We want to hear about your favorite fantasies involving celebrities--actors, actresses, musicians, athletes, our Pets. Tell us who they are and what they do in that wide realm of your unrestrained imagination. Send your wildest fantasies to "Celebrity Fantasy," Penthouse, 1965 Broadway, New York, N.Y. 10023-5965.
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.
Bob Guccione himself was standing near the door, as if he were waiting for me. I took him in with a sideways glance, a bulky, stocky-cock type, in a pale suit and an unnatural tan. I could imagine his lumpy balls hanging low in their wrinkled sacs, but no matter. I followed my impulse straight ahead to the paintings, with Guiccione in hot pursuit. "Painting is my passion," he said in a husky voice thick with emotion: "It always has been and always will be." "Mine too," I replied, licking my fingers and running the tips around the frame of a still life.
The heavily carved, gilt-trimmed surface was alternately silken and knobby to my touch. I dropped my hands and took a step back, deliciously aroused. Under the intimate gallery light, the vibrant shapes on the canvas seemed to pulsate, just as my own blood had begun to pound. Guccione was talking, recalling his life before he started Penthouse--"This is how I began my career," he said: "painting and traveling through Europe, doing caricature sketches of tourists to earn a living"--but I couldn't concentrate on his words. My eyes were locked on the center of the painting, where the stout white shaft of a vase was planted firmly between the plump, heart-shaped curves of its base, while its delicate mouth opened wide to take the long, supple stalk of a throbbing bouquet. Colors were thrusting against each other in a steamy frenzy: gold tonguing blue; red quivering at the touch of white; moist, downy green lapping everywhere.
"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..."