“The Exhibition”
A Michael Jackson Erotic Short Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
Clinton, New York
Autumn, 1992
You don’t need to know my name.
It’s not important.
What I want you to know about is quite possibly one of the strangest evenings I ever spent in my young life.
All my life, I had been interested in various forms of performance art from interpretive dance to someone protesting the killing of animals for fur by splattering red paint all over their nude body and rolling on the ground screaming.
It all interested me a great deal and I was always on the move, looking to see as much of this art form as I could.
In 1992, I was twenty years old and in my second semester at Rhymer’s, a private performance art college, studying dance.
A few weeks into my semester, I had noticed that there was a pretty significant buzz going around about some guy named Michael Jackson.
That he was performing for a limited time at a playhouse a couple of towns over.
Though I had never even heard of Michael Jackson or had the faintest idea in mind of what this man did once put onstage, I simply could not ignore how his name seemed to be coming out of everyone’s mouths.
And so I found myself driving nearly a hundred miles away to small, suburban town of Clinton, to visit the box office at the Laurence Olivier Playhouse to purchase a ticket.
Can you believe that the line waiting for a ticket to the three day engagement wrapped halfway around the block?
Plain posters outside of the play house only showed Michael’s name, and that he was going to be in town for the nights of September 24th, 25th, and 26th. There was no photograph of the man or anything, so I was going into this blindly not even knowing what Michael Jackson looked like.
I stood online for three hours before I got to the ticket window. I was informed that only four tickets to the first night were left available, and that it would be thirty-five dollars.
I found that to be a bit steep for such a performance, but paid it anyway after waiting so long. I had never paid so much for a ticket to anything before--not even when I had gone to see Aerosmith in ‘89. In the end, I was glad I had. And probably would have paid ten times more…
Eventually, the night of the 24th rolled around, and I made the drive back into Clinton, still uncertain of what kind of performance I was even going to see. Everything was a mystery.
It was a cold, blustery evening as I disbanded from my car in the parking lot, and joined the crowd of people streaming in through the open doors of the LOP, trying to hunt a seat.
Inside of the theatre, which was opulently decorated in rich shades of burgundy and gold, the hallmark within being the large, ornately carved mahogany stage, that was adorned with rich velvet curtains, standing closed and soaring for nearly two stories.
As I walked down the center aisle, in search of a seat, something became immediately noticeable to me.
The show, which had sold out a few minutes after I purchased my ticket, had garnered an exclusively female audience.
Everywhere I looked, all around me, about two hundred women packed the seats on the floor and up in the four balconies on the second level. As I thought about it, claiming an empty seat in about the fifth row, I hadn’t seen a single man in line for a ticket to Michael Jackson’s show.
The entire line had been women.
That only piqued my curiosity about why Michael Jackson had an all female audience.
As I sat, over the general clamoring of various females speaking and laughing, I suddenly heard a shriek.
“Michael! Oh my God! Michael! Aaaah!”
Turning in my seat, it took a minute for me to find the source of the screams. Up, in one of the balconies, I woman was clinging to the railings, screaming her lungs out at the curtains that still remained closed. As I continued to look at her, I watched as the woman put her hands into her hair and fainted right there, several others having to grab onto her limp body, to keep it from plunging to a sure death in the rows below.
I was absolutely dumbfounded by this display. Just what in the hell kind of display was this Michael Jackson character going to put on if one of the spectators passed out before he had even appeared?
I didn’t have to wait all too long to find out.
A few minutes later, the lights overhead began to dim and all around me, packed shoulder to shoulder, the place began to fill with thunderous applause, whistles and the errant scream here and there. It was so loud that my butt was vibrating in the little plush seat!
“Michael! I love you Michael!”
“Aaaaahhhh!”
“Mike! Mike! Mike!”
“You’re so sexy, Michael!”
Before us, the velvet curtains began to part and a spotlight illumed a lone figure standing on the stage.
Michael Jackson.
Michael was a tall, very slim man whom I figured to be in late twenties or very early thirties. He had a fine, fair complexion, with sharp, sculpted features--high cheek bones, caved cheeks, a tiny, upturned nose. His eyes, dark, wide and slightly almond shaped was sweeping the room as the applause and noise continued.
Immaculately arched brows went up towards his hairline as he continued calmly staring around the room.
His slender, almost skinny body was adorned simply in a black turtleneck top and black trousers that stopped at the ankle revealing white socks and polished loafers, that made his light skin seem all the paler.
A stark contrast, his shining, long black hair that had been slicked back into a low ponytail, making his sharp features pop out all the more.
