To Vivi, Venus by Velázquez was her true sister, over the ion sands of oil. What do you desire? To be a footnote? The idea was: Make a private dance. Go bravely into your own mishegoss. Chest out into zero visibility. Tetas arriba! Listen for the mute ghost breath at your feathered wing. Sail on the updraft of scorched moonlight.
Vivienne’s hand inside the creamy oils of her vulva communicated with Venus’s buttocks, the callipygian beauty, and after, Vivienne drifted into a lucid winter snooze.
She was imagining Venus at a window seat in a plane over the ocean. A long-legged guy came and sat in the aisle seat beside Venus who was travelling on business. He asked Venus what the book was she was reading. Venus handed him the book, Venus’s book of self-portraits. The man leaned back in hi
