Trust over Nothing - Kristen's Board Contest

[SoftGameHunter]

Teaser: I wanted to go further. So for eight hours, I would stand and resist nothing. The doors were closed, though it was open to the public. No one walking by would see anything. And for those eight hours, I consented, in writing, signed and posted, and confirmed in a video of myself I left playing in the corner of the room. I consented to everything.
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
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Title: Trust over Nothing
Author: SoftGameHunter
Content Warnings: This is a consensual story, but not one free of violent, sometimes extreme behavior. Nonetheless, the main character protagonist 'victim' is, as will be supremely clear on reading, fully and enthusiastically agreeable to everything that happens to her.

This is part of the Kristen's Board Contest
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Trust over Nothing

I studied classical art, because I wanted to be an artist and serious artists studied serious art. So after a serious and utterly unexamined upbringing, I enrolled in a good art school and spent a half semester going through the motions before I stumbled upon Rhythm 0, a performance art piece from 1974. Oh, am I skipping ahead too fast? Did you really want to get to know me, or are you just going through the motions of your job like I once did for mine? Blah blah blah. I was born, christened, went to public school, and went to art school. My high school GPA was 3.12. I think my grandmother would have liked me to marry a doctor and spit out little babies so she could feel grandly maternal in a way my mother, rest her soul in peace, never could. But, art school, then epiphany, then what followed.

I stood on a precipice, figuratively and literally. I actually stood out on the ledge of my dorm, seven floors above the ground, trying to reconcile the lies of my white bread upbringing and the shocking bohemian enlightenment that only a college girl in art school away from home for the first time can ever truly know. At eighteen, I felt like my entire life had been robbed from me, stolen and wrecked, because there was more to life than church, Fox News, and painting fruit bowls. I had an epiphany. Art has the power to transform, and so I would transform, myself first, and then the universe! Never say I can’t think big. I did some internet searching that night after crawling back inside. No one noticed I was out there. It wasn’t a suicide attempt. I just wanted some air. And, you know, to feel something. I searched for radical art. And I came on Rhythm 0.

Marina Abramović was a Serbian performance artist. Make that is, not was. She’s still alive, despite some ‘risky’ works. Yes, those are air quotes. Who’s telling the story? Do you want the background or not? I’ll be real succinct here. In 1974 she stood in a room in Naples, Italy by a table with seventy-two objects on it. Like roses, honey, knives, a loaded gun. Or unloaded but with a bullet next to it. Dice, maybe? Anyway, for six hours she stood there and let the audience do as it wished. No limits. Total explicit consent. It must have been insane! Can you imagine being her? I can, actually, but she did it first. Imagine standing there while strangers cut off your clothes? While they cut your neck to lick your blood. While they loaded the gun and put it in your hand, pressed to your head. And at the six hour mark, after spending that time willing to die for her art, she simply ended it and the audience scattered. 1974. They didn’t want to face her, or so she believes. She said after that that it made clear to her that the audience could kill her. Barriers break down.

Now, I didn’t buy it fully. She can consent all she wants. A murder would have been prosecuted. But I knew I had to do this! Marina broke through all the crap and shit and reached the essential reality of art – that in simplicity, she can touch genuine universal truth in its rawest and harshest expression!

I repeated the experiment. Not for my classes. The school would never have allowed it. But you can rent a conference room for a day for not that much money. And my dorm printer could run off a thousand fliers that I stapled all over the place. I ran mine a little differently, though. You can call it whatever you want. Pride. Hubris. Carelessness. Suicidal ideation. I reject that notion, but I don’t ‘control’ your thoughts. Should I stop using air quotes or are you genuinely interested? I stipulated that in the circumstances, it would turn dark in there. In 1974, the audience would not have lived in our world. Our creatively violent, sexist world had so much more to offer, so I included perfume, a candy bar, and a rose. Dice. A coin. A whip – three, actually, of varying severity. A sharp knife. Three dildos. Handcuffs. The key to the cuffs. A blindfold. Bolt cutters. Fingernail clippers. Scissors. A bowl of needles and pins. And I took eight hours. With all respect to Marina, I wanted to go further. So for eight hours, I would stand and resist nothing. The doors were closed, though it was open to the public. No one walking by would see anything. And for those eight hours, I consented, in writing, signed and posted, and confirmed in a video of myself I left playing in the corner of the room. I consented to everything.

