Missionary Position(3)

I spent the rest of my afternoon looking at fleshy women romping or lying around in the buff. I was born in the wrong century. The failed diets of my twenties and thirties proved it. My curvy body refused to be svelte and a size zero. Hell, it hadn’t seen single digits since college. Rubens and his contemporaries honored every roll, flap, curve, and expanse with loving detail. Where were those men today? And how could I find one?

Outside, I discovered a warm and surprisingly sunny afternoon. People basking in warm sunlight crowded the park adjoining the museums. I decided to walk to my little hotel. Boats navigated the canals and anyone who owned a bicycle appeared to be riding it through the streets. Like the Pacific Northwest, the Dutch were accustomed to gray and rain. Sun was something to be celebrated.

After changing into a red jersey dress, which would be appropriate for the reception and meeting Gerhard, I took a tram to the auction house. My dress said “smart but sexy in a classy and not harlot way” … I hoped.

Smartly dressed men in suits and women in pencil skirts and pearls stood in small groups on the sidewalk outside of the elegant brick facade of the auction house. I fluffed the scarf I’d wrapped around my shoulders and entered the crowd. Most of these people came to socialize and be seen, but a few top collectors of African art would also be in attendance.

After accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter, I made my way through the throng, looking for a single familiar face while trying to appear confident. To be honest, I loathed these schmoozing events. Being short meant I spent most of the evening staring at backs and boobs. Worse, most major art collectors collected for investment rather than love. They’d rather talk about increased value over historical importance. In other words, a big collection, like an expensive sports car, might have been compensating for a small penis.

I found open space near a display of sculptures. Scanning the room of schmoozers, I noticed a tall blond man in a beautifully tailored navy suit. He was holding court with a group of men in similar, expensive, perfectly tailored suits and a couple of women teetering on sky high heels, acting as arm candy. My own foolish bravery dared to combine kitten heels and cobblestones, knowing it could end badly after a cocktail. I was living on the edge.

Mr. Navy met my eye, and I quickly glanced away. I stared at the sculpture next to me, pretending to read its description on the pedestal. It took me a minute to clear my head enough to realize the sculpture had an obscenely large phallus and I stood eye-level with it. No way could he have walked around with such a penis.

I laughed softly and went to take another sip of champagne. My empty glass signaled the need for another, and I searched the room for waiters. One stood near the cluster around the handsome blond, and I headed in his direction. Free champagne meant I was a woman on a mission—art history professors don’t make a lot of money.

As I reached for a fresh flute, Mr. Navy Suit took the last full glass from the waiter, leaving only a tray of empty glasses. My frustration came out as an audible sigh. I added my own empty flute to the collection and looked around for the bar.

“Here, you should have this.” The deep voice had a slight Dutch accent. A hand moved the champagne into my line of sight.

I lifted my eyes up to the navy clad arm holding the glass, and then further up to a pair of eyes the color of the cold water of the North Sea.

“Oh, I couldn’t.” I attempted to be polite while concentrating on not openly gaping at his handsome features.

“No, I insist. Ladies should always come first.” His sea-colored eyes sparkled.

Although confident the double-entendre had been lost in translation from Dutch to English, my body still flushed over his words.

He let his fingers brush mine when I accepted the glass. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome—” A red taloned hand on his arm cut off his words.

“Darling, Gustav asked you a question.”

“Enjoy the champagne,” Mr. Navy Suit said, returning his attention to his companions.

I’d been summarily and impressively dismissed with a single “darling”. Typical.

I spotted one of the curators across the room. Her stylish, yet simple maroon dress and sensible shoes were an island of comfortable familiarity in a sea of ostentatious display.

After greeting me warmly, Martha commented, “I saw you chatting with one of the men from TNG, our sponsors.” She gestured to Mr. Navy Suit’s group.

Of course the suits were bankers. Business men, especially wealthy ones, were so very, very not my type—even less my type than backpacking boys who could be in boy bands. My first college lover became a wealthy banker. I guess at one point they might have been my type. Briefly. Really only the one time.

