The Pussy Whip

Once upon a time, in the very heart of the Village of Greenwich, there lived a performance artist, known for her vision, manifested in striking stage pictures and bold feminist statements. She would tell you that her art was not just her work; it was a calling, emerging out of her journey from small-town midwestern girl to tour de force, with periods of victim and survivor somewhere in between.

Having lucked into a rent-controlled apartment in the ‘90s, she kept her needs modest so that she might enjoy every bit of serendipity that came her way. And, oh, did it ever. Learning early on that she could give herself a fuller life than “a good man” might, she relished in her freedom to travel the globe, staging performances, be they sanctioned or rogue, speaking her truth in a manner so memorable as to land her on the cover of many a magazine.

Then, there came a time that she found herself sidelined with mysterious symptoms that no doctor could diagnose. Thus, the hours that were once spent beneath the Washington Square Park arch, advocating for the visibility of women, the neurodivergent and the gender non-binary were whiled away in her double bed, reading and dreaming up pieces that she began to wonder if she’d ever have the opportunity to perform.

Ever the resilient one, she buoyed herself with fresh flowers, dinners of Instacarted supermarket sushi and Netflix Originals; yet, as time passed, the phone seldom rang, for her friends and colleagues quickly tired of asking after her health. Once a handful of invitations had been declined, they stopped coming. The magazines and theatres, of course, simply had no interest in her beyond the impact of her work.

On a visit to one of the doctors who found himself at a loss as to how to help her, she merely shrugged when he asked how she was doing.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” she said.

“Perhaps an antidepressant would help,” he suggested. “I’m happy to write you a prescription.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor. I really do. Of course, I was happier when I was living a full life. But, the facts are what they are. I have an undiagnosed illness, and, well, I’m not as young as I once was.”

“That’s nonsense. You’re the same woman who’s always taken the world by storm,” he assured her.

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t equate to feeling seen.”

Over the next few months, she put on a few pounds and her complexion grew quite pale as it became more difficult to make her way from her third-floor walkup down to the concrete stairs that overlooked the street. And, not but a breath after her fiftieth birthday, which she celebrated with her old-lady cat, Marina Abramović, by lighting a candle atop their tuna salad, her periods stopped.

Done. Fini. Once and for all.

The next morning, when she rose to brew herself a cup of gingered black tea, Marina Abramović began to weave her way through the woman’s legs, only to find that they were less than solid. Taken aback, the woman’s treasured feline brought her paw to her heart, then dashed off, mewling as she took shelter in the cubby of her carpeted tree.

“Well, okay, then,” the woman scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “Be that way.”

Once the tea had steeped, the woman tossed the spent leaves into the sink, and after an invigorating first sip, made her way to the shower.

Setting the teacup next to the tap, she fingered the yellow stains in the porcelain, where more than a few cigarettes had burned down while applying her makeup for any one of those old nights on the town.

Then, she turned the shower on to warm, whipped off her nightie and tossed it into the hamper. An expert shot.

Taking another sip of her tea, she glanced toward the mirror, hesitantly, of course, for she refused to accept the lack of fullness within her breasts, only to find that she was . . . well, ever so slightly transparent.

And made a mental note to talk to the doctor about the Ambien.

The heat of the shower worked wonders on her muscles; and, as she stepped out onto the bath mat, she found Marina Abramović waiting on the toilet seat, eager to nuzzle her knees as if in apology.

“No worries, Girlfriend,” she said, mussing the loose skin on her scruff.

It all happened, in the grand scheme of things, gradually. Relativity being relative, after all. And, not a week later, the woman found herself to be as invisible as a princess’s pantyline.

Yet, Marina Abramović, fortunately, seemed to have worked through her issues. Though she wasn’t quite sure where to rub, she managed to hold vigil over the woman’s form, regardless.

“I’m not dying, for Goddess’s sake,” the woman protested as the cat remained glued to her undelineated side. “We just need to play the circumstances to our advantage.”

And that’s when performance art became more than performance. It became magic.

Over the next couple of months, the woman and Marina Abramović crafted a piece that made all of her earlier works look like child’s play.

And, when it was ready, the woman placed a call to Désirée la Bombacere at the Fiefdom of MoMA, advising her of what they had to offer.

“I thought you’d retired,” Ms. la Bombacere said upon her return call.

“Who told you that?”

“Well, we just assumed–.”

“Yeah, that’s never a good idea.”

Thus, on April 7th of 2024, the woman and Marina Abramović presented “The Pussy Whip,” a work that would go down as the most influential one-cat show in history. Those courageous enough to take a seat within the audience departed with their greatest fears and desires exposed, as well as their judgments and dismissals, for in a very short span of time, they witnessed the grains of their own depravity, which they worked so hard to deny; and, as they exited the space with their panties either wet or soiled, one couldn’t help but to notice distinct feline bite marks gracing each ankle.

And, from that moment forward, no one dared to disregard a pussy, no matter what her age, her physical limitations or her lived experience, ever again ‘til the very end of time.