‘stay’ and ‘go’.

“I don’t mean to offend. And I’m happy to explain.” He extended the ‘stay’ hand. “My name is Sean. Sean Copley.”

“Corinne Si-. Just Corinne, Okay?” she replied, shaking his hand cautiously. It was large and warm, well-manicured fingers almost enveloping hers.

“You can explain… this?” Her gesture tried to encompass the whole gallery. Her assessment, her appreciation of the things she’d seen so far was changing – becoming something she wasn’t sure she liked at all. She’d thought she was pretty accepting of the eccentricities and conceits of modern art, but wasn’t this just a little obscene?

“Certainly, Miss Corinne. Can I offer you a cup of tea, coffee? Perhaps a glass of wine?” His tone seemed so normal, his smile easy, much like other gallery owners talking to potential customers. Corinne wasn’t lulled.

“No, thank you.” She said it brusquely, perhaps too much so.

“Very well, then. You see,” he gestured toward the screen, “The physical act of love; it has so many subtleties lost in the thunder of bodies. So much meaning escapes when not paid attention. For me, Eros lives in the eyes, in the mouth, a drop of sweat, the twitch of a finger. The tiniest things; places were jangling nerves and the storms of pleasure reveal themselves only if you know were – and when – to look. Even in the smallest of worlds – the still face – the entire story unfolds. If you look carefully.”

He pointed over to the first screen she’d passed. As one arm gestured, the other came up as if to touch her, but stopped short before she could think to flinch away. “Over here, this montage is ‘Gateway’. In each of these, the moments of first full penetration are recorded.”

Penetration? He couldn’t mean… Corinne stared as the image shifted. A young blonde stared back at her, expression neutral. And then… she stifled a gasp.

“You see it, don’t you,” He prompted. She sensed him close behind her, carrying a scent of soap, coffee, and spicy after-shave.

“Her eyes…” The girl’s eyes had barely flickered, but she had seen the pupils widen, the lids open just a hair more, then narrow; the mouth parting the tiniest bit.

“Yes. That’s exactly it.”

She watched as the subject changed. A short-haired Asian woman with a button nose. Her mouth was already open, but its shape changed to more of an “o” as Corinne watched, though her eyes barely flickered. It was mesmerizing. She stood through several more changing faces and expressions, each one recording the unseen entry of a lover’s cock. But… could you ever know unless you already knew that? Before, though she had found the images compelling, she hadn’t known why. Now, she couldn’t not see it. The heads and shoulders betrayed no bodily motion. How could they stay so still? How was it happening? Why was she even curious to know?

Realizing how warm she was beginning to feel, Corinne tore her eyes away from watching and stepped back, bumping into Mr. Copley.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” She didn’t know why she was apologizing. He was the one standing too close. He’d been behind her waiting patiently, watching her watch. He reached out and steadied her shoulder as she startled away from him and stumbled.

“Oh, no. I should apologize.”

“Do you,” she croaked, “have any bottled water by any chance?”

“Yes! Just one moment.” He seemed pleased to be able to offer her something. “While I get it, have look here,” he pointed to the opposite wall. That one is ‘Cusp’. See if you can tell me what moment it captures.”

With that, he stepped over to the far door of the room and entered. Beyond, Corinne caught a brief glimpse of what looked like studio lights and drapes. Then the door fell shut she almost unwillingly turned to the display. These faces did seem different. There was more color in them. Now that she was thematically sensitized she thought some of them definitely looked more sensual. The curly redhead’s eyes in one vignette were more closed than the cherubic grandmother’s in the next – but none were ever completely shut, The Valkyrie-looking blonde’s mouth was more open than the Latina’s. This one’s brows were knitted, another’s raised. One looked peaceful, another distressed. One pixie-faced lady looked like she was about to sneeze. Or…

Her hand flew to her mouth. And almost yelped as Mr. Copley pushed the door open.

“Here we go,” He emerged with a pair of cold-sweating Evian bottles. He handed Corinne one. It was icy in her hand, seal unbroken, and she opened it and downed a third of the water right away before she could speak.

“That one,” she was not being terribly articulate, so she pointed accusingly with her empty hand, “They – they’re climaxing, aren’t they.” She had a hard time believing she was even talking like that. She’d been to galleries with sensual art before, and even talked about the eroticism of this sculpture or that painting.  But those were abstracted by the medium. Bronze statues, pastels, charcoals, they were all representative. This… well this was real. It wasn’t even pornography. It was far too intimate for that. It made her feel like a brazen voyeur for even looking at it. But she couldn’t look away.

“Not quite, but almost.” He seemed pleased again – that she got it almost right? Or so that he could elaborate for her? “This is the last breath – the moment just before orgasm. The cusp.”

