Donna and the Work of Art

Donna’s new job led to a number of good things. The gallery in which she worked was nearer to my home than her own and so she was inclined more often to stay over with me. She’d stay a night or two and leave her laundry for me to do. I didn’t mind. I really enjoyed her company, her mind and her body. Another benefit was that she took me occasionally to exhibitions at the gallery where I met the owner and her other staff. I got to drink good champagne, something that I could not afford, as well as to eat the lovely nibbles they provided.

It was on one such occasion that Donna posed another of her interesting questions. She was beautifully dressed in her dark suit and white silk shirt – ‘It’s for the punters, College, the boss says they like to see us “glammed up” for shows.’ She had arrived at my home thus attired and I, not expecting it to be an occasion for an evening dress, had said that I should change into something more suitable. It took longer than expected since Donna had never seen me put stockings on before and her interest was aroused. Not just her interest as it happens and she spent at least half an hour in her studies! And very nice they were too. I digress.

At the exhibition we were standing by an incomprehensible piece of alleged sculpture. It was dull, with bits of wood, some metal and an egg. Yes, I did say an egg.

‘This, my stockinged friend, is called “Reflective Mood.” Now, to my untutored eye it has rather the appearance of something my sister Cassandra….’

‘The second “a” like the ahhhh I emitted a little earier?’

‘Your memory is a constant delight to me.’ She grinned and her hand twanged a suspender through the blue silk of my frock. ‘It looks like something one might have found after one of her parties. She was known for them. People were sometimes never seen again after one of them. My question is that, whilst I grasp that the creator of this masterpiece had something in her mind when she glued it together, her title seems inappropriate given that it is not at all reflective but dull in the extreme.

‘Who is it?

‘Who is what?’ This time she placed her hand firmly on my arse and squeezed a buttock, ‘You must, incidentally, keep them on when we go to bed tonight. I find myself curiously aroused.’ I suppressed a giggle.

‘Who is the artist responsible for this?’

‘Oh, it’s her over there in the purple hair and green velvet suit.’ I cast my eye over a woman of about 60. ‘Her colour sense explains why she took up sculpture rather than the noble art of painting, no?’

‘I suspect her intention was to convey the meaning of “Reflection” as in thought rather than anything else.’

‘You never fail, College, you are a light in my darkness. What do you think of the piece?’

‘I think it’s bollocks.’

‘Not just a pretty face, are you? Now I shall take you home and give you what is known in our family as a good rogering.’ And she did.