Modern Art
Here lies in earth a root of Hell
Set by the Deil's ain dibble;
This worthless body damn'd himsel',
To save the Lord the trouble.
ON A SUICIDE
Robert Burns
There was a final orgasm as I died. And from that sexual arrest I hazily experienced projection from my body. Not quite believing that I had passed into the afterlife, I rubbed my eyes, considered my dead body hanging from the shower rail in my bathroom, and clapped my hands excitedly.
I switched my mind from my figure to the suicide note that I had pinned to the bathroom door. When I had written the words they had been the final statement of a man contemplating suicide but as I read them aloud they took on a new meaning, a power all of their own. Looking at my form strengthened that power, and with perverted consciousness I wished I were alive again so that I may climax at such an understanding.
My corpse wore woman's underwear. The thrill I got from wearing my black brassiere and my matching panties was, in itself, a gratifying act. Even my garter belt provided some sexual relief. Along the length of my legs I saw that my nylon stockings had burnt away around my ankles, and a trail of blisters rose to my knees. Over my body, I wore a taffeta dress, which was also black. Aside from clothing, I saw the thrift shop jewellery I had been fond of in life (bracelets, rings, and necklaces) adorning my body. I had also fixed a long, raven haired wig with corkscrew curls to my head, and in my mouth I had endeavoured to bite upon a second pair of dark panties. I also had two false rubber breast pads placed (wet) over my mouth and nose. My face sported full make-up, and I must admit that I would take great pride in applying it to my eyes, my lips, my cheeks, and my fingernails whenever I found myself feeling depressed. Over my head I had pulled a third stocking and secured it there in the tender grip of a velvet choker. My facial expression, of course, was one of purest nirvana.
Just looking at my lifeless bulk hanging there - the stark femininity juxtaposed wondrously against the masculinity of a dying erection - I wished I had substance once more, so that I could kiss myself in a narcissistic fantasy, to caress myself in such a fashion that I may understand the person I was.
Thinking about the touch of my own dead flesh, cold and tight, luscious, I recalled my motive.
Five years back in the autumn I had created a sculpture that encapsulated my aspirations. Hours of sweat, money and ambition had went into that fragment of art representing all my dreams, every aspiration of my mind. The product itself was made from steel, and stood at exactly four feet. I had spent long days welding to the solid frame further pieces of metal that were to become instrumental in representing what I strived for in life: recognition.
The finished product's abstractness was limited only by the capacity of my mind but I had believed in it, and all the time spent on my project had proved fruitful. The piece, which I had titled Desperation, was displayed in a London art exhibition, and was then subsequently purchased by an art enthusiast who believed he could identify with my steel framework. I cared not for the feelings he experienced from my effort but for the contents of his wallet. He paid me handsomely.
For the following five years I strived to repeat the success of Desperation but was unable. I had made sculptures from wood, from plastic, from everyday garbage but was unable to find even an echo of the genius that had inspired my debut piece. Seven sculptures later and desperation seemed to be more apt as a way of life rather than my mass of metal. I remembered the words of an old friend when they told me that nobody understood modern art. It seemed to ring true for my work.
It was actually that voice that had provided the wisdom of looking deep within myself for some truly divine inspiration. And for a couple months I had searched the inner chambers of mind, figuring what pleased me and what frightened me, what turned me on and what extinguished my desires, what gave me substance and what drained me. I had pondered long and hard with an intense morbid curiosity. There were aspects of my life that not a single person knew about: my transvesticism, my masochistic proclivities, and my inclinations elsewhere. With such dark inspirations I knew what my next work would be. In my mind I could see it flirting with me like a mistress.
Recently I had taken a trip to the village's hardware store in the village and bought myself a strong, thick length of chain, and three padlocks. The man behind the counter knew me and had made smalltalk over whether the purchase was relevant to a new project. I nodded.
It wasn't until this afternoon that I decided the time was right to make my name in the world of art. As I showered, I lathered my body, and I felt the warm worms of water exploding against my chest as they darted from the hose.
In the shower I thought about my latest sculpture with which, I knew, I would achieve recognition. I would earn the respect of the critics and the dealers, of the hobbyists and the historians. Of the world.
Once I had dried myself I stood before the mirror and took great pleasure in stepping into my favourite silk panties, and slowly pulling them up the length of my legs, teasing my groin. My penis swelled through perverted logic as the underwear pinched at my waist. The extrovert within took hold as I proceeded to roll the length of my first stocking along the span of my left leg. Enjoying my narcissistic performance, I think I may have whimpered with delight as I unrolled the second stocking up my other leg, but I'm not certain. My suspender belt, like my panties, hugged me tightly, and I fastened the stockings in place.
In the mirror I could see my sculpture forming the transformation from man to androgynous non-politic. I slid the garter up my left leg and reached for my brassiere. As I fitted the garment over my shoulders and clipped it into place, I wished that I had breasts. Proportion would not have bothered me; it was just a dream that would never be fulfilled.
I put on the taffeta.
From the top drawer of my bedside cabinet I took my collection of make-up. I chose the most passionate red nail polish that I owned and began painting the nails of my left hand, and then those of my right. The cosmetic smell tickled my nose causing a delightful sneeze. Once the crimson veneer had dried, I continued to mask my masculinity by decorating myself with silver eye-shadow, and mascara. I rouged my cheeks and then pouted before the mirror as I applied the lipstick that matched my nails. The woman taking shape before me smiled the most sensuous of smiles. I blew a kiss in return.
I put my wig on and femininity reigned completely over my body.
From my bedside cabinet I withdrew a notepad and pen. I wrote down several drafts of my suicide note before deciding upon how resonant I wanted my last words to appear. My note read:
To whom it may concern,
I know what I am going to do. It is almost ten on Sunday night, and I am terrified by the sadistic thrill I intend to experience. About three minutes after the hours I know I will be dead. I will strike a match, reach down and set fire to the nylon stockings. I will proceed to wrap the chain around my wrists and bind it with the padlock. In the throes of masochistic passion I will kick my stool away and will feel my body suffer spasm after spasm at the end of my chain noose. I expect to come wildly, madly, happily. The pain will be intense as my stockings start burning around my legs. My eyes will hopefully begin to bulge as I attempt to reach the keys knowing that I have finally found the inspiration to incorporate my feelings into my art, to put an end to an unsuccessful life.
Some, for some reason, I'd had the foresight to print out and some of these stories lie in a yellow folder in the old cupboard somewhere (switched bedrooms recently and house is a mess). And, my angelfire archive where I keep some stuff had one of my stories in it. This one from six years ago. From friends who have read it the women liked it whilst the guys didn't. Must have been the content. 