“If I’d known, I would have flattered him more.” I smiled at her.

“By the way he looked at you when you walked away, I think you made a very good impression.” Martha laughed.

Interesting. I glanced at the group and found a set of stormy eyes meeting my own. I raised my glass and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Mr. Navy Suit smiled with closed lips and raised his own glass. I noticed red talon woman had left. Even knowing I’d never see him again, it made me happy she wasn’t his date. Or worse, his girlfriend. Such a cliché.

Martha and I chatted about Ghana and my project at the national museum. She was optimistic about my sabbatical research and encouraged me to promote my name with TNG for additional funding. After I rolled my eyes and joked about having my hat out for donations, she made a point to introduce me to several suits, sadly none of them was Mr. Navy. I scanned the room for him, but he’d disappeared. Poof. Like Cinderella.

A glance at my watch informed me I was about to be late for my drink with Gerhard. I hoped the bar had food. Two glasses of champagne into the evening and I hadn’t eaten since an early lunch. Yikes.

After quick double kisses to Martha with a promise to keep in touch from Ghana, I rushed outside to find a taxi to the hotel.

Ready or not, Gerhard, I’m coming.





THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened on a high floor to reveal a twinkling view of Amsterdam in the dusky evening light. I stood for a moment near the entrance. Rich brown leather chairs, cream accents and flattering lighting gave the bar the look of a men’s club. My glance moved around the room, which was sprinkled with men in suits and chic women, not a backpacker in sight.

Nor did a single man in a suit appear to be Gerhard; not unless he had become much, much older than Anita, or had brought a date with him. I debated between taking a table near the windows or a seat at the bar where I could watch the elevators. I chose the bar. While I waited, I could chat with the bartender, easing the awkwardness of this blind date feeling over something which wasn’t a date.

A handsome young man wearing a crisp, white shirt rolled to his elbows and a black vest greeted me, placing a napkin and small bowl of bar kibble on the cool marble in front of my stool. Bless him. I ordered a dirty vodka martini and inhaled the bar snacks. The bowl was empty before the bartender finished making my cocktail. It was a very small bowl. Tiny.

My stomach no longer empty, I took a sip of what was possibly the best vodka martini ever and moaned, not loudly, but loud enough the bartender smirked.

“Enjoying your drink?”

I turned toward the voice.

Stormy Seas.

“Hi.” Mr. Navy Suit glanced between me and the bartender, waiting for me to respond.

“Of all the gin joints,” I mumbled to myself.

“Kiss me as if it were the last time,” Stormy Seas quoted my favorite line from Casablanca.

I blinked at him, speechless.

“Let’s try again.” He smiled down at me. Even on my perch on the barstool, he still towered over me. “Hello.”

“Hi.” My brain still worked.

“Are you alone?” He gestured to the stool next to mine.

“Yes. No. I’m meeting someone.”

His smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“American?”

“No, he’s Dutch.”

He chuckled. “No, I meant you. You don’t sound Dutch.”

“It was my accent that gave it away? Not my dark hair, olive skin, and Lilliputian height?”

“You’re sitting down.”

“Oh, right.”

“So you are American?”

“Yes. And I’m guessing you’re Dutch.”

“Was it the accent?” he mimicked me. His eyes sparkled like sun on dark water.

“That and the package.”

He coughed. I tried not to look at his crotch after my word slip, but failed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see anything. Bastard suit jacket.

“I meant your height and overall Dutchness.”

He bit his bottom lip and nodded for me to continue.

“You look Dutch. Tall, fair, blue eyes. Add some wooden shoes and a pointy hat, put your finger in a dyke, and you’d be straight out of a children’s book.”

I had said finger and dyke in the same sentence to Navy Suit. I hoped he didn’t catch it. By the way his eyes bulged, obviously he did.

“You must be Selah,” he stated, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Anita told me you were funny.”

I choked on a sip of my martini and tried to swallow. “What?”

“You’re Selah, yes? Anita met you at JFK?”