So, are you interested now? Or is this still background to the real story? I’m an artist, then and now. I stood there and I was surprised, actually, that the universe wanted some foreplay off my body first. One man perfumed me. Then another. It got kind of strong. And they even fed me the candy bar during that time. I let them open my jaw, and push it closed to take a bite. I ended up drooling chocolate because they had no way to make me chew well or swallow at all, but my instinct to swallow let some of it go down my throat. More chocolate dribbled out onto my shirt. At first. Later on my bare chest. Because of course they cut my clothes off. They saw an attractive college girl under twenty doing performance art. Of course they assumed I wanted to be naked. I was naked within the first hour. Oh, I didn’t bring a change of clothing, either. And my clothes were shredded!

If you really want the details, look it up. I had it recorded. It’s called ‘Trust over Nothing,’ but it’s written like a fraction. Like trust divided by zero, because if you divide by zero you get the infinite. So look it up. Watch them strip me. Watch them clip my fingernails. And if you aren’t squeamish, watch them clip too hard and too deep! That one surprised me. Most people would recoil from that sort of thing, but one man pressed the clippers to my thumb below the nail and ripped through my flesh. I didn’t scream! I’m very proud of that. Some of the other people in the crowd turned on him, and they kind of ran him out of there. Too bad. I was willing to suffer more. But, well. They used the whip. They used the handcuffs. One woman cut off half my hair. The right half.

The strange thing was, I think some of them were turned off by the rest of the crowd. It was like, they took my consent as encouragement and didn’t feel like watching a fetish orgy. But they were wrong. I encouraged nothing. I consented to everything. And in aggregate, they gave me everything. Every item on the table was used on me. They tortured me. Women too. I think I could have been fucked, but none of them were porn performers and they would have had to do it for a crowd. I was the only naked one there. And at the eight hour mark, when the alarm went off, I resumed my humanity. I was handcuffed with three dildos in me. I spit out the one in my mouth. When Marina did this in 1974, the crowd scattered. Not mine. Well, most of them did. But four of them stayed back. Two women were worried about me. And two men. One of the men had whipped my breasts bloody. Know what I said? I asked them, “Did anyone see where the handcuff key ended up?”

It was on the table. I could have freed myself, but one of the women unlocked my wrists. The cuffs were too tight, but my circulation returned. Then I started cleaning up. Everything I had came in a couple of those big black and yellow bins you can buy at Costco. And once they decided I was fine, I became fine, and the two women left. So did one man. I swear, I think he thought the last man was my secret boyfriend or something, but I’d never met him. He offered to help me carry the bins out to my car, but I didn’t drive there. I just had one of those rolling trolley things, a dolly. And some bungee cords. It was a two mile walk to my dorm. I was ready to do it and see how it turned out, but I was naked and the guy offered to get a blanket from his car. So I did that because, why not? We went out a few times, but we’re broken up now. He wanted an easy lay, but not too easy. He’s not what this is about.

Want to know what it is about? I had a lot of time to think, standing there taking all that ‘abuse’. To really let my thoughts consolidate. Trust over nothing. It serves two meanings, and they both got to where I was going.

The universe is alive, you know. It is. The universe is one concept. One being. Not one life form, but one literally being, as in to be. And to be is, if complex enough, to think. It doesn’t modus tolens over Descartes or anything, because you need the complexity to think and to know. But the universe has that complexity and it is us and we are it! That’s what became so clear to me as I stood there. You see, Marina got it wrong. Understandable, but wrong. At first I thought the audience could kill me. But that’s not the meaning of Trust over Nothing or Rhythm 0 at all. It’s that the audience did not and would not kill me because I am them and they are me. Just like I am you and you are me. They didn’t hurt me. I hurt myself. But I also pleasured myself. In both ways. Yes, they stroked me to orgasm a few times. Pleasure to me. But they liked doing it, so pleasure to them. And the rest of the crowd liked watching, so pleasure more to them still! Do you see how it multiplies? One bleeding woman having an orgasm produces so much joy to the world. To the whole of creation.

