The Great Masturbator

The naked woman that languished in the sun on the far side of the cove
had already been dead for several days. The ravages of death
had played havoc with her looks but to the young boy transfixed in
her shadow she was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on.
It was the first time he had seen a dead body or a naked woman and
he was aroused and repulsed in equal measure as the two things
inextricably merged in his mind. He wanted to run away, frightened
that the corpse would topple and consume him but he was mesmerised
and as the blood in his veins congealed the wind died down and the
waves stopped rolling he knew that this image would haunt him
for the rest of his life.

The rotting carcass was on the verge of collapse when Dali’s hand
appeared in the painting, invading and pillaging its two dimensional
reality with his ruthless brushstrokes. He applied the finishing touches
to his childhood memory like a marauding invader armed with a sable
paintbrush and the wet paint glistened in the sunlight as it
streamed into his studio.

Dali sat back on his stool and studied his latest masterpiece. Instinct
told him that there was still something missing and his hand hesitated
in front of the canvas, digits twitching, while he delved deeper and
deeper into his sub-conscious until… Like a bolt of lightening
inspiration hit him and he started to paint two crutches, propping
the corpse upright for eternity.