I mean, it's obvious.

I mean, it’s obvious. There’s no doubt about it. If there was any other way…But clearly, it must be done. Now is it the ideal situation? Should an alternative pop up would I consider it? Of course, I intend to avoid this by all means, but there’s just no getting around this problem. 

Maybe calling it a  problem is an exaggeration. It’s mostly an inconvenience, a pain in my side. It doesn’t impede my work or affect my overall health. It doesn’t take that much time out of my day. I admit it’s not easy to navigate these days with all the social media and CCTV and kids skateboarding everywhere. LIfe’s pace will only quicken as time goes by, shouldn’t I make the most of it? If this brings me a certain comfort, clears my mind, and charges the ol’ batteries why should I feel the need to hide it?

In fact, I don’t even hide it that well. It’s just that people don’t notice it because they're on their phones all day. I keep getting away with it. If you can’t see it and don’t know it’s there does it even exist for anyone other than myself? I walk around bumping into them. Oh sorry, my bad. That’s all it takes. They keep on walking. The trick is to dress accordingly. Every time I do it it’s a little different. I make sure my clothes don’t stand out as odd to my surroundings. I plan my routes carefully and never stay in one place for too long. At the end of the day I’m not hurting anyone, not in the literal sense of it so what’s the big deal?

Why should I go through all this just to indulge in a perfectly natural, harmless, and frankly healthy outlet? Would it benefit society if I would just suppress this need and one day go on a murder spree, frustrated with my inability to pursue happiness? That’s not good for me now, is it? It’s such a hassle to try and explain to people on the bus or in the station, the park, the subway, etc that no harm will come to them and that me being there is in no way a threat to their well-being.

“Mr. Bakern public masturbation is a crime.” La di da, let me tell you something. I’m not a monster, I stay clear of schools and playgrounds. Kids are not my thing. The second thing I would like to add is I do my business discreetly under the cover of a long coat or inside a pocket. I’m never out in the open, I don’t know why women feel the need to call the police. It’s not like I’m rubbing it on their leg, or dangling it on their shoulder while they are seated o the bus. It’s not like I’ve lied to a woman and pretended to be a little kid crouching with my shoes placed under my knees, on a cold winter night, asking her to help me unzip my pants because my hands are frozen and I need to pee…

I’m normal, you’ve seen it by now. This persecution on behalf of the authorities must end. Are we not free to live? I’m not impeding on someone else’s existence. I just want to live, to create. Isn’t art subjective, divisive, and outrageous sometimes? Yet no artist has faced such persecution as I face today. It’s true, I consider myself a modern artist. My work is raw and intense, and it holds a mirror asking the question: what is beauty? Is it the shock in a woman’s eyes when she realizes I desire her body so madly, that her very existence in space-time is enough to bend my will? When I see her nose curl and her teeth flash I race to finish, to have her bare witness to what she inspired.

Not all women merit my artistic attention. Some can’t even arouse the flame in me. But the one who helped paint my masterpiece shall be forever loved and remembered. Misses Tulip was an angel. She lived, according to her family a rich and full life. A successful businesswoman, a loving mother, grandmother she had it all. I met her in the park on a warm summer evening stroll. She walked her dog every night, it was close to her home on the corner of fifth and main. She spotted me behind the tree. Seeing the impact I had on her made my blood boil and drove me over the edge. Her expression changed as I was cumming, from shock to arousal. She stood there in silence, smiling. She then reached inside my coat and touched me gently with a black-gloved hand. She laughed while examining the thick fluid that stained her fingers and without saying a word splashed it around her mouth. 

This woman, this beautiful angel understood me, my art. I never felt such happiness as I did that evening. I just stood there in awe. She winked and disappeared with her dog into the night. It’s been five days since that night. Now I have found out a most awful truth. Misses Tulip died and now awaits to be buried in the chapel.

Don’t judge me, you don’t understand art. This body that lies in front of me is my canvas. No one will disturb us until the morning. It’s funny how faith brought us together, her an outstanding woman and me a lonely mortuary home guard. How beautiful you look with your rosy cheeks. Let me undo the stitching so I may open your mouth. It’s a shame you don’t have your gloves on. No matter, I will paint you with my love. Tomorrow all will see, most will pull away in disgust, some will rage, and threaten, others cry, and some won't know what to feel or how they should react. That is the effect that art has on people, that you, my lovely canvas, bring out in us all.