He was a handsome man. Very handsome.
Beside Michael, a cart stood and on the top of it, were three, silver, domed platters.
I only hoped he didn’t go about smashing watermelons like Gallagher.
(If you don’t know who he is Google/Wiki him!)
I was wearing my favorite cashmere sweater and I didn’t want it ruined!
Michael lingered a moment, motionless, while the sounds of soft, classical music began playing over the loudspeakers.
Almost immediately, there was a strange tension that gripped the theatre. All around me women were cooing, some swooning, everyone leaning in to get a better view of this man.
Even I was, unconsciously.
Lifting a long, white hand, Michael removed lid from one of the domed platters on the cart.
From where I was sitting, I could see it was a platter of pineapple chunks.
“Woo! Yes!” The woman beside me screamed and blew a kiss, as Michael picked up a chunk of the fruit and stared it a moment, like he’d never seen it before.
Bringing the pineapple up to his light pink lips, Michael began to nibble on it, sucking at the fruit, before completely eating it.
“Yes! You do that Michael! Yay!!!!” Someone in the balcony yelled and scattered applause rang out.
“We love you, Baby!”
I was confused. Was all this man going to do was stand and eat? I paid thirty-five smackeroos to see a man eating? I could have gone to Burger King and seen that for FREE!
Sure it hinted at being seductive, but damn! It seemed ridiculous.
And the way the other women were behaving…it was deplorable!
Finishing the pineapple, Michael paused to lick after his fingers, his tongue darting around his digits, as with his free hand, he was lifting the dome off a second platter, loaded with enormous, plump and ripe strawberries.
Selecting a berry, it was brought up to his lips--some b*tch behind me screamed so loud, my ears rang--and began kissing on the fruit.
“AAAAHHHH!”
“I wish it was me!”
“Sweet ass mouth!”
“Mike!”
Michael popped the whole thing into his mouth, smooth cheeks puffing, before, slowly pulling it out by the stem attached to the top of it. Past those tender pink lips.
Suddenly, the strawberry was airborne, and landed somewhere in the rows to the left side of the room.
A scuffle instantly broke out over it between two women.
“It’s mine! Mine! Let go you sl*t!”
“No way! He threw it to me, skank!”
“B*tch!”
For the first time that night, the dozen or so security guards that had been standing at the rear of the auditorium, moved in and broke the women apart, effectively ejecting them from the show. It wouldn’t be the last time.
Undaunted, Michael removed the lid from the last platter.
I could make out a bunch of red cherries around a bowl of some kind of white substance.
At the sight of the contents, people were becoming more vocal.
“Michael, I love you!”
“Oh my God!”
“I love you!”
“F*ck me, please!”
Seeming to ignore the cries, Michael chose a cherry, and dipped it in the substance--it was whipped cream--and devoured the whole thing, sucking the cream from his finger tips.
This was getting crazier and crazier. Stranger.
“I want to have your baby!” A girl, just out of her teens yelled and tried to rush the stage, being tackled by three members of security and carried out screaming in hysterics.
Another begged Michael to “pop, my cherry, please!” before sinking to the floor in a heap.
The situation was getting more and more out of hand.
The hold Michael had over the entire crowd was about to catch hold of me. And I couldn’t stop it.
Michael Jackson proceeded to eat five more cherries, spitting the pits--fights broke out over the damn PITS--caused more than a dozen people to be thrown from the playhouse.
It was pure bedlam over nothing really.
And then Michael Jackson did something I completely did not expect.
Taking a step back from the cart, Michael placed his hands behind his back and announced, in a light, thin voice,
“I believe I’ve had enough to eat tonight. I’m quite full, now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to work off the calories I’ve consumed.”
“Jesus Christ! Marry me! Marry me, Michael!” The woman seated to my right shrieked leaping to her feet, before falling back into her seat, sobbing wildly.
The lady on her other side was fanning after her to try to calm her.
As I stared at the crying woman, distracted, I noticed all around me, women began jumping to their feet, screeching, some clapping, others wiping tears from their eyes. Few were even hugging each other, expressions of shock contorting their faces.
Turning my attention back to the stage, I put my hands to my face in shock and it took a moment to register that I was screaming.
Michael Jackson still stood onstage, staring out at his audience.
But he was no longer wearing his all black outfit.
Lord, no.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I could not fathom what I was gazing at.
Michael Jackson, still onstage and fairly glowing under the spotlight, was now totally in the buff.
Nude. Naked. Bare.
