Richard Prince, above three Untitled (Girlfriend) works from 1993, below three Untitled (Cowboy) works 1989, 1997-1998, and unknown.
Based on his own collection, this tale of appropriation is authored by the art collector F.M. Disclaimer: His fantasy is, as it should be to observe Valentine’s Day, sexually explicit.
I close my eyes and I see her – She walks from room to room, not blindfolded yet – her house – her rooms – her music – Ella Fitzgerald –
Her steps are short and precise in red sole heels – her heart beating just a little faster at the anticipation, no – the actual realization, that it was going to happen – that she was going to feel him in her, feel his always hard cock fuck her deep and long and that realization made it all so much easier – there was no game here – no tentative tentacle of desire lingering in the foreground – No this was a sure clean deal – he will walk her to her bedroom – he will hold her tight – ever so tight – her short stature nesting within his muscular frame – a melding of flesh and outskirts of mixed souls – She knew that within moments his hand would reach under her short skirt and feel the firmness of her ass – and she knew that she would love it – she wore this skirt for him, for this purpose –
She walked from room to room – each a receptacle of a different phase of Richard Prince’s art – past the room full of cowboy photographs – past the room with the two Joke paintings – mustard yellow on green and green on mustard yellow – past the black hood sculpture and the nurse paintings, the Fashion Gang and the girl friend picture – past his years, decades of living art, living around her – populating her walls in a world that she created – out of her imagination and through my executive creation – her legs now spread upon the white sheets, black stockings still in her shoes, legs up and skirt raised – his face deep in her – his tongue deep in her – and slow – and soft – like she likes it – head spinning from desire – and that ultimate knowledge that he will penetrate her soon – after the outer layers are removed – leaving her in garters and a black matching bra – and hands tied up above her head –
Ella Fitzgerald morphing into Nicolas Jaar and her simple body switching to the outline of a divine whore – artifice and decadence – now eyes shut as her mouth fills up with his manhood – Spiritual America hanging close by – her hips moving with him, under him, her mind linked to his words as he whispers in her ear – a visual game and all that is left is his voice and their pelvic link – his staff slipping in and out of her – slipping and shiny in the dimmed light – a glistening hairless rod filling her equally bald pussy – She moans as he sets into a rhythm of long slow strokes – bringing her ever so slowly to a brink and then another – like walking in and out through a valley of green grass and deep green pine trees – down and up and again – never worried that he would come too soon – just strolling in the garden of delights – flashing with lights when his hand slaps her ass one more time –
Eyes rolled back in her own sub-consciousness – And now his voice letting her know that she should fuck him – him, the stranger, of her dreams – his virtual cock in her pussy – He feels her getting even more wet – her hips moving now with the passion of the forbidden – fucking it – it fucking her, hard and deep, and now faster, as she wants it – as she takes it – all – in – “La beaute sera convulsive ou ne sera pas” – She let’s go and he knows that she is now with that other unknown cock for which he is the proxy – Appropriated manhood – a final testament to the original idea – a lucid dream of shared sin all in synch with the walls – with the souls –