Page 27 of Make Me Scream

Explain everything,he says.Now.

How do I even begin?

And where are you?Joel adds.

Still at the gallery.

I type as fast as I can, getting it all down in a string of texts.

He painted you? Can I see?

I’ll try and get a picture,I say.

Great. Now, do I have to explain why seeing a teacher in private, after hours, on a Friday night might look bad?

No, he doesn’t. I consider a snarky answer but he’s not wrong to be concerned.

We’re just going to talk art. Nothing’s gonna happen.

So if he tries to kiss you again?

Yeah, what then, Gwen?

I won’t let that happen,I write. Whether or not it ends up being true is another story.

If you say so.

Whatever.

I head back into the gallery and blend into the audience. I’m tempted to watch Lane work the crowd, maybe even hang around the periphery of his circle, but it would look… clingy, I guess. Plus, I do want to explore the rest of Lane’s art. I’ve never seen an exhibit that used living people as the medium — and certainly never one that involved active, non-simulated sexual activity.

For example, one model traipses around, her wrists and neck locked into a yoke. Dozens and dozens of clothespins pinch her bare skin, all over her body. A slip of paper hangs from each pin, each one listing a single task.

Compliment the hair of a man wearing blue jeans.

Kiss the hand of a domme.

Let a man pat your head.

When she completes each task, the pin can come off. According to the dog collar around her neck, her name for the night is “Gig Economy.”

I shudder, trying not to imagine how all those clothespins must feel. The woman mostly maintains a smile, but I can’t tell if it’s part of the performance or if she’s really enjoying herself.

For the final exhibition, however, there’s no question: the cute, innocent model is definitely not having fun. A sign on a table next to her stage reads,The subject of this piece has given her consent to participate. She will appear to be in distress, but audience members are not to interfere with her performance. Should she require assistance, a staff member will see to her needs. Thank you.

Sure enough, a guard built like a refrigerator stands alongside the stage, watching the audience.

The woman is locked in a wooden case barely large enough for her to fit inside. The lid of the box has been replaced with a glass panel so the audience can see. Metal fasteners bolted into the sides hold her wrists and ankles. Finally, a piece of wood has been slotted into the case and fitted around her neck, sealing off her head. She’s completely helpless, naked and shivering. All she can do is watch as an uncomfortably large spider builds a web right in front of her face.

Chest-high stenciling on the glass lid reads, “Exposure Therapy.”

“That thing isn’t poisonous, is it?” I ask the guard.

He doesn’t answer except with a sharp glance.

The model peers at me, wide eyes pleading.

They wouldn’t put her in real danger, would they? Maybe she has some severe arachnophobia, or claustrophobia, and this is Lane’s very extreme way of making her face her fears.

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