Miracle at The Metropolitan [Explicit]



The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City

Miracle at The Metropolitan

It should come as no surprise that in my years across the pond I have found and noted more than one tangential similitude, rising from the foundations of that symbolic bridge of culture which ties London to New York. At the center of it all is Manhattan, which according to my mother—and in more recent years, myself—resembles a hot cup of loose tea. If you are a New Yorker I would pray that you forgive me, for I do not wish to wound your pride, but it is true invariably that most of the influential sustenance tends to fall to wallow at the bottom, while a few substantial (and insubstantial) particles achieve buoyancy or rise to command the surface, in full view of the entire world, their existence a tepid exacerbation to the lukewarm taste of the human spirit. Enough said. I may in The Bowery, but I don’t often go to fancy parties; my closet, like my apartment, is an embarrassment, and a microcosm devoid of indigenous life.

When I am not at work, I like to study, though not in the academic fashion. I read books, and they have taught me that there is simply too much to know. Nonetheless, I have resolved to do my best to try. Recently I have also joined two amateur sports leagues—admittedly of laughable standing—but since my admittance, I have attended all scheduled games and practices without fail. Proud, I am to say, while absolutely dismal at Volleyball, I am even worse at Tennis. What I am good at is lying on the couch and watching brilliant, meaningful documentaries, with a woman in my arms. I confess they change more often than the months of the calendar.

I thought I had gained a level of maturity, but recently that sentiment has grown old, and so I have been going to parties, fancy ones at that, which seems a due symptom of that discomfort which arises after too many months spent in the habit of a lame duck.

After last night, I do concur; sometimes you just have to put yourself out there. You never know who you might meet…

A month ago, at the first party, Janse had introduced me as “genius-of-great-import”—godbless his soul. While I like to think that this wasn’t exactly a lie, I did not correct my new acquaintance’s understanding of the matter, nor attempt to dissolve her supposition that this timid-yet-dashing geek might be willing to aid in her quest for fame and fortune. As much, she looked Russian; she was Slavic—one could tell from her cruel blue eyes to the extreme shimmer of her hair, brought together as they were by an elven promontory of skin. With all that, it was her name, and the way she pronounced it, that burned its way deep into the order of my mind.

As she mouthed the syllables and offered me her hand, I nearly knelt before her. But I refrained, and so shook it the appendage carefully instead.

Twas a month ago, at an event moderately distinguishable from tonight.

Tonight is the Eve of Hallow’s Eve, which is to say a costume party at the MET—a big charade sponsored by one of the big-name fashion houses. As the museum’s main wing was currently under renovation, the event planner had honored the Victorian architecture by dressing the scaffolds to the theme of Sleepy Hollow. The effect was that this large and usually bright space had become quite dark and crowded under artificial fog. Nevertheless, I spied her lounging by the bar and called her name, in a brash effort to commandeer her attention from a flamboyant group of young fashion models.


She turned and smiled, in that action both rewarding and inflaming my burgeoning confidence. As we approached, I noticed that in her choice of costume she had forsaken the gala’s formal code of elegance, in favor of her youth, and the ripen shape of her sex. It was not an original sartorial choice, to say the least, perhaps it was the most banal costume a young woman could choose. But it was effective. Katyusha wore the short skirt and tight blouse of a wanton schoolgirl, her long blond hair flowing like strands of silk over her back, all the way down to the apogee of her immaculate ass, whose succulent form lay barely hidden beneath the pleated fibers of the uniform. The blouse she had construed in such a way as to maximize the contours of her thorax, the thin shirt did little to hide a vivid red bra.

Now I can’t say my own costume was any better, in terms of originality, for I had pandered to the gods of masculine bravado, and so dressed in a tuxedo, accompanied by a plastic pistol, and the moniker Bond, James Bond.

Our reintroduction was brief, as we moved away from the bar to a secluded wall, and there perused The Harvesters, a painting by Pieter Bruegel.

I put my arms behind my back to suggest an affinity for Art.

She asked if I knew anything about the piece. I admitted that I did not.

At least, not until after she had explained its history.

I asked how she had come to know so much about The Elder, or The Peasant—as she had disclosed that Bruegel is often labeled thus—and that is how I learned that Katyusha is enrolled in the art history program at Columbia. As I stood there being impressed by this Russian doll and her knowledge of the Dutch renaissance, our hips came into contact. In response, I raised and maneuvered my hand carefully through her hair, against the small of her back. She did not flinch but rather leaned into the caress and smiled, and in her smile said, “you are more eager than I had anticipated.”

On the near side of the room a portion of the wall had been demolished; presently a translucent plastic sheet sealed the dark chasm from the party. I turned to watch the polymer sail as it billowed, caught in the disparity between zones of pressure. Then I casually suggested that there might be some ancient, lost or hidden gem beyond the veil, and she countered that there was only one way to find out.

So it was that I tore the plastic seal, and we slipped away into the darkness.

