The Museum of Erotic Art

So, it is Valentine’s Day so I hope all of you are having an amazing, romantic day. And remember… tomorrow all that chocolate goes on sale! 🙂

Today I wanted to put up a snippet of a nonfiction piece I’ve been working on. This is a bit of a precursor to a continuation of discussing truth in writing. I think that truth in nonfiction is one of the most interesting topics when discussing truth.

Anyways, this is a short excerpt from a longer essay. Thoughts, opinions, critiques, as always, are welcome.



The next floor begins in the stairwell. A statue of nude writhing bodies is just after the last step. It’s impossible to tell where one body ends and another begins. It is one pile of indiscriminate lusting bodies. I feel my cheeks flush faintly. This is what I was expecting— the abstract, strange and modern. There are chairs shaped like leopard printed stilettos on this level, and five televisions playing various porn films. I keep my back to the screens and enjoy the paintings and sculptures. The paintings on this floor resemble advertisements, but they’re each twisted a little, the woman’s chest is bare and bleeding. There is a bloody bed in the back corner of the floor. I glance around to make sure the coast is clear before I chance running my fingertip against the edge of the bed. The sheets are rough like they’re made with half sandpaper.

Feeling guilty and nervous about having touched anything I run up to the fourth floor. On the way I see a women’s fake leg climbing out of a little fake window. The ceramic leg wears thigh-high fishnets and red stilettos. I know it’s fake but I still expect to see the rest of the woman come climbing from the window. I imagine that she’s a blonde, long hair tousled from a tryst.

She climbs down gingerly; it’s hard to climb down the wall in 3-inch stilettos, and stands in my mind. She’s tall, and thin, cigarette in hand, leaning against the wall, smoke swirling around her tired features. I know her feet must hurt as she shifts from side to side, balancing her weight from heel to heel. “What are you doing here?” she asks me. She doesn’t speak in French; figments of my imagination aren’t fluent.

“I’m just looking. It seemed interesting, I was bored,” I start rattling off my reasons, a rushed list of justification.

“Bored? So you go looking for a sex museum?”

“No! This isn’t what I normally do!” I imagine trying to explain why I’m here to my family. Why am I here?

“So what? You go to another country to do strange things? What an original you are. Looking for shock value? Something to write home about?” the woman, who isn’t really there, asks as she breaths out the last of her cigarette.

“That’s not it at all!” I try to argue, but she has disappeared back into the wall, out of my imagination.




  1. Eric Said:

    I liked how the character is reluctant but curious, then ashamed. Her emotional content makes her more real.

    (Sounded more like and S&D/B&D Museum to me – LOL!)

    • Judy Black Said:

      Haha! It’s actually from the Museum of Erotic Art in Paris. It’s one of the most interesting museums I have ever been to.

  2. brian miller Said:

    ha. i like how you have written…its engaging…and hmm…another reason to go to paris…smiles.

    • Judy Black Said:

      Thanks!! Paris is fascinating. That was one of the most interesting museums I went to the whole time I was in Paris.

  3. Laura Said:

    This mueseum WOULD be in Paris, lol.

    I liked the detail about her cheeks flushing. But are they just flushing with embarrassment, or something else as well that she doesn’t want to admit?

    • Laura Said:

      I spelled museum wrong…sorry

    • Judy Black Said:

      What are they flushing with indeed. And I forgive you for misspelling museum. 🙂

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