Within the building, there is a room. Within that room is a signifier. Within that signifier is a wooden device. Let us start with the building. The building was once a warehouse. The last steel pillar supporting the roof was bolted into place on the eighth of February, nineteen sixty five. The warehouse no longer stores what it was built to; those monstrously thick bundles of rope have long rotted or withered, discarded along with the ships they were created for. This is now a place for the unwanted, permanently or temporarily- the items of human beings. Within it, are six hundred and fourty five storage rooms, fourty one lockers, two toilets and three conference rooms. This particular signifier in question, is female.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, sounds within the dark of the room. The sound, is a metronome. It is mahogany, and gleams like a Tiger’s eye in the glint of daylight, although there is no such light source in the sheer blackness of the room. The construction of the metronome was completed on the eighth of November, eighteen ninety two by a Hans Weissenbach. The metronome is older than the building that houses it, within the metal cubby hole of the room. The metronome sits on a cheap plastic table, made in China by the millions, created to imitate an igneous rock of some sort; it fails to do so. Yet, the table crowns the room, but this isn't apparent in the current pitch black.

Each right swing of the metronome’s metal pendulum, creates a firm striking sound. This sound is akin to a clip. The left swing, to a clop. Back and forth, it sounds like a Shire Horse trotting upon an errand. Between every four clips and four clops, a bell within the metronome chimes, resonating within the stifled atmosphere of the room. She gasps every time the wooden device enters her, as if it is the first time. The device is not quite old enough to be considered an antique, but was an internet purchase, created originally circa late nineteenth century. It imitates a penis, and has been used by three other women in its lifetime. It is made from oak, and has been varnished four times since being created. These are facts.

Beneath the linoleum lined floors of each of the building’s three levels, approximately thirty six rats and one hundred and two mice make their homes, but nobody visiting the building is aware of this fact. The linoleum lined corridors themselves are cleaned twice a week. Once, on the fourth of September two thousand and seventeen, a cleaner overheard what sounded like someone gasping in distress. This was the woman climaxing to orgasm. He eavesdropped, finally realising what he was listening to. He has since replayed that moment in his mind whilst fucking his wife of six months, seventeen times exactly.

The metronome’s bell chimes, are signals. A signal, indeed to the signifier, who is sat exactly two point five metres away from the metronome itself. This is a fact. The woman lets the mahogany metronome chime three times at the start of each visit, before engaging the device within her for the first time. The bare skin of her bum, sticky against a teak chair feels pleasant; the chair is varnished, and the atmosphere’s humid climate has clammied her skin. Two fingers support each respective labia on the first insertion; one hand supports the device.

As the fourth chime arrives, it ripples and reverberates across the metal walls into the eardrums of the woman, as she processes the mechanical meeting of of thicker metal and thinner metal. On cue, the device slides into the woman. She is aroused by both anticipation and the lack of light; the device is thick: six point nine five inches in circumference. It took four sessions for it to be able to fit inside her completely. High above the room is an impossibly long steel structural pillar. It’s thirty fifth washer on the thirty fifth bolt is loose and needs to be tightened, but this will not be checked for another three point three years. The floor is dirty, dusty and cold against her raised feet and has not been cleaned since its last occupant. The room is bare apart from the woman, the chair, the device, metronome and the table. Her release of natural lubrication, means that the device slides in with ease and little resistance. When it it removed however, it struggles against the resistance of a debatable sticky substance. None of this can be seen within the black of the room.

At this point, there are only seven other humans within the warehouse itself. Most are lost within idle thoughts; concentration and contemplation. Two floors below her, one is reading the last pages of Dr. Faustus by Marlowe by the yellowy light of a torch. Twenty rooms to her left, another is planning a robbery; he loads an M nine Beretta and proceeds to unload a sawn off Browning auto-five for cleaning. The woman is not the first person to masturbate in the building. A week after completion, the Mayor’s wife visited the new building site to congratulate the workers; proceeded to use the bathroom to urinate, and then masturbated once finished. This was on the fourteenth of February, nineteen sixty five, and was done in an attempt to avoid sex with her husband on Valentine’s Day by stunting her libido. Since completion, sixty two people have had sex within the building; only thirty five people have masturbated. The female signifier in question was the thirty fourth.

Again, inside her once more the device slides. Her opening adjusts to its exact shape; her pulse rate rises to one hundred and thirty beats per minute. She is strict about insertion-based stimulus only; she once rubbed her clitoris in the frustration of evading orgasm and later went into a self-induced celibacy for seven and a half weeks. During that time she changed her knickers sixty nine times; fifteen of those times were due directly because of arousal. Each of her insertions are accurate and one on cue with the chime of the metronome. The metronome is set, as always at exactly eighty beats per minute.