And that’s the key. I gave explicit, excited consent to everything that happened to me that day. But really, I do that every day. We all do that all the time, because each of us is part of the cosmos trying to know itself. Not consenting is kind of like flinching when you have to use tweezers to pull out a splinter from your thumb. You feel the pain, but you also know the benefit, so you tolerate the pain that fools you into thinking you don’t agree with it. But you do! We all do! I’d been having that thought since I took my humanities elective in comparative religions that first semester. The Asian philosophies all touch on this concept, though the Western religions try to hide it. I guess it’s a form of lying to yourself. But it’s so fucking obvious!

That was when I realized I had to go all out. No more limits. I am the cosmos, at least a part of it. I’m trying to understand me, and through me for all of us to understand. Infinite trust. And since I’ve already consented to everything, I consented consciously in this mind to take it all in. To go the full distance and just soak it all in. The ultimate pleasure through the ultimate suffering, so to speak. I should have air-quoted that part.

The first time I did this, I went out after dark on a long walk, down to MacArthur Park. I needed the isolation to give myself permission to experience the life we all share. You know how some people like to sing, but are too shy to do it even in a room alone? But they’ll sing in the shower. You need the right combination of privacy and sensory overload to just let it all out. So it’s the same here. MacArthur Park at night is very dark, but not so dark you can’t see around. You can see the face of your fellow man at night in the park. I knew I could be attacked there, and I trusted myself not to hurt myself too badly. If you can even define such a thing, but I’d like to stick around in this body for a while. I’m onto something grand, you know. So I walked to and in the park, along the paths, humming as I walked. I’m not really a singer, but I felt as giddy as a schoolgirl. Which I was, though I think the term usually refers to younger girls. But I was nineteen by then and that’s the best metaphor. I walked along, in the chill air. This was March, so not really warm yet.

And then you can guess what happened. I mean, I wouldn’t be sharing the story otherwise, but it could have been the second or tenth or whatever time that I got to experience the universe of myself against myself. Nope. Hit it in one! These five guys stepped out in my path. Okay, I know what you’re thinking. I get it. You think I’m a loon and it’s lucky I wasn’t raped and murdered. Because I’m nuts. Maybe. Hey, I’m not arguing semantics. I agreed to surprise myself, and these men were going to be the vessel of my enlightenment. “Hi, guys,” I said. “Nice night?” Okay, I do admit, my body was sending out mixed signals. I know the tightness of fear in my chest. I know the racing heart. Looking into your darkness can be terrifying. Enlightenment doesn’t mean dissociative fugue, you know.

“Nice night,” one of them said, grinning. They wore hoodies. I couldn’t tell if they were black or white or what. Spoiler, they’re integrated, so way more enlightened than the average urban thug. But they slowly surrounded me. I was giddy and weak-kneed all at the same time. I really didn’t want to hypocritize myself by going all to pieces. This was going to be intense. I do think my casual anticipation may have thrown them a bit, at first. Maybe they expected crying or attempting to run away. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it, but no. This was my reality. This was my route to touch God and touch myself in doing so!

“Guys,” I said to them, trying to smile. “It’s cool. I don’t bite.”

Get it? Bite, like if they wanted to fuck my mouth? Ha ha. Okay, but they still wanted to start slow. Cool. One of them shoved me a bit after they surrounded me. “It’s cool? What you think we’re doing here, girly? What you, racist or something?”

“Tripping balls, bitch?” another one taunted. He had to shove me too. I guess it’s like if you exercise only one arm. That will be the strong arm. I’d exercised my consciousness. They hadn’t. So I had to agree to their terms for my satisfaction.

“I’m not high, except on life,” I said. “If you want to leave me alone, it’s cool. Dog.” I’m afraid my urban slang doesn’t have the delivery punch I hoped for. But one of them had a great punch. He knocked me down and broke my jaw all at once. Wow! Oh my fucking god did that hurt! Now I was pulling the tiger’s tail for sure as they jumped me. In seconds I was in more pain than my audience of Trust over Nothing had dared for.