There was no air conditioning in the world beyond the wall. It being the end of October, the atmosphere had cooled significantly, to the point of near unpleasantness. Once my eyes adjusted I could see that we were in a rough undecorated hallway. Her naked arms had grown goosebumps and so I offered to rub them for her benefit. Done, I kissed her forehead and she blushed. Down the hall we found a door marked “Custodial Suite”, the words written in ornate gold cursive. The door was unlocked, and through it, we encountered a room furnished with a cheap couch, an old wooden table—on which sat an old glass coffee pot, stained brown with dried residue—a broken bar fridge, and three windows on the far wall.

Through the windows the bright lights of the museum’s exterior flooded in, illuminating the chamber, causing the old faded curtains to cast long shadows all around.

We moved to the closest window and watched the crowd of smokers two stories below. Her breath was visible against the glass.

“Are you still cold?”

“Unbearably so.”

I moved in parallel, behind her, to spoon her form and drape my arms about her shoulders. As it was, I could not help my erection from pressing atop the crevice of her bum.

From there, she careened her neck, to let her hair fall past and expose a glorious isthmus of skin, which I took to nuzzle. Soon I lowered my hands across her chest, beneath her blouse, then under her bra, cupping and clutching her breasts as she began to gyrate against my groin. Hungry to the point of insatiability, I turned her around, to taste her lips and introduce her tits to my thirsty mouth and tongue. The salt of her nipples did parch me, and when I paused to catch my breath, she giggled helplessly, as I licked my lips. Presently, I looked at her, examining the individual strands as they clung to the sweat forming on her warm and pale brow, across her forehead, across her large blue eyes and pulsing neck, and I find my mind lost without reason.

She closes her eyes. When they were open they were cobalt magnets of sin, but now as her chin points up towards the sky in a moment of ecstasy, I tease the soft muscles of her lower back, my fingers sneaking down under the hem of her pleated skirt. I move closer, bringing her closer to me, my mouth is back on her neck, kissing gently, my ear closing in on her pulsing flesh. There, as I hold her, I listen to the warm repetitive stutter of her heart. Basking in the scent of her heat, a sweet miasma of lilac and strawberry, I come to terms with life.

I lift her onto the sill and close my eyes, listening, as each surge of blood refreshes her brain with oxygen, and the concoction of chemicals and hormones required to instill intense euphoria. After I have listened to her mind, I move my head down, my ear against her naked chest, gathering her heart as it tries to jump through the soft tissue of her breast. Lower down I feel her thigh move up against my pants, catching my loin to remind me of the business still at hand. I mimic the motion, moving my knee up against her crotch. Moisture seeps out and in. When I open my eyes I see a nipple, an inch away, completely perfect—a little button at the peak of a bulbous mountain. I reposition a hand under the bust, lifting her bosom to feed my starving lips. Meanwhile, my other hand drops beneath her skirt; my middle finger slips past the damp cloth to find a wet oasis. I push the finger deep; farther than it should be able to go. She moans; her hands suddenly spring to life. They grasp at me, at my pants, reading, dissecting the outline of my cock with blind ambition. I can barely fit two fingers inside of her, but I do, and then I keep them there, where they belong.  Then my thumb finds the trigger, quivering, thus the flower is invoked to spur a monsoon of carnal knowledge. She moves her body with the motion of my arm, as if they are one. She gasps, but I do not stop, and so she shudders, decadence. Abated, she laughs and reclines too far, the cold glass begets a shiver, so I catch her arm and pull her back towards me. She laughs again, as the skin on my arm sticks to her sweaty torso. She pushes me back for a second, then kneels on the floor and begins to fumble with my belt. I help her with the mechanism, and soon she welcomes me inside her mouth. It feels like heaven. She licks me from the base to tip, playing her tongue around the head with immaculate grace, applying such care as would a turkish concubine. Her lips are themselves the goddess of love, and devotion.


Normally I am the silent type, but on this occasion, I cannot help but call her name, and groan.

She holds me steady before her, watching as a pearl of semen forms at the epicenter of my desire. It grows from a pearl into a large opaque diamond, a rare mineral dedicated to her majestic being. With her grasp she cultivates its form, my nocturnal harvest, and sips it down like caviar. In doing so, she looks up at me, with those electric eyes, the taste of my future on her tongue, the taste of life.

I melt like wasted jelly. I am hers, and she is mine. She pumps me like a firehose across her chest.

“Oh my god.” I laugh.

We laugh together, as wholesome and innocent as little children. Together, we worship the purpose of existence. In the five minutes it takes me to recuperate, I hold her close; she puts my fingers back where they belong. She turns, I steal them back and taste the twilight’s dew. Thus each disrobes the other, affectionately, deliberately. Once naked, I become a rock again once more. She has me lift her up against the window, and so like that I enter, in formal ceremony, and play a rhythm with her back against the tempered glass. I take her hard; I take her deep; each pump induces a new expression formed of pain, pleasure and joyous wonder. As her body shakes she holds my grasp, and my hands support her waist. With each thrust we watch the celebrities outside, as they smoke their cigarettes and talk amongst themselves – oblivious to a force of passion they may never experience. When we can continue no longer, when every drop of fluid has been spent, we separate, and each dissolve back into the world, into the iridescent night, into the lights and bright avenues of a city that never sleeps.