otto loved art.
i learnt this while sucking his dick in the backroom of the charity shop we worked at. the whole time his manhood was between my lips, his gaze was fixed on a framed red circle hung on the wall, above my head.
(i thought about chomping down hard in that moment just so he could notice me, if only for a second.)
modern art was his preference.
he did appreciate the classics: michelangelo. donatello. da vinci. raphael. (the teenage mutant ninja turtles).
he was partial to van gogh. freud. salvador dali and their angst and psychosis and raw visceral emotion. his gaze strayed on occasion to fashion designers like van herpen and schiaparelli and more sparingly to poets like keats.
german expressionism and all her sharp lines and geometric shapes and 2-dimensions was his favourite period.
yet still, his first, second and final love was contemporary art.
the sort that was born of millennial rage. of ideal time and too much debt.
the sort that was an exhibition in new york of a cluttered bedroom because there wasn't enough time to commute to your minimum wage job and be tidy without being perpetually exhuasted. the sort that was avocado on toast because that was a sign of status, that you'd made it or were trying to. the sort that was a blank white canvas because sometimes life had taken so much out of you, you had nothing more to give.
otto liked (modern) art because no one else did.
i think that's why he liked me, if only for a second.
i think that's why he cheated on me with a nappy haired white boy named art.
fucking. art.
you've got to be kidding me.
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