In times like this, when a girl gets with a mind-blowingly hot guy, she needs to celebrate. Some will call their friends to commence in bragging rights. Some will have an after-sex smoke. I’ve tried to call Anne a few times, but haven’t got an answer and I hate smoking. Right now, I’m in my Manhattan apartment lobby, waiting for an elevator to my floor. Once I get to my apartment, I’ll give Anne another call. But if she doesn’t answer, I’m having a glass of champagne for myself. Or possibly a bottle. I’m loving the high I have surging through my veins right now. Champagne would complement my sex with a gorgeous athletic superstar perfectly.

As I wait for the elevator car to descend, a woman approaches from behind me. Her arms are full of art supplies and I can’t see her face. But, my nostrils flare at the familiar scent.

“Clarissa?” I ask, peering over the paintbrushes. “Is that you?”

My apartment houses a pop surrealist artist named Clarissa Montag that smokes weed like it’s a meal.

“Yeah.” Clarissa struggles for breath.

“Do you need some help?” I ask. I take a few things from her arms.

She finally sees my face. “Lexi! Oh, my gosh! I was about to call you!”

By God, we hardly talk, except in the elevator. Is she that high? “Clarissa, you don’t have my number,” I say as we both step into the elevator.

“I know!” Her body shakes in excitement. “That’s why I didn’t call you!”

My lips twitch, holding back my laughter. I’m not sure if she wants me to take her seriously or not. I press the buttons to each of our floors.

“I’ve been wanting to invite you to my loft,” Clarissa says. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Though I’m still feeling abuzz with Brett’s touch and I’m itching to get back to my apartment, I’m thrilled Clarissa has invited me to her place. Artist’s lofts are the most interesting places, and she’s told me she has created a piece inspired by me. I feel flattered and curious to see what she has made. I stand waiting in the apartment hallway, holding all Clarissa’s art supplies, as she puts her key into the lock and opens the door. A cloud of smoke escapes. Wow. Her apartment is permanently hot-boxed.

Clarissa relieves me of all her supplies and I step in and find myself in a narrow corridor. Though I can’t see much of anything, I stand on my tiptoes, looking over her head trying to see what she’s been up to. “I’ve been trying to get in contact with you.” Clarissa leads me down the corridor. “Ever since this whole Brett Brock cock thing, I’ve been up for hours.”

“What? Why?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“I’ve been so busy with making a series of works.”

“What?” I repeat again. “A series of works?”

“Well, I think the whole thing would be great for a series of works, you know? Like a political statement of sorts.”

I step into a large room, filled with her pop surrealist art; a bunch of cock. Holy. I’ve never felt so penis-oriented in my life. The room is filled with lifelike pieces. Many with characters that look like they came from a manga comic, except for the fact that each painting has dick in it someplace. There’s one of what looks to be a male and female political couple. While the male politician is exposing himself to several women surrounding him, the female politician is looking humiliated as a crowd of Americans holding flags point fingers at her. There’s another of a girl on a bus and while it looks like she is being attacked by a group of naked men, there are a bunch of people pointing the finger of blame at her. Then there’s me. Standing alongside me is a humiliated and naked Brett. Other team members and a camera crew of men are giving me dirty looks. There’s another with a female celebrity being shamed for nude photo leaks, while a hacker looks on, cackling mirthlessly. In every painting, angry onlookers are pointing at the women. I finally tell her my interpretation of her work, “Whenever there’s a woman nearby a problem—”

“She’ll take the finger of blame,” Clarissa says. “Have a seat.” She gestures to the couch in the middle of the room. As she goes into the kitchen, I sit on the couch, staring wide-eyed at all the schlongs about the loft. I open my mouth to speak, but she beats me to it, “Want a blunt?”

“Uh, you know Clarissa, most people offer drinks?”

“Tsk. Yeah, right. You’re going to tell me you came here thinking I’d offer you a drink? Most people that come to my apartment know they’re going to get a blunt.”

“Actually, no.” I guffaw. “I accepted your invitation in the elevator ‘cause I heard you had an infinite amount of cock and wanted to get an eyeful.”

Her face is alight, “Oh my gosh. People have been talking about my art? Who told you?”

I hold back my laughter, my lips twitching. Wow. She is high. “No one. I was joking.”

