Darling Nikki

Did I want to be Prince or be with Prince? I think the beauty is, neither. He made it O.K. to feel what he was feeling, what I was feeling. I wanted to be a diminutive, profuse, electric ribbon of horniness and divine grace. I bought a white shirt with ruffles down the front and wore it with skintight crushed-velvet hot pants, laid a full-length mirror on the floor, and slithered on top of the mirror, imitating Prince’s closing slither on the elevated amp in “Darling Nikki.” Yeah, he’s telling Apollonia to come back, but you can tell he doesn’t really give a shit about Apollonia. He’s possessed by something else, his life force onstage. Half naked, wearing only black bolero pants and a black kerchief tied over the top part of his face, his torso slick with sweat, Prince is telling us a story. An important one.

The story is of a woman whom he meets while she’s masturbating. I guess you could say she was a sex fiend. Not a slut, mind you. A sex fiend. Yes, that’s it. No word in high school for that, because to be a fiend is to be beyond shame. You can make fun of someone whom you think has been humiliated by sucking dick on the playground, but what can you do with a sex fiend? A sex fiend who knows how to pleasure herself. A sex fiend who wants to, knows how to, grind.

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