And it was so odd. Okay, they pinned me down. Sat on my limbs. They were a coordinated bunch for sure, taking turns. Ripping my clothes off was easy for five of them. One was enough to overpower this little coed girl. They were so violent! They punched me, on my chest and gut. They broke a few ribs. Make me puke. It was such a whirlwind of violence on my body. One of them fucked me right away. Like, he got on me while his homies pinned me down and just shoved it in me. No prep. No lube. Maybe he did something, because if it’s dry for me it’s dry for him too. Well, I can’t speak for him. We are one and the same like the left and right hand are of the same body. But I can’t literally, as me, feel his joy as he pounded on me. It hurt like a mother fucker. My pussy was screaming in agony, but really I was feeling my busted jaw. It’s fine now, don’t bother looking. This was a while a ago, last year. I don’t know why they had to keep hitting me, but it’s a long strange trip to enlightenment. I cried. I did. But mostly I feared losing my focus. Losing my chi. They took turns. None of them stuck it in my mouth, which would have really hurt a lot. Not that I wouldn’t eagerly consent to it, but I’m kind of glad I didn’t have to. They didn’t fuck my ass either, which was kind of odd. I thought they would. The ass on my current body is a good one. Very shapely. And virginal too. At that time.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you, bitch! What the fuck you on!”

He wasn’t satisfied. I was crying. I had enough tears. The pain and the raw emotional intensity of it ensured I would show signs of my life as they beat me. As if I’d just go limp or something. I think I was quite vocal! They all fucked me. They beat the crap out of me and left me lying in some bushes, shivering and bleeding. Did I mention it was cold? It was cold. I finally rolled out into the grass and crawled to the roadway. It was pretty late, but not ungodly late. Some motorist spotted me and pulled over. They called 911. Ambulance called. Yadda yadda. The nice doctors set my jaw and patched me up. I made a police report but I can’t say my heart was in it. I went out to be assaulted and I was. I could hardly blame the men, but I couldn’t blame the nice cop in his spiffy uniform either. They had a woman there. Procedure, I suppose. But I can’t say I want to experience the cosmos and then get mad when the cosmos responds. I believe the phrase cutting off my nose to spite my face would apply here, yes? Yes. That’s not rhetorical. I’m not going to bait those guys and then file an accurate police report. Just, no!

Now, before you treat me as a looney tunes bitch, this all happened already. Last year. I said I consented and I consented. The end. I hold no ill will to anyone over it. You see, I have to trust the cosmos as I trust myself. Not like I trust myself. As I trust myself. Trust over nothing. I, a little five-foot-four girl next door with no real muscle tone, big milky tits, and a hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet, went head-to-head with five gang bangers and got out of it just fine. Bones mend, cuts heal, and egos can’t deflate if we don’t blow them in the first place.

But mine was a little inflated. I had to try that again. I picked a different park, just to get a fresh experience. Maybe those guys hang out at MacArthur. So I took the bus to Langley Park in May, after the semester ended. I did great, by the way. A 3.76 GPA after my freshman year. I’ve never been happier. Lots of art. Lots of expression. Lots of sex, and not just with the boys at the park. Lots of life! I am life! You are life! But I had a journey to experience, so I made my way to Langley.

“You sure you want to get out here?” The bus driver was so worried he asked me that at my stop.

“Yep, I’m sure. I’m meeting someone,” I said. He drove away. I was meeting someone. I just didn’t know who. But the cosmos made a liar out of me. I walked around for hours. Nothing. But I went back to Langley a few nights later. The driver that night didn’t care to show concern, which was fine. I got out and walked around. It was warm. It was May by then. And after a bit, I came across four young men in matching gang attire. So, they were formally in a gang. I think those first five were just street toughs. I didn’t know if these were bloods or crips. But it’s not LA, so probably neither.

“Woo hoo, look what we’s got here!” They quickly surrounded me.

“Hi,” I said. I stopped walking, not that they’d have let me. “Nice night. Are you going to attack me?”