“Oh, ‘cause I showed Mr. Van Bree my work yesterday, thought you might have run into him.” She sits next to me and hands me a blunt and a lighter. I stare at the paraphernalia. It’s not wine, but I’m sure this will prolong the high Brett gave me earlier. “Wait. Did you just say Mr. Van Bree? The old guy living in the penthouse on the top floor?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy.”

Again, my mouth twists. Mr. Van Bree is well into his seventies, is always in a suit, and owns several businesses in downtown Manhattan. The thought of this old white man coming into her apartment dressed in his best surrounded by a bunch of cocks and bongs is hilarious. If Clarissa didn’t take her work so seriously, I’d die of laughter. I can only imagine the expression on Van Bree’s face when he entered the room. “Did he know what he was about to see, Clarissa?” I ask as I light up.

“No. I told him I was an artist and he was telling me how much he loved classical art.” She takes a puff. “So, I invited him to look. He owns some department stores and restaurants downtown. Thought if he took an interest he might allow me to display my work and I might get some sales.”

I take a puff, but I can’t take it anymore. I begin coughing and fall on the couch, “Dear God! HAAHHA! Clarissa—cough—you’re better than getting high!”

“Are you coughing to get higher?” Clarissa asks in all seriousness. “You don’t have to do that, ‘til the end. You have a whole blunt left.”

Tears fall down my cheeks as I slink from off the couch to the floor. I should have gotten to know this girl better the day she moved into the apartment. Which leads me to wondering, “How is it that you’re living here in Manhattan, Clarissa?” I ask. “Aren’t most artists starving artists?”

“Typically, yeah.” She taps some ashes into an ashtray. “But my father owns a few car dealerships out in Kentucky, that’s actually where I’m from.”

“Kentucky didn’t take to pop surrealism?” I tease.

“Few people do. It’s considered ‘lowbrow’ art. In the art world, many don’t consider it ‘fine art.’”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“Well, some critics don’t think it’s a real form of art. A lot of artists in my movement didn’t have a traditional education in art. A lot of them were cartoonists or tattoo artists.”

“Interesting. Where did you get your start?”

“I started falling in love with Japanese manga and began making my own illustrations, then I started attaching deeper meanings to them, usually political ones. My first series was about the stigma behind medical marijuana.”

“Oh. Uh, do you need this blunt,” I ask awkwardly. “Is it for medicinal purposes?”

“Yeah. I’m depressed and stressed out a lot,” she says with a hint of sarcasm.

I chuckle.

“I showcased that series in L.A. It did well, I sold most of my pieces and was beginning to make a name for myself.” She trails off, looking away.

“What happened?”

“The art gallery burned down.”

“All your work got destroyed?”

“No, most of my clients got the work they purchased.”

“If you were making a name for yourself there, why did you leave and come here?” I ask, perplexed.

“I was blamed for the fire. The owner accused me of accidentally burning the place up when I was high.”

“Did you?” I ask cautiously.

“Lexi, I like my weed, but I’m not an idiot. I’m not about to light up on someone else’s property, let alone an art gallery.” Her hands ball into fists. “There was no evidence that I did it. But there was no evidence that I didn’t either. The only known fact was we were both there the night of the fire. He threatened to sue. I didn’t want my name to get dragged through the dirt, I wanted to get back to my art, so the curator and I settled out of court.”

I can tell by her expression she didn’t make much money off her first series of pieces, and the curator had made off like a bandit. “So, what really happened?” I ask.

“The curator had an affinity for old-fashioned oil lamps.” She taps her blunt next to the ashtray.

“Well, couldn’t they prove that it was an oil lamp?” I ask, taking another puff. “Don’t they have forensics for that kind of thing?”

“They do, but the question is who started the fire. Like I said, we were both there that night. He had a successful gallery. I was a newbie artist with a love for weed. Who do you think the courts were going to believe?” She points to a painting across the room. “That sums up how I feel about the whole situation.”

My eyes follow her gesture to the painting; a woman with a dildo, is slapping a man hard across the face, “That’s you and the curator?”

“Yeah.” Her face beams. “It’s my first self-portrait.”

I scoff and take another puff, “I will definitely come and support your upcoming exhibition.”

“Yes! Do you think you could bring a few friends?”

“Absolutely. I know plenty of women that would love to see this. So, what are you calling the exhibition?” I ask.

“Bitch Slapped by Cock.”

Cue uncontrollable laughter.