Call it what you want, he was out for everyone to see!
In spite of myself, I felt a warm feeling washing over me, as I stared at this creature, discovering just how beautiful he truly was.
Michael’s body, a lovely shade of pink-tinged beige was smooth all over, toned just slightly in his arms and slender thighs. The indentions of a beginning six-pack accented his flat tummy.
But I highly and of us women even noticed or appreciated it.
What I was staring at, as I was sure everyone else was--about three dozen more people were collapsing--was Michael’s endowment.
Sprouting from a scarce thatch of inky pubic hair, was a massive hunk of flesh that pointed skyward.
One of the largest pricks I had ever seen in my life was, fully erect, and there on display, as Michael made no attempts to hide himself.
“F*cking hell, that’s a man right there!”
“Is that real? It’s so big!”
“Hell yeah, it’s real!”
“Will you f*ck me please?”
“Can I touch it Michael?”
“AAAAAHHHH!”
With a wink--another woman nearly fell to her death from the balcony--Michael turned and exited, stage right, his smooth, little chicken cutlet booty wiggling.
“Hot ass! Sweet ass!” The lady to my left cried and was throwing a high-five at me.
“Pop that ass, Michael! Woo!”
The woman threw her arms around me and hugged me close confiding,
“You’re gonna love what he’s about to do now. Oh sh*t. They ain’t ready! They ain’t ready, girl!”
Seconds later, Michael emerged, still nude, carrying a small, brown valise, taking a seat center stage, set the case before him and was unlatching it.
“I need you! Michael! Oh! Ah! Ah!” Another woman, over the shoulder of a bodyguard was carrying on as she was carried out.
Pulling free of the woman, I was now on my feet, staring, watching anxiously, wanting to know what Michael’s next move was going to be. I had become one of this hot and bothered pack and didn’t mind a bit.
I was watching Michael Jackson.
When Michael began to dig in the case, the classical music that had been playing softly the entire time, stopped abruptly.
Michael came up with a jar of some yellowish looking putty, it wasn’t until he had the lid off and was digging in it, I saw that it said “Vaseline” on the front label.
I bit down on my fist. Was…was this man going to do what I thought he was?
Was he going to masturbate, use that to lube up that flesh hose he called a pen*s?
Rubbing the petroleum jelly on his hands to distribute it, for the first time, Michael Jackson smiled. A gentle, curl came to his shiny little lips as he scooted the jar out the way and spread his legs.
People were now jumping in their arousal, some fanning themselves, others still screaming and pulling at their hair.
And though I couldn’t see it, I could hear some women moaning lustily, probably doing what I had figured Michael was about do.
Michael Jackson was quite flexible as he rolled back slightly, his legs splayed in the air.
As I looked on, I was quite startled when Michael didn’t begin to stroke himself.
Instead, with one hand, he was separating his small buttocks, exposing an even smaller, round, rosy-tan circle.
Another scream came from me as Michael, with his index and middle fingers began to slide them into that little circle.
He was playing in his ass. Right in front of us.
Onstage, he must have had some kind of microphone hidden somewhere--up his butt maybe?--but I could clearly hear every sound he made, even over all the women.
“Ugh…ugh…oh yeah…oh damn…” He grumbled, barely audible as he kept jamming his fingers in and out of himself, the flesh expanding and contracting around him.
The playhouse was becoming the scene of a huge orgy.
People were undressed, openly playing with themselves and not caring who saw.
One woman, trying to catch Michael’s attention had laid right on the floor between the front row and the stage, legs behind her head, manipulating herself. Security didn’t even try touch her.
Michael played in his backside for a good ten minutes before finally extracting his fingers, and sitting on his knees, reaching into the jar with one hand and the still open case with the other.
Out the case, he came up with a crystal, champagne flute, setting it on the stage.
“Oh Michael!” I shrieked as finally, he began to do what it seemed everyone had come for: jerking off.
Michael hunched over, one hand rapidly pulling at his groin, the other slapping at his scrotum, so hard, it was turning red.
“Pull it! Pull it! Pull it!”
The whole room seemed to be shouting. Egging him on.
“Get off, get off, Baby! Do that!”
“Come! Come, please!”
“I wanna suck it!”
Over the din, I could hear Michael, whimpering as he was masturbating.
“Oh….oh sh*t. God damn! God damn! Judas Priest! Aw!” He sighed throwing his head back and I dropped into my seat, knees suddenly weakened.
