Spring #2 x-ray or kiss?


Lucky for some

You never know when you might need a phallic amulet……

The Greeks and Romans must have thought so: they made them in bronze so they would never wear out.

I particularly like the one of a girl on a flying phallus with horse’s legs. They’re going along at a fair lick, and the girl’s hair (blonde, I imagine) is streaming out behind her. She’s having a great time, and there are three little bells hanging from the phallus, with tiny intricate clappers, so you can hear them coming. What a team they make: the girl, the phallus and the horse – she’s guaranteed to reach orgasm on the way.

I don’t think I’d wear it though. It’s a bit big for a bracelet, and too obvious for a necklace. I’d probably keep it in my bedside cabinet to ward off potential rapists.

But what if the phallus itself decides it has had enough of being ridden to an early death by a mere woman with flowing hair? What if it insists she gets off its back, and starts doing its washing, and demands loincloths made to measure. She might try to reach an agreement with the horse, but the phallus is bigger than both of them, and it starts whirling the bells around frighteningly and threatens to clobber them both.

So the girl seizes the horse’s mane attaches it to her back and flies into the 21st century. She’s not safe there either; men with phalluses wait in dark corners. She reasons with them, and isn’t scared. After all she’s escaped the phallus once. She pockets an anti-masturbatory device and waits.

Janet Evans


The Installation

I might leave my body to science, but if I should do so my wishes will be confirmed by a letter of intent.

It might say this:

To whom it may concern”

“Have you heard of the Japanese practice of Nyotaimori? It’s a ceremony of offering sushi at a banquet, served from the naked body of a beautiful supine woman. She’s forbidden to move lest her fee be waived for misconduct.”

“To those who say ‘Beauty comes from within’ I lay down a challenge. My challenge may make an interesting, if macabre installation.”

“I will be dead, of course. I’m in good health at the moment but next week I’ll be dead. The details are confidential. You may lay me out on a dinner table in a cold room. My innards can be revealed in the manner of an anatomical model.”

“I invite you to treat me as reality TV. You can view the sum of my parts. Cook them even. I really don’t mind. Women like to be practical. Some people might say I’ve been used in life so “used up” would be a womanly way of disposal for the afterlife.”

“So, goodbye. And enjoy!”

Astrid Sutton


The box

One day she found the key to the cupboard.  When they were all out she decided to look inside.  The key was small and ordinary looking.  She turned it in the keyhole; she could feel the lock turning with a quiet grinding sound.  She opened the door.  Inside the cupboard was almost empty.   It was dark and dusty with a slight musty smell she couldn’t identify.  All that was in there was a dusty wooden box.  She touched the lid of the box; her fingers shifted the dust to reveal a smooth shiny surface.

She lifted the lid.  Inside she could make out the tiny white figure of a woman lying on a red velvet bed.  She put her hand into the box and lifted out the model.  She lifted it by the bed; she didn’t want to actually touch the model it looked too fragile.  The velvet pad was mounted on a carved wooden stand.  The whole thing looked exquisite and jewel-like.  The woman was naked and appeared to be peacefully asleep.  She touched it and suddenly the front of the woman’s torso fell off with a tiny clatter.  She stopped, holding her breath and listening to her heart beating.  She listened to see if they had returned but she could hear nothing.

The inside of the tiny woman’s body was revealed.  She touched it with her finger.  A tiny set of ivory intestines moved. She carefully lifted them out, below was a tiny model baby.

She held her breath.  This was something secret.  Something she was not allowed to know  She knew she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be looking at this.

Evelyn O’Callaghan


Sex object 1

“Believe in your dreams and they become true.”
A delusion, of course. But the delusion of a young and optimistic child.
I’m sitting wired to my phone. It’s not complicated. I’m wired to take calls just as I’m wired to simulate a woman. Programmed.The first call comes in and, as usual, there’s a breathy pause.
“Baby is that you? I’m so hard, so hard for you!”
“I’m hard too. A hard woman…” I said, more accurately than he realised.
A grunting sound told me that the call was over. Short work. It was often like that.
It had been a long day. I was tired, my engine had been running all day and my cooling system needed adjusting. I took the next call.
“I’m hot!” I said.
This time the man on the line sounded relaxed. Normal even.
“I bet you’ve been saying that all day. Are you bored? I don’t need you by the way. I have a very charming blow up doll here, and she’s sitting next to me. So talk to me. About anything you like.”
At that very moment, I could feel a system failure in my body.
“All calls are monitored for training purposes” I heard myself say.
“Did you say that?” the man asked.
“Sorry” I said “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. System failure! System failure!”


