Oralgasm

This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright 2011 Plot Roach.

Oralgasm

By Plot Roach

She stared at the bottom of the red and black lacquered wooden tray. It showed a volcano pumping its fury into the sky. The strokes of the artist spoke of peace and tranquility, where the subject matter did not. Tiffany moved onto the next exhibit, where the artist had sculpted lovers out of barbed wire.

“Ever feel like this is just so much crap, and the public pretends that it’s art?” she asked her companion.

“Now, now. You know that it’s real art.” Ben said, pointing to a white canvas hanging on a wall beside them. “You know these came from some very angst ridden college kids just dying to waste their parent’s well earned money on tuition.”

“And art supplies.” Tiffany said, eyeing a piece on a pedestal which was nothing more than smashed tubes of acrylic paint glued together into a mass. “We really have to stop torturing ourselves by coming to these things.”

“But then who would write the drabble about these art shows to go onto the back section of the local paper?”

They wandered amongst the other patrons of the museum, woefully out of place in slacks and dress shirts, while those around them wore suits and dresses that were worth more money then the two reporters could make in a month. Groups of the well to do congregated at some of the more odd looking pieces, lecturing one another in their knowledge of art and the hip trends of the moment.

“Am I missing something?” Tiffany asked, snapping another photograph of the paint tube sculpture.

“If you are, I’m missing it too.” Ben admitted. “It’s not so much that these people are talking to one another as vomiting their critiques without waiting for an audience.” And as they watched, a man walked past them, talking to himself about the barbed wire couple in the corner.

As they walked further through the building, they came across a sign reading: "This way to the 'Oralgasm.'" They passed several of the Well-to-do critics who rushed away into the opposite direction, hissing their displeasure at the exhibit. “This must be good if THEY don’t like it.” Ben said, pulling Tiffany along by her elbow. Along the way were smeared food stains. A foot print of syrup here, a section of a chocolate éclair embedded into a wall there. Ben rushed ahead to the main display while Tiffany trailed behind taking pictures of the culinary carnage.

“Is that cookie dough on the ceiling?” she asked Ben, her camera snapping away under the florescent lights.

“Don’t look down.” he said. But it was too late.

“Oh my God.”

There, in the center of a massive pile of mangled junk food, the Pillsbury Doughboy was frozen in a compromising position with an Aunt Jemima syrup bottle. A small brass plaque hung off the Doughboy’s member. Ben leaned forward and read it aloud:

“Oralgasm: The experience in which a taste is so pleasurably overwhelming that it must be uttered aloud so that everyone present may experience it in some sensual form.”