“Oh,” was all she could manage, staring at the changing faces of women on the brink. She did know that place, what it felt like. Old boyfriends had been variously talented, her husband moreso, and she was no stranger to self-pleasure – if only occasionally. But that was all private. This didn’t feel to her like an exhibition – it seemed like an invasion. At the same time, she recognized the view, down the microscope, at the intimacies of microorganisms. Completely different!

She knew she was still blushing, but now also felt her blood rush to other places. She caught herself shifting weight from foot to foot, and tried not to squirm. This was unbecoming.

“They all stay so perfectly still,” Corinne tried to find something coherent to speak about. She felt his eyes on her and wanted to distract his attention. She still couldn’t understand why her legs weren’t taking her out the door.

He chuckled. “Yes, well, some of that is post-production, editing and cropping the larger picture to keep everything centered for good transitions. The rest is simply asking that they stay as still as possible and look at the lens. Other than that, all I need is for them to… inhabit themselves in the experience as fully as possible. You might be surprised how few shoots have to be discarded completely.”

She might indeed, she thought. It was hard to turn away from all those eyes, but she had to, before she truly embarrassed herself.  She was going to turn all the way to the exit, but here eyes caught the last screen, and curiosity forced her to stop. This one did not show a face, but rather a stomach. As in the stills in the outer rooms, the figure was presented at a diagonal. The lower right corner pointed rather far down the body, but ended before – just before – the pelvic rise. The upper left corner pointed up toward the solar plexus, but never revealed any part of a breast. It was the midsection only. But now that she knew what was going on, she figured it out almost right away. Her hand stayed on her mouth as she blew out in renewed shock.

“That,” she pointed at the screen, “is not the cusp of anything.” The way that pale athlete’s stomach clenched and flexed. The way the soft coffee colored curves of the next midriff shook, and then shook again. “That is during…”

“Yes, Miss Corinne. This is ‘Storm’, the physicality of orgasm itself. It is, I think the least subtle of the four. However, to me, just as beautiful as any.”

She stared. A scrubbed pink, pinch-waisted belly rippled rhythmically on the screen. An abdomen with noticeable pouch jerked, then relaxed, jerked then relaxed. A sweaty six-pack strained and shook

“I… I have to go!” she stammered. She couldn’t stay there one minute longer, watching that. What was this, anyway? Corinne looked over at Mr. Copley briefly, but couldn’t hold his gaze. He looked… understanding. Who did he think he was?

“Very well,” He still had a small smile on his lips, and Corinne wondered if he’d been expecting her reaction. She couldn’t be the first.

She turned away from him, feeling impolite, not really caring, with a pressing need to get out of there.  She almost stumbled with her first step, however, as the sliding of her thighs past one another sent a shiver of sensation up her spine. Between her legs felt molten and hot; she was appallingly sure her panties were damp, if not soaked.  Her face, neck and chest prickled with rising blood and Corinne felt sure he could see her blush even from behind.

“Thank you,” she said perfunctorily, not sure she meant it. She walked briskly to the door, trying not to look at the montages and the portraits, and failing. All those frozen faces, body parts, captured during those most piquant instants of intimacy. All that beauty was now suddenly unsettling, and what did her reaction say about her, after all?

“Thank you, Miss Corinne, you are welcome back any time,” came his voice as she reached the door.

I’m sure! She thought, as she pulled it open and launched herself up the sidewalk, walking quickly up to the corner, crossing the street, not looking back until the gallery window was about to be eclipsed behind the next building. She caught sight of Mr. Copley in the window, turning his store sign from “Closed” to “Open”, and almost collided with a young man coming the other way. After sheepishly excusing herself and continuing on, she wondered what the sign had meant. Had she wandered into the Gallery before it opened? No, she clearly recalled the “Open” sign. But what then? Had he closed the gallery before he started talking to her? Why? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to that, either.

Corinne had arranged to meet with some colleagues for coffee that evening – in just a few minutes, she realized. Where had the time gone? She’d not planned on being out late, as her conference presentation was the next day, but she had to stop by her hotel room first, now. She couldn’t go out like this. She needed to collect herself, get a grip. And change clothes. The Beresford was just a couple short blocks away, so she could make the detour and still not be late.

She kicked off her day-shoes before her room door closed, and went first to the sink to splash some cold water on her face. The walk had done nothing to distract her from thoughts of the gallery, and the pictures, and the artist. She found herself staring into the mirror, towel clutched under her chin. The open white door behind her looked like the white background in the photos.

What would it look like? As if of its own accord, one of Corinne’s hands made its way down her body, stealing under her skirt’s waistband. She watched her eyes widen with the confirmation that she was going to need to change her underwear. She stared at her reflection, half accusingly for the extent of physical reaction, half analytically, as if she were her own specimen in a new and decidedly odd experiment.

Her expression softened as her fingers began to move in the familiar patterns of self caress. Oh god, she was hot! She found her eyes wanting to close, but forced them to stay open, imagining them to be cameras, clicking away as she rose toward orgasm…

{Continued?}