How Art Made to Represent Sexual Objectification Became a Commentary on Abuse

By Polly Superstar

Recently, I exhibited my art piece, “The Fuckball,” at a festival, and it was destroyed. For those of you who don’t know what this is, I am an artist, and I created a 6-foot-tall, colorful, latex inflatable ball covered in 12 penetrable vulvas (and one not-so-secret butthole). The Fuckball represents the objectification of female sexuality, but it has multiple layers of meaning and has existed in a variety of forms as a piece of art. It is a sculpture: constructed from colorful sheet latex, assembled in sweeping curves and suspended from the ceiling with a pendulous sense of weight. The vulvas are cartoon pink and open into dark pink tunnels of latex. Inside the ball, the sheaths connect at the center to prevent the holes from prolapsing. It is a feat of latex engineering and took me about three months to construct. It exists as an object, a piece of art in its own right.

The Fuckball is also an interactive experience: I take it to art shows and festivals and host the experience. I give people a nitrile glove and a squirt of lube and invite them to touch the ball. It’s big, voluptuous, bouncy, and it brings a lot of joy. It serves as a jumping-off point for conversations about consent and objectification. As viewers approach the Fuckball, I engage them with some questions designed to prompt them to think about the deeper meaning behind the art: Can an object give consent? How does it feel to be given permission to touch this object? Does the invitation change your relationship to the object? Is consent still relevant when what you’re touching isn’t a person, but just a representation of an idea?

The experience of the Ball as both an interactive art piece and a stand-alone sculpture became clear to me only after I created it. My original vision was far simpler: to roll the Fuckball into an orgy and deflower it as a weird, sexy art experience; a once-in-a-lifetime moment of mind-blowing weirdness. I didn’t imagine the life it would have after that, being shipped around the country and diddled by hundreds of people at art festivals. The nuance and language of the conversations I would have with people who interacted with the Fuckball weren’t known to me yet.

I built the Fuckball during the pandemic. When we were in lockdown, I imagined what the moment of its deflowering would be like. What would the world be like when we were allowed out of our homes, when we could gather again? Would people still want to have group sex at parties, or would it be a thing of the past? At 6 ft in diameter, maybe the Fuckball would be a way to have a socially distanced orgy? I am fully aware of how silly this idea is. The Fuckball wasn’t just a glorified sex toy. It was a psychedelic dystopian pandemic fever dream come to reality.

At the first event I threw when lockdown was over, we did deflower the Fuckball. It was the most bizarre and beautiful community-sex experience I have ever been a part of. Just like my vision, it was laughter-filled and joyful. We didn’t record it. No photos, no video, and certainly no social media. It was a perfect moment in time, existing only for the people who were there.

When I exhibit the Fuckball at festivals, I invite people to touch it. As I’m handing them a glove, I tell them that we have fucked the ball. It has an erotic history. They stand there awkwardly with one gloved hand, and I tell them that it has been the center of multiple group sex experiences. Naked people. Dick. Strap-ons. Penetration. It has been rolled around on a bed and pounded from both sides. As I squirt lube on their hand, I ask if it changes the way they feel about interacting with the art. I get a lot of different answers. No response is right or wrong; all expand the conversation.

Some people feel protective of the ball. They are gentle and kind to the Fuckball. They use “she/her” pronouns and talk fondly to it. “She loves to be fucked. She’s having a great time.” I remind them that it’s an it and that I, as the artist, am the one giving consent and negotiating the boundaries. I remind them that the art is an object, and that it has no feelings. As a representation of the objectification of women, it’s interesting to me that people (usually women) anthropomorphize it. Female sexuality is transformed into an object, and then the object is assigned personhood. The Fuckball exists for no other reason than to be fucked, and yet some respond by feeling protective toward it when they hear it has fulfilled its destiny.

Other people respond more negatively to the news that the Fuckball has had so much dick. They think it’s gross. They don’t want to touch it. They take off the glove and walk away. The Fuckball has been railed from all angles, and for some people, that fact is extremely unsettling. The most common question I get asked by these people is whether I have cleaned it (I have) and how I clean it (soap and water). At this point, I have the opportunity to discuss consent and how a simple “no” can be a powerful thing. You don’t have to diddle my holes. Feel free to walk away if you find it offensive. Thank you for stating your boundaries.

Last weekend, the festival was full of polyamorous, kinky queerdos, and a lot of people responded by saying they felt a kinship with the Fuckball. When they learned that the ball was slutty they wanted to touch it even more. Their eyes lit up with eagerness. Some wanted to know how they get invited to the party where they can actually fuck it with their dicks. The appeal multiplied. I could sense their curiosity expand along with their excitement.