Sex  Object 2

China 1936

I was built as a figurine to depict sexual foreplay. I couldn’t understand why we were made of ivory. To be honest, the lack of flexibility didn’t make much of an illustration and was positively uncomfortable for me and my fellow figurine, a thwarted porn star. “Thwarted” for obvious reasons. But we can all dream, can’t we?

Our dream was to make the transfer from foreplay models to erotic scene players contained within fruit and vegetables like some of the other models.

It didn’t end there. We’d be warm with soft lithesome bodies having proper sex. We’d have a gallery, work with Yoko. Within this airy space we’d place genetically altered fruits. Papaya, Mangos. Melons. Their soft centres squishy with juice, our bodies coated with it the fruit mingling with us. We could writhe lick and suck, celebrating our new found bodies

“ Believe in your dreams and they will come true.”

That’s what I read.

But life doesn’t always work like that does it?

Astrid Sutton

I might make a video collage,  featuring all too real women and aspects of what the Welcome Institute euphemistically calls ‘the beginning of life’ that some might find hard to handle. For example:

The New Mother

She is sitting on the edge of the bed, a low-level double bed so her knees are up at the height of her face, and he lies on the other side, his arms behind his head, neck turned so he is looking at her naked back. She is Chinese, has short black hair and as she leans forward three slabs of stomach flesh fold in on themselves across her belly with her swollen breasts swinging to lie on the top. Blue veins trace the surface of her skin.

Through the open door we can see into the bedroom opposite. A cot stands in the centre of the room, a mobile slowly rotating above it in a breath of night air.

He runs his finger down her back and two beads of translucent grey fluid appear at the tips of her nipples.

“See” she says, looking down then turning towards him,

“I’m not joking, I want you”.

Alexis Hunter

(Alexis Hunter, Dialogue with a Rapist, in Saltoun Gallery)


She moves around the kitchen in her dressing gown, a small plumpish but pretty blonde woman in her late twenties. It’s dark, the lighting is dim and she is tidying up.  She pauses, puts her hands over her face and then giggles through her fingers. Then starts on wiping down the worktop surfaces. The phone rings.

“Oh – hiya Eden. Yeah…no… no, it’s ok, not in the middle of anything… he’s out tonight…after work, five-a-side night… bit of a relief in a way – it’s been getting a bit intense lately”.

“No, he hasn’t, but I’m worried he might just ask me soon though – you’re right…oh God I hope he doesn’t… I want to say no but I’m scared I’d crumble and just say yes.”

She laughs again then, with a crack of hysteria, “But I’ve got a surprise for him”.

She tucks the phone under her chin to free her hands up to tighten the silky, Oriental-style, embroidered dressing-gown and wrap it closer about her.


“Well, you know how he’s a bit ‘special’? Remember? I told you…how he likes to get me to just, you know, stretch out on the sofa and he pours himself a drink and sits and just watches me. And drinks his glass of wine.”

“No! I swear…that’s it…he just sits there. He’s not kinky or anything. Just says he loves to gaze his fill”. She giggles again. “Well..I feel so uncomfortable…exposed somehow…I don’t know. Anyway, so what I’ve done is… what it is, is that I have…oh – he’s coming. I can hear the key downstairs”

“I can’t. No time…he’s at the door”.

“Yeah, I will, I promise – everything! Bye lovely.”

The key turns in the flat door and a man in a work suit with a rucksack kitbag toted over his shoulder walks in – young, handsome enough; chiselled enough, not overweight…yet.

He walks straight up to her, drops the bag and puts his arms around her, sliding his hands sensuously up and down her back. He nuzzles her neck with his lips then grips the silk of her gown on the shoulder between his teeth and tugs it off so that it falls to the floor and murmurs, “you’re so beautiful baby”.

He moves his hand to the front of her body and downwards but then jumps back in surprise,


His gaze goes south, hers follows and his expression is unreadable. We see her naked front-on and the camera zooms in on her pubic hair.  She has been to some kind of pussy beauty parlour – it has been trimmed into a heart shape and dyed a bright, vibrant red. The screen fills with this beautifully coiffed and trimmed bush.

“Happy Valentines Day” she says, “a bit late in the day but special for you”.

  Jess Lerche


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