“Ooh, cool calm girlie we’ve got here.”

“I’m feeling real fear, but if you’re going to attack me, don’t worry about it. I won’t fight back.”

“Dumb cunt!” one of them snarled, coming at me, but his buddy held him back.

“Hold on. This ain’t right.” He looked around. “This ain’t right at all.” Maybe the words suggested he was having a moral epiphany, but he didn’t say it like that. “You a cop? You got your piggie pals watching us?”

One of them suddenly started spinning his head around. Like he suddenly remembered the rest of the world existed. Cops. They thought it was a trap. I thought about trying to reassure them, but that’s not really what I wanted. I wanted to show infinite love and trust in the cosmos, not beg for dirty sex.

“It’s up to you, guys,” I said. “I won’t stop you either way.” Then I just walked away. I slipped between two of them and continued on. I guess being a gangster promotes some paranoia. And that’s fair. I was working on a much higher plane of consciousness than they were. At least for a few minutes. After that they caught back up. I barely heard them before they were on me as a pack.

“Fucking cunt!” one shouted as he punched and kicked me while I was down, lying in the grass trying to fend off his blows. Instinct. It’ll get you every time. When I realized what I was doing, I stopped. I stopped blocking. I rolled onto my back with my hands at my sides. If they wanted to kick my face in, so be it. But they didn’t kick my face in because, well, here I am, face and all. They did break my nose, later. After they stripped me. Just, ripped my clothes off. And it was such a nice night for it, too. Not chilly like last time. Just between you and me, I think the cosmos might be a bit OCD. They always rip my clothes off the same way. Like, outer layers, then bra, and then panties. But socks are random. They come early, middle, or last. It’s odd. Maybe a social science type can figure that one out.

These guys flipped me over. Yay! I was finally going to get ass-fucked. I know we’re all part of the same cosmos, but this part of the cosmos really wanted cock in my ass, forceful, and hopefully large. I don’t know why. Men have a prostate that’s supposed to feel pretty darned good, but women don’t. Whatever. They didn’t let me down. When they finally stopped hitting me, the first one took my pussy, slamming it in and in and in. Wham bam thank you ma’am. Not really thank you. None of them thanked me. But then the next guy just pulled my hips up and spit on my ass and, wow! I felt it going in, like, wow, a backwards shit, but harder and hotter. Like, warmer. An enraged cock is a heated cock. I didn’t make that line up myself. One of my friends said her boyfriend said it to her.

Yes, you’re not the first person I’ve shared my story with. Why did you think you were?

Anyway, yeah, so first my cunt. Then my ass. Wow! I keep saying wow, but wow! I guess I’m a pervy little corner of the cosmos. Then another pussy, and then my ass again! And, okay, do you know what a donkey punch is? Not that it surprised me they were hitting me. But a donkey punch is when you punch a girl in the back of the neck, and it makes her anus clench really hard. Or her cunt. I was clenching already, so I’m not even sure if it worked the way he wanted. I tried to be mindful and self-aware the whole time. I tried to focus on the sensations in my body. Maybe with some warning, I’d know how to focus properly. I don’t know if I clenched or not. So I don’t know if I gave him the pleasure on his side or not. But he kept doing it, punching me. So it was either working really well or not at all! Am I wrong?

Yeah, so they just left me there. Naked. I was more mobile than the first time, so I could stand. I came out better! See what infinite trust gets you? I trust. Okay, I trust. I trust the world. The universe. The whole cosmos. I trust myself, and you, and those people around us. I trust the men that attacked me, and any that didn’t, and the guys that found me and called it in. And I trust the next men that do the same. Or even the next women, if I can think of a way to pull that one off! I trust. Because I am trust.

Does this satisfy you?



Danielle stared into my eyes. I never knew what to expect on these psych consults, but even for the County ER at three AM, she was a new one on me. Her voice was so intense, so believing, so earnest. It was hard not to get caught up in her rapture as she spilled out her story. I didn’t even have to prod her. I just told her who I was and out it came. She still had the bruises, the welts, everything. They needed more time to heal. Probably I could get her to tell me the rest of her times trolling if I just asked. But not all at once.

