Erika Noise

Jeesus it's been a stressful week. Not stressful so much as just plain busy. Busy and fun. Too busy for blog, but that's a really good sign isn't it? I'll tell more later but I must first wax about something that happened a few months ago that I keep thinking about. I wrote about it in my paper journal, but here it is - fully fleshed out.

I really like going to the Walker Art Museum. I just discovered this recently. Haven’t really been in town too long either, so everything is pretty recent in the scheme of things. I love to walk around all the modernism. I love to walk around the big spoon and cherry – probably because I love to spoon, and I kind of miss my cherry. (that’s a joke – get it? Tsk tsk tsk – all you hipsters are all so serious. All the same. Don't worry, Anthem Heart isn't listening to your every thought.... merh, It’s okay, it wasn’t that funny. )

I go there to laugh mostly. Fine art is hilarious these days. Mainly because I understand artists too well. One of my brothers sells art for a living. He takes it seriously because it would be just an Art School flunk-out if he didn’t. I don’t have such an obligation. A majority of Californians don’t gravitate to “HIGH ART” or “FINE ART” the way that New Yorkers do. We like our entertainment cheap and chewy with plenty of boobs and bombs.

My idea of a great art museum would be all the same ideas and effort that’s put into existing art museums – just get rid of the little name cards and mission statements. All pretense just – gone. Artists at heart are a group of people who know how to think about thinking and kinda anticipate what the next Joe on the street would want to stare at and obsess over. Modern Art museums already have boobs and explosions in them – its just the people who put them there want to give their display of them some kind of overarching justification. As if saying they represent something else makes it “not weird” to put them there. There are only a few artists I have ever seen who truly have the balls to be “weird.” Just like the edge of town has moved about 20 miles away from the old suburbs since 1950, what is still considered avant garde is actually nestled deeply within the grid still and the yuppies are buying condos in it.

But don’t get me wrong – just because I think artists are predictable, doesn’t mean I still like to carouse in their bedrooms. They always have really fun decorations in their nests. They pretend like they’re pretty humble and don’t like to show it to many people – which is fine, I can play along. I just call their bluff – “Oh, sorry I didn’t realize this was so personal to you, I’ll look the other way if it would make you more comfortable.” After that I’m usually told that it’s okay just this once. I think artists like their inner dick sucked more than their real one. That’s where my preferences make a hasty departure. As soon as they start on with the Mission Statement is about the time that their genitalia goes in my mouth. Sometimes the wrong kind of pretense and foreplay make me see really unpleasant colors. Or else sometimes it howls terribly off key inside my head like a tone-deaf karaoke martyr.

“Let’s just save the talk for after sex – its usually much more honest and lucid then anyway.” Truthfully, I don’t plan on seeing you again ever. Well…

Here comes the title of today’s little rant. She was a docent at the Walker, and I saw her 3 whole times before we ever talked. 4, before I went to her apartment and fooled around with her. She wasn’t an artist but she worked around their offal all day so, at the end of the day she kind of brought all the stink home with her. A handsome faux-teak Ikea bookshelf by her couch held all the big illustrated fine-art books she bought with her employee discount from the Museum shop. Personally I found her photo album from high school and her awesome collection of really unique panties and bras the most interesting of all.

First we acted like coffee mates, then friends, then sisters. She had kind of thin, curly blonde hair that sat mostly on top of her head. Blue eyes, and when I say her face was Roman, I really fucking mean it. The arch in the nose, the cheekbones, the noble jaw. This woman was carved out of alabaster. And this lovely natural blush that looked so very sexual on her very pale skin. And her lips were full and soft and always appeared to be rosy and engorged - again probably because she was so pale. Now, moving down. She isn’t very tall. Average really. But I think that aids her curviness. These were Monroe proportions. Her boobs really knew how to give a tight t-shirt a run for its money. These boobs owned gravity like Texans own cattle. But they were well proportioned and round like grapefruits too, even when she didn’t wear a bra under her t-shirt that one sunny day at her house.

