The first time I ever came in my pants was at the Louvre. Jean-Baptiste Roman’s statue’s Nisus and Euryalus. Best friends from childhood, both warriors are slain in war. Here, they are naked and fighting off something or someone we cannot see.

Euryalus is dead or dying while Nisus stands over him, they seem obvious as lovers although many people would not agree with that, it’s just what I personally feed into it, feed from it, feed on it, a singularly tender moment in the midst of a pitched battle where both men lost their lives.

I know a lot about losing lives. Loss. Lovers and soft cocks made from marble to appear incidental because they were. And yet…

I had to walk around the rest of the Louvre with the erection of an adolescent with a wet spot on his trousers.

I never know when a piece of art is going to reach out and grab my dick. Great art just sticks its juiced finger up my hole, and sucks me off. I wander around most museums in a state of being lost and found. My friends have all vowed to never visit another museum with me ever again.

It involves some art itself in the letting go of who and what and where and how you are. You are not the point. You are only the audience.

You are there.