Getting deeper and deeper into it, Michael, scarlet all over, fell onto his back, legs curling up to his chest, and reaching around his thighs was yanking at himself even harder with one hand, and the other, spanking his backside.
“Spank it! Spank it! Lord! Spank…it!” Another balcony dweller called before tossing her pink underwear towards the stage. It landed a few feet from Michael, who was forcing his fingers back into himself.
“Oh! Oh! OH! OH! SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!” He hollered and ripped his fingers from himself before opening his legs again, and arching his back, thrusting in and out of his hands.
“F*ck it! F*ck it!” In the row in front of me, a woman fainted and slumped all over her seat.
Michael wasn’t stopping. Not for anything as he flew forward, sitting on his knees once again, the sound of him hocking plainly, before he spat on his c*ck, keeping it lubricated enough where he wouldn’t hurt himself.
I was losing it. Slowly losing my mind as I watched the spectacle unfold.
Michael had controlled himself pretty well but it was becoming apparent he was coming close to his end.
As one united voice, all of the hundred and fifty or so women began chanting,
“COME! COME! COME! COME! COME!”
Starting to rattle, and convulse, Michael was giving in. Giving in.
And he wasn’t going to go quietly,
“Aaow! Aaow! Aoow! Hee-hee! Sh*t! My d*ck! My d*ck! Oh shit!”
My jaw hung and eyes widened as he gripped the fluted glass, holding it to the nearly blackened, and swollen tip of his glistening c*ck as he continued whipping at it.
Head falling back, pink mouth stretching wide, Michael wailed shrilly,
“Aw! I’m gonna squirt! Aw! I’m about to blow! I’m gonna blow--AH! AH! AH! Yeah! Yeah!”
All over, women were experiencing an orgasm along with Michael. Crying out, screaming…people were getting wet.
A white liquid started to appear in the glass. He was ejaculating.
Michael was ejaculating into the glass.
Before my eyes, Michael kept spurting for a full ten minutes, causing him to scream like he was being beaten and fill the glass to the top with semen.
I had never seen anyone climax like that…over and over.
Obviously exhausted, Michael sat there, his member let go off and going soft, falling downward. Chest heaving, his breathing being heard plainly.
He sat for a moment, eyes closed, a look of relief to his face, as he sucked his lips in, before popping them out, puckering them.
Staggering to his feet, I was biting all my fingernails off as Michael. stumbled to the front edge of the stage, staring down at the glass.
At the mess he’d made in it.
I was spellbound. For a scant second, I thought he was going to drink it.
Drink his own juice.
I saw that same smile touching his face again.
Looking out over the wriggling moaning mass, he pointed.
Almost instantly, a woman, fully nude ran forward and dropped to her knees on the floor, face turned upwards at him.
Jealousy was rampant around me.
“Lucky b*tch!”
“He would pick her!”
“Why not me?”
“Skinny wh*re!”
I heard the snarls in between sighs, shrieks and cries.
Michael stared at the woman, that odd grin on his face, before turning the glass and dashing his seed all over the woman’s face.
“AAAAHHHHH! Oh--Michael nutted on me! He nutted on ME!”
She announced proudly and was wiping the goo from her face, trying to lick it from her fingers as Michael took several steps backwards. Several others came forward trying to dip their hands onto her face for a taste of the man.
Holding the glass out from him, he dropped it to the stage, allowing it to shatter.
My heart came up into my throat, as, for no apparent reason, Michael turned his head and stared directly at me.
“I love you!” I sobbed, amazed I was crying and was reaching for him as suddenly, the velvet curtains fell closed and the dimmed lights picked up. “Michael! Michael--I love you!”
Around me, woman were weeping, most nude, some still fingering themselves. All proclaiming love for Michael Jackson.
As I stood, to try to leave, I discovered a dampness between my thighs.
Somehow, someway, I had managed to climax and hadn’t noticed it until then.
Michael Jackson had gotten me wet, and hadn’t even touched me.
He was Superman. Michael Jackson was a goddamned Superman!
Sexual superhero if there ever was one.
Staggering out of the theatre, I noticed that several men in work jumpsuits were fiddling with the posters that had been advertising Michael’s show. Putting up fresh posters.
I damn near hit the pavement when I saw that his engagement had been extended to last an entire month.
I didn’t have to even think.
I ran to join the line starting to form at the box office. Hell most of the women were still so breathless, all they could do was point, rather than ask for a ticket back.
Going to get that ticket, I knew I’d be back. Back for as many shows as I could possibly see.
I had to see him again.
I had to see Michael Jackson’s Exhibition over and over and over again.
classic
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