Author's Note
If you don't like this story, that's fine. Art is open to interpretation. :3
Erecting A Masterpiece
“I just don’t understand it!” you say, looking down at Fluttershy.
She’s staring up at you, face obviously deeply offended, but you have to tell her the truth. She might be proud, she might have felt good about it, but she wanted your real, true opinion. And as you look at the canvas in front of you that she’s decided to call her ‘magnum opus,’ you’ve come to one concludion: Fluttershy fucking sucks at art. It would have been good to find that out before you encouraged her to have her show at the local gallery, but it’s far too late for that now.
“How can you not get it, Anon?” Fluttershy asks, a note of hurt in her tone. “The bunnies stand for the duality of pony-kind. How some of us may live within our little holes, fearing the world outside. Yet, for us to truly live-”
“Fluttershy, it’s two stick bunnies humping.”
“N-no!” she says, her cheeks flushing. “You’re just looking at it the wrong way!”
Trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, you twist your body and turn your head to the side. You squint.
“Yeah, sorry, now I just see a pair of breasts.”
“...what?”
“Just… two, saggy, pendulous white breasts. Flowing gently in the wind.”
Your therapist would probably have a field day with this, but that’s besides the point right now.
Fluttershy turns her head in order to try to see what you’re seeing.
“Anon, those are penises, not breasts.”
“Well she needs to check for some fucking lumps,” you reply. “Besides the point, your art is shit.”
“But this is only one painting, you have to see the rest of my gallery!”
“Is it more dicks?”
“W-well-”
“Cause if there’s one thing I really can’t handle right now, Fluttershy, it's a surplus of dicks.”
“Bu-”
“TOO MANY DICKS, Fluttershy.”
A stallion in the corner of the gallery yells a ‘whoop’ of approval in your direction. You give him the finger guns. He fears for his life. Here, all he wanted was to let you know he was also up for some dick fun, and you have to ruin it with symbolism of gun violence. Nice work.
“Look,” you say with a heavy sigh, “I’m willing to give this a shot. Walk me through, explain your… ‘art’ to me, and maybe I can give you some pointers or start to understand your….’style’ or something.”
“I really wish you’d stop doing air quotes over certain words,” Fluttershy mumbles, looking down at her hooves.
“They were bunny ears,” you say, pressing a hand to your chest. “I was trying to get in the spirit of things! I’d never mock you like that!”
“Oh… well okay,” Fluttershy says brightly, “come with me then!”
Yeah, you were definitely mocking her, but she looked so sad you just couldn’t break it to her. Especially not when you expect you’re about to shit talk her life’s work in front of everyone. You reluctantly turn and follow her into the gallery.
She stops by a large canvas, almost as tall as the wall and gestures to it proudly.
“This one I call: Perfection in Our World.”
You glance up at the painting in horror. Your jaw drops. You think you’ve wet yourself a little bit. Because the painting is you.
The painting is of you in the shower, the steam wafting from the floor to the ceiling. You hold a beer in your hands and your forehead is firm against the tile. The most noticeable part of the painting, and what made it so insurmountably large, is the… creative embellishment she made to your dangling participle.
That is, you have a massive raging horsecock. And it seems to hang down to the tile floor. And be dribbling a little semen.
“Fluttershy,” you ask, turning to look at her slowly. “Explain.”
“Well,” she says, her chest puffing up with pride, “I decided to combine the ideas of the human form and the horse form! I mean, obviously, humans are taller and have more dexterous hands, but they’re a little more lacking in the-”
“I MEAN,” you break in sharply, “Why is it ME?!”
“Oh, that’s not you,” she says with a scoff and shake of her head.
“Okay, but… that’s me. It looks like me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
A pony and her young son pass by at that exact moment. The colt stops, looks at the painting, looks at Fluttershy, looks at you, then looks at his mother.
“Look!” he practically screams, “It’s the penis man!”
His mother grabs him and quickly shoos him along to another part of the gallery. You give a scowl to fluttershy who just rolls her eyes.
“Can you believe that speciest behavior?” she says scornfully, “Thinking all humans look alike?”
“Fluttershy…”
“But enough of this, on to the next painting!”
She grabs you by your pant leg and pulls you along to the next exhibit. You shield your face with one cupped hand as ponies stare at you while you pass. Hey, look on the bright side, at least they all think you’re packing some serious heat now.
Fluttershy pulls you up to her next piece that still has a cloth draped over it. You can tell that it seems to be in the shape of a pony for some reason. But what’s more shocking to you is that Fluttershy somehow found a way to not only fail at one hobby, but possibly two. Definitely two.
“A statue?” you ask Fluttershy. “How in the world did you get your hands on marble?”
“W-well,” she replies. “You’re right that it’s a statue, but it isn’t necessarily made out of rock. See, I spent all of my money on paint and, well I realized I didn’t have all the colors I needed so I found out that many artists get creative! Like horse hair brushes and yellow paint is made from-”
“Please stop,” you interject. “I hate everything about this. If you made this out of your fucking pubic hair, please just kill me right now. It’ll be better than going out seeing a statue of a mentally challenged horse made out of your mare hair.”
Fluttershy sighs and looks to the floor.
“M-maybe you’re right, Anon. I’m just not cut out for this. I-I should just pack these up and go home. I’m clearly not an artist.”
You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. If you weren’t trying to get into Rarity’s bed sheets… then maybe you could just dreamcrush her on the spot and go about your life normally. But word is gonna travel, and the only thing that will be marvelous about your Friday nights will be what sort of condom you use to beat off with. Because they expire. Condoms expire, dumbasses. And you can only make so many water balloons and throw them at Spike before it gets old.
“Okay. Well. Let’s forget the statue,” you say calmly, “Besides what was it even of?”
“Ritualistic anal gaping and-”
“Yes, let’s forget the statue,” you say, a little more forcefully, “Just show me something else. I’m sure I can find something positive about it. After all, art is different to everyone! I bet it really speaks to someone, even if I don’t personally get it.”
She raises her head a little.
“R-really?”
“Really. Come on, show me.”
She brightens immediately and catches hold of your hand with all the excitement of a little girl who’s finally stopped pooping the bed for the first time.
“I’m really glad to hear you say that!” she says in complete and utter joy, “Because my next piece is interactive.”
“...interactive?”
“You’ll see!” she says in a sing-song voice.
She marches you over across the hall and around a corner and suddenly you’re staring right down the barrel of…
Mother of god.
Fluttershy releases your hand and skips over to stand by her… creation. She gestures to it with a sweeping hoof.
“See, I made it big enough so people could go inside!” she says, “You go in the urethra, and it goes all the way back into the testicles! And then you can come out, just like the sperm does when… hey, where are you going?”
You don’t look back. You don’t even tell her goodbye. You do not pass go, or collect $200. You can’t do this, no amount of sweet marshmallow pony pussy is worth this nonsense. And you’ll be damned if you’re going back inside a giant replica horse penis. You came from a penis, sure, but you are not going back.
You stride quickly to the front of the gallery, where one of the middle-aged docents holds the door open for you. You move to step past her, but as you do, she covertly slides a hoof up your knee towards your groin. You lock eyes. She smiles.
“Hey,” she says in a sultry whisper, “aren’t you the guy from the painting?”
Too bad this time life does not imitate art.
-END-
