Marcel Duchamp and Mariah Carey play chess

Duchamp has managed to finaggle his way into the Mariah Carey orgy timeline. I didn’t invite him, and now it’s out of my control, there is little I can do. She’s a lot of jelly for a fragile sensitive man like him. He’s on his own.

He’d be in a wool suit, smoking a cigar. There’d be a phallic glass chess set somewhere in the room. Mariah would be in a tight silk camisole, breasteses popping out, barely covering those orbs, “Know you love my curves / Come on and give me what I deserve.”

Marcel would speak some French to her, recite some funky Dada poetry to her. She’s used to being manhandled, and he can only caress her, causing her to roll her eyes. She might enjoy it, but the stench of cigar is ripe and the coffee breath is almost unbearable.

“Let me wrap my thighs All around your waist.”

It could never work, only in the timeline, only in a work of fiction.

“Boy you can put me on you
Like a brand new white tee
I’ll hug your body tighter
Than my favorite jeans
I want you to caress me
Like a tropical breeze
And float away with you
In the Caribbean Sea.”

Duchamp would definitely dig the curves, he might bring in the chess pieces as toys, and say something like, “ “Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another.”