“I’m putting you one a seventy-two hour psychiatric hold,” I said.

She winked. “That’s fine. I’m sure in three days I won’t be hysterical, and you’ll have to release me. The cosmos is trust, but it’s not always honest. You can’t see the wave state inside an atom. You can’t read the mind of another living soul. You can never know how many licks it takes to reach the center of a Tootsie Pop. I’m sure I’m just a ranting, hysterical girl. Oh, poor me!” she cried, putting the back of her hand to her forehead in a mock melodrama of a woman near to fainting. She grinned. “Think it over, doc. Ask yourself what you really believe. It’s a big old universe out there. If the atoms in your head give you you, just imagine what the whole big set can give us?”

“I will schedule a session for tomorrow,” I said. “You try to rest. Are you in any pain?”

“I wish, but the meds are great, doc. You’re all super-duper competent at your jobs.”

“Goodnight, Danielle.” I walked out, wishing I didn’t have to. She spoke with such passion. Such fire. And more than a little knowledge a country-girl turned art student shouldn’t have. But there’s no accounting for education. I thought maybe I could use a little more. Maybe some spiritual guidance. From a girl that couldn’t say no.

I had a feeling she’d pass her seventy-two-hour mental health reassessment. In fact, I was sure of it.

[RapeU]

This is an unusual one. Sort of reminds me of a story where a virgin girl gets kidnapped by an old dude who wanted the girl in place of his dead wife. The girl falls in love with the old dude but the police rescue her while the old dude dies in the firefight. She then tries to have consensual sex but doesn't feel the thrill like she did with the old dude, so she goes to the seedy parts of town and throws herself into situations to get gangbanged.

It's consensual but in a very uncomfortable way. Which I'm sure is what you were going for.

[SoftGameHunter]

It's consensual but in a very uncomfortable way. Which I'm sure is what you were going for.

It's exactly what I'm going for. Rhythm 0, by the way, actually was a real performance piece by the very real Marina Abramović. I'm not sure I agree with my protagonist's take on the overall message, but it does make one think.

It also reminded me of some philosopher I learned about in Intro years back positing the question of how to think about the ethics of when one person does a given forceful action against another person without consent or permission, but which the other person would agree anyway. Is it moral or immoral? I can't recall who we were talking about. For the purposes of the board contest, I went with consent by the recipient, and not the mind-set of the perpetrator on the perceived consent of their presumed victim.

[Shocker]

It’s a very unique story. Suffering for the art, though I think she needs to get her head examined. Naturally the concept allowed you to utilize your strengths in storytelling.

[SoftGameHunter]

It’s a very unique story. Suffering for the art, though I think she needs to get her head examined. Naturally the concept allowed you to utilize your strengths in storytelling.

True. With more space or time, I could have done a part two where her head really is examined to find out if she's nuts, having a PTSD attack, or just plain lying. But as I wrote it, in my head she was truthful if a little whack.

[AdmiralPiet]

I struggled with this one.
It is unique and in theory interesting.

Since it is written from first person view and she is indeed crazy (or a true modern artist) it got a bit tedious to read.
Can't really get behind it.
I also found the breaking of the fourth wall more detrimental than helpful.

I awarded a rating of +1 however, as it is not at all badly written.

[SoftGameHunter]

Crazy? Modern artist? Sorry, I thought these were synonyms. But thanks for your honest thoughts. I try to mix up my style when I can, and feedback is always welcome about what works and what doesn't. Ideally, it's all golden for all readers, but that's just not reality. I'm glad you got some enjoyment, though.

[Lucius]

I'd say the Danielle's works of art are rather vanilla by the standards of contemporary actionism. She is believable, and I like her voice.

[SoftGameHunter]

I'd say the Danielle's works of art are rather vanilla by the standards of contemporary actionism. She is believable, and I like her voice.

Then I really need to learn modern performance art!

[Lucius]

I'd say the Danielle's works of art are rather vanilla by the standards of contemporary actionism. She is believable, and I like her voice.

Then I really need to learn modern performance art!

Petr Pavlensky is just wild.