It’s Not Dirty If It’s Art
I was that perverted little kid in the art museums. The one who ran around and groped all the marble statues of naked people.
It seems I was especially fond of the ladies. The boobies, to be exact. I remember one European museum in particular that had an entire gallery devoted to statues of naked people. It was nothing short of pure delight for a perverted little four year-old girl.
I ran from statue to statue, touching every protruding object my little hands could reach. Especially the boobies. Boobies were cool even when I was four years old. I couldn’t get enough of them.
My mother chased me from statue to statue, but I was fast and determined. Two different security guards grabbed my arm and pulled me away. I would pout for about thirty seconds before sprinting off to grope yet another statue.
Normally I was a perfectly-behaved child. “Angelic,” even. But what can I say? In the presence of naked bodies, the nympho in me just had to come out for a little look-see.