I don’t know what else to say. Her hands on the other hand – they were too small and delicate for a frame like hers. I would have liked it if they were a little more knobby and firm like mine. But that’s like criticizing the Mona Lisa for being too small. (See, I can talk high-art just like the rest of you.) Anyway, it was hard to still think of her like a sister when her head was between my legs. She wasn’t anything to me from then on except warm and soft and heaving, panting, shy at first, then really lusty and dramatic, followed finally by giddy and silent. I don’t think she had done anything with a girl before me. Her breathing was full of trembles and her fingers were ice cold when she put them inside me – I almost bit my tongue off from the shock of it, but then it just gave me goosebumps from head to toe.

She apologized SO sincerely when I gasped like I did. It was kind of cute, but I wanted to slap her. Erica, it’s not every day when someone can make me see electric purple tiger-stripes for a solid minute. “Bravo” I say.

I can’t really tell a story in the proper order. I get too excited. It was one of the free days at the museum, and she got off early that day since attendance was a little more sparse than usual. We chatted for a second as soon as I got there and then I walked off for a while. I just happened to run into her again when I was leaving. She was in her plain clothes and I could tell she was leaving too. She invited me to her apartment which was just down in Uptown a little ways. It was a short walk just because I was wired on coffee, and talking makes even long walks seem like nothing at all. It was especially fun because this was a totally sober encounter, in the middle of the week, in the middle of the afternoon. In the middle of town – Meaning, I didn’t even know if our impromptu girl-date was going to lead to anything more than coffee. Oh but it did.

I was probably just bleeding hormones because I knew I was going to be bleeding for real in a couple days. But it fortunately led to something really really different. I can honestly say that I didn’t make the first move in any way. Whatta change! Whatta nice surprise. All I did was shoot her nothing but “fuck me” eyes for an hour or two on the couch as we talked. Just like a boy she stretched and yawned and played all innocent and laid her head down in my lap an pretended to sleep for a second. We stopped talking all together, just as you do as you both realize you’re about to start fooling around with someone.

First she very playfully put her face under my shirt, and could probably see my boobs since I wasn’t wearing a bra that day either. She started kissing my stomach and tonguing my belly-button, and as soon as she realized what she was doing I could feel her tense up, like she thought I might object soon or something. As if. I took her hand which was vice gripped on my thigh and mashed it invitingly into my breast as if to say – “don’t you dare stop.” (and “fuckin’ relax already, you’re seducing a woman, not disarming a bomb.”) Sure I could have ravaged her 6 ways from Sunday at any moment there, but it was so much fun to see her figure out what to do. To do to another girl what she had always wished a boy would do to her.

She was so pale! Maybe just being from Cali and seeing all these bronzed, glowing demigods walking around all the time makes me feel kind of immune to the whole perfect-tan aesthetic. I didn’t realize that I had such a fetish for the soft, totally pale, vulnerable belly of a girl until I came to Minnesota. There’s something so vulnerable about it. It’s so fleshy – I can’t stand it. I mean, I can – I totally can. I invite it actually, it’s just an expression. What I thought was really really sexy was the way her labia were the exact same rosy burgundy color that her lips were everyday. Her nipples too. Those were big and round and symmetrical and they looked so dark and red on her snow white breasts. She didn’t even have any moles – just flawless, supple Scandinavian skin. I could go on about this woman well into the night, but I just have to say maybe my favorite thing about her is that when I was licking and sucking her pussy lips, my sensory field overwhelmed me with the sensation of eating a plain cheese deep dish pizza with WAY too much cheese on it. I call her Erica Noise now in my head because I heard the most beautiful chorus of electronic Christmas tree angels chanting a G major when I came. 1 tongue and 3 friendly fingers loaned to my crotch by a perfect stranger made a heavenly chorus of cherubs hit a perfect pitch for at least 5 minutes.

She didn’t say a lot afterwards because she was nice and busy being shy and satisfied. She did eventually tell me that she had plans for later and needed to bathe and prep before she went out. I took the clue and let myself out – giving her another deep kiss with lots of tongue before leaving. I went back to the Walker to get my bike then I rode home. My hand was covered in her pheromones and I couldn’t stop putting it over my nose and huffing it on the way home. I was nearly grinding the padding off of my bike seat whenever I would stop at red lights downtown. Good thing there’s no way for cops to give you a breathalyzer for the binge consumption of human sex, because I would have been slapped with a DWI that night: “Driving While Infatuated.”

I made it home and fell asleep double clicking my mouse while watching some Jimmy Stewart film. Lots of scroll wheel action going on, if you catch my drift.

So that’s the short version of how I became an art lover.