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I was walking down Michigan Avenue last week when I came to Atlas Galleries. The door was ajar and sweet bits of chamber music were drifting out into the street. Not knowing what to expect, I entered. The lights were low inside, and a few dozen well-dressed people were milling around. When I saw what they were up to, I froze in my tracks. The walls were covered with paintings. Some looked like Van Gogh, some like Picasso, some like Chagall or Modigliani, but they all carried the same signature: Guccione. Inside my black lace bra, my nipples leaped to attention.
“When I look back at those paintings I did when I was much younger, it’s almost as if I’m looking back in time at the work of a different person, an eager, young, infinitely optimistic boy,” Guccione was saying. “And now I am recapturing that person and reliving his idyllic life through new paintings.” It was all I could do to murmur in response. Moving forward, I pressed my swelling lips to the canvas, sucking and nibbling at its grainy surface. Then I lifted it gently from the wall, raised my skirt and straddled it. “Don’t do that,” Guccione shouted, but it was too late to stop me. “Call me Tiffany,” I purred, as I began to rock. “I’m an old-fashioned girl with modern desires, working my way through college. Baseball’s always been my favorite sport, but art shows really inspire me. Once I was at the Art Institute with my boyfriend. We were on the second floor, in the Impressionist galleries…”