You can never predict how people are going to interact with the Fuckball once they’ve had this conversation with me. Some of the shyest, most unassuming people go elbow deep on the first thrust. The people you’d expect to be the most gung-ho to pound it can sometimes be found gently caressing a labia, exploring the creases, inspecting the cavity close up with a wry smile on their face.

I have a clear conversation about boundaries with each person who interacts with the Fuckball. I ask them to be gentle. I remind them that one gloved, lubricated hand is the parameter of the experience. I engage in a conversation with them about consent. We talk about the idea that sexual experiences can be carefully negotiated, prepared for, and intentional, that they don’t have to be “all or nothing.” One. Gloved. Lubricated. Hand.

“Enjoy exploring my holes,” I say in a cheery voice as I send them to their experience.

I am always amazed to turn around and find people manhandling the Fuckball after this conversation. Maybe the person ahead of them was rough with it, and they feel a sense of permission because of what they saw. Maybe they weren’t really listening to me. My drink gets knocked over as the frame holding the ball crashes into the table next to me. The Fuckball is lifted, flung, and spun around. BE GENTLE. One ungloved hand latches onto a vulva to hold it steady, using it like a handle to gain purchase for their penetration of another. PLEASE DON’T BE SO ROUGH. They are smiling, having fun. They love the Fuckball. One day, I think, this ball is going to break.

This weekend, the Fuckball was handled so aggressively that it split. No one person was responsible for this happening. This arts festival was no worse than those in other cities. The Fuckball broke from an ongoing and continued lack of care and consent that has occurred at multiple events. It was worn down, and it finally gave way. The bouncing, beautiful, fun, eager Fuckball was split from top to bottom in a way that is irreparable. It showed its guts to the world as it deflated.

The moment it happened, I was watching from the sidelines. The people were no rougher with it than they had been before. It was sudden. One minute it was there, the next it was flaccid, flopping on its hook, latex hanging like loose skin. A knife in my chest. The people who were there when it broke were mortified. I wiped the horror from my face to plaster on a smile. I felt I needed to let them know it was ok. Reassure them. I’m ok. Yes, how funny. This is great. I made a sign. “Seattle fucked the ball so hard it burst.” Then, in a move of people pleasing and placating, I added, “Thank you. It was fun.”

I could have cried and screamed. I could have yelled: “This is not ok. Why were you all so rough with my art? I’ve told you that this represents the objectification of female sexuality, and yet so many of you respond with such aggressive touch.” But I didn’t.

The truth is, I feel responsible. I had told them all how hard the ball had been fucked. Maybe I even played it up a little. I laughed. Yeah, it can really take a pounding. Then I let them touch it. Maybe I disrespected the Fuckball. They wanted to touch it. I wanted them to love it. Their enthusiasm for the art blinded them to the deeper story unfolding. My desire for people to like my art stopped me from being clearer about its limitations.

BE GENTLE. Giggle. Smile.

I remember being sexually assaulted when I was a teenager and then apologizing to my attacker. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. You’re right. How were you to know I didn’t want to have sex with you? Perhaps my loud, clear “no”? Or my fists fighting him off? My knee to his crotch as he pushed me onto the bed? My bite to his wrist as he grabbed my hands to stop them from scratching his face? I have had sex with lots of people, yes. That must be confusing for you. I remember that feeling. I’m sorry you hurt me. It’s not your fault.

So, what happens to the Fuckball now? This art experience is unfolding as I type. This beautiful, bounteous, expansive piece of art has been destroyed. Maybe I should have been clearer with people? I smiled and laughed as the Fuckball was pushed to its limits. I wanted people to have fun with it. They had a lot of fun with it. With hindsight, there was only one way this party would end.

I want to apologize to the Fuckball. I’m sorry I disregarded your limitations as an object. As a representation of the sexual objectification of women, I should have treated you with more respect. You have paid the price for my thoughtlessness.

But the Fuckball is an object, a thing.

The conversation about the Fuckball’s demise as a commentary on sexual abuse takes all the fun out of the experience. An invitation to interact with a colorful, lively, bouncy ball of fuck is something people get excited about. Now it is deflated. A crashing feeling in the chest. The realization that harm has been done.

If you’ve read this far, I invite you to take a moment to think about how you would apologize to the Fuckball even if you have never met me or interacted with this sculpture. Even if you think you would have treated the Fuckball differently. Say sorry for all the times you’ve disrespected women. Say sorry to yourself for all the times you ignored your own boundaries. Allow the image of this art, devastated by too much touch, to be a symbol of humanity’s disconnect from the divine feminine. Apologize to her (it? Her?) Let her know you care. Tell her you love her. Be tender with her broken pieces. Promise to try harder, to do better. She will forgive you.

This article was originally published in issue 7 of PROUD & Kinky Magazine. You may read it in its original format here.

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