Missionary Position(6)

“Who said anything about inferiority complexes? I certainly didn’t. Interesting you would mention size envy.” I pursed my lips together to maintain my serious expression.

We sat at a picnic table in a beer garden flanking the only working windmill within Amsterdam city limits.

Gerhard leaned back. “I guess from this angle, and with your perverted mind influencing me, I can see your point.” He nodded, and then rolled his eyes. “Also, I think you’ve had too much beer.”

“And cheese!” I speared the last cube on the plate between us. With the cheese clamped between my teeth, I grinned at him.

“Sexy. You American girls have all the tricks.”

I chewed and swallowed. “We do. Songs have been written about our wiles.”

He surprised me by singing lyrics from a Lenny Kravitz song. His singing voice resonated low and gravelly. Some might say it was pure sex. Some would definitely say that.

The contrast between the sex falling from his lips and his uptight suited appearance confused me. After a few hours with Gerhard, I failed at my attempt to categorize him. American men were easier to label and decipher, almost simplistic in their “type”. And for most, food, ego stroking, and sex—not necessarily in that order—would keep them happy.

Gerhard would not stay put inside his uptight banker box.

I wondered if he ever lost the suit. Would I recognize him wearing jeans and a T-shirt?

I bit my lip. Jeans, T-shirt, or nothing.

I wanted to have sex with banker Gerhard. Maybe sex would solve the puzzle. He probably enjoyed being tied up and called baby.

I shuddered.

“Cold?”

I blinked a several times, clearing my head. “Maybe.” A cloud moved in front of the sun and the temperature dropped. I grabbed my sweater out of my bag.

“You won’t be needing a sweater for a while.” He gestured to my sweater.

“I know. I’ll miss the gray and the rain, but bring on the heat.”

“You say that now. Wait until you’re tired of the sticky feeling of mosquito spray, sweat, and dirt.”

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds lovely.” I turned and smiled at him. “What do you miss about Ghana?”

“The people, mostly. My friends there. The mangos. The way the waves assault the shore.”

“Sounds exotic and slightly dangerous.”

“It can be. Don’t be lulled into thinking the same rules from the States, or here, apply there. Promise me you’ll play it safe. No ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ nonsense if you’re dealing with police or the government. It’s a land of chiefs and clearly defined roles.” His expression was serious.

“I’ll behave. This isn’t my first trip outside the West.”

“Where else have you been?” His voice revealed his interest.

“Vietnam, Chile, Costa Rica, Thailand, Cambodia …” I listed some of my more exotic destinations.

“Impressive.”

“Thank you, Mr. World Traveler. What about you? Where’s your next assignment?”

“I’m supposed to be based in Kenya for a month. I think. It might change.” He stared out across the semi-empty beer garden.

“Kenya? We’ll be on the same continent.”

“Africa’s a big place.”

“True. But it will be nice to know I’ll have a friend on the same continent.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

“In twenty-four hours, what else could we be?” I held my breath waiting for an answer. I typically wasn’t this woman—the woman who waited for the man to pursue. If I wanted someone, I had them. One word to Rob, the boy band backpacker, and he would have followed me home, but I didn’t say the word. And here I sat, waiting for a man wearing custom tailored suit trousers and expensive black leather shoes, who was so very not my type, to chase me. Or at least confirm he was interested. He flirted. We bantered, but he hadn’t made a move. Not even after dinner last night. I received a hand on my back and a polite double-cheek kiss when he escorted me to a taxi.

He interlaced his fingers and stretched out his arms, exhaling. “Sure. Of course.” A little smile tugged the corner of his mouth, but his eyes didn’t sparkle.

Wait.

Could Gerhard be gay?

I mentally replayed our time together. There was flirting and the aforementioned banter, but my friend Quinn and I had the same thing in spades, and he was most definitely gay. Quinn didn’t make my thighs clench together. Unless I was trying not to pee from laughing.

Color me officially confused.

Meticulously dressed. Fancy shoes.

Tingles on my skin when he touched me or stared at me with his stormy sea eyes.

I looked down at his long fingers. Well-groomed nails. Metrosexual?

Would it be rude to ask if he was gay? Nothing compliments and says ‘I want to have sex with you’ like asking about sexual preference.

If I didn’t want to have sex with him, I would ask.

Why would Anita, patron saint of superior genes, want me to meet her gay brother?

One word: Ghana.

He’d been there and would be a good resource.

Of course.

This wasn’t a romantic set-up.

Suddenly, the beer, sun, and cheese caught up to me. I closed my eyes. After a few breaths, I opened my lids and sighed.

Gerhard stared at me funny.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Exhausted. I think jet lag snuck up on me. Or there was alcohol in our beer.”

He chuckled and offered to give me a lift to my hotel for a much needed nap.

Once in my room, I found my moleskine notebook and made a list of things I knew about Gerhard.

Turned out, I didn’t know very much at all.

Confused and frustrated, I fell onto the bed fully dressed and gave into beer and dairy sleepiness.

Gerhard Hendriks was a Dutch enigma, much like the Flying Dutchman.





I HAD A nap, a shower, and a new outlook on Gerhard.

We had now.

I was leaving; he was leaving. I wouldn’t spend the next thirty-six hours stewing. I didn’t stew. I wasn’t a stewer. Not over men.

Forty-eight hours of going with the flow. I would be Selah Elmore, flow-goer.

I admitted when I first woke up, groggy from another Gerhard, Norse God pirate dream, I thought about emailing Anita and asking about his preference for teammates when playing hide the salami, but while showering I decided it would be weird and desperate, and anti-flow-going.

Instead, I would put on my lady pants and enjoy the company of a handsome man without wondering what it would be like to get in his pants.

It would be a first in a long time for me.

I loved getting inside men’s pants.

Sighing, I dressed in a pair of black trousers and a flowy tunic decorated with a peacock pattern. Mature, classic, and flowy—very me.

My plan crumbled when Gerhard showed up wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt. If possible, he looked better in jeans than he did in his suits. Gone were the polished banker shoes, replaced by gray Vans. A classic tank watch decorated his wrist instead of the cufflinks I wanted to undo with my teeth.

I was in trouble.

When he warmly greeted me with the double cheek kiss, his five o’clock shadow scraped deliciously across my jaw.

Big trouble.

My cheeks heated and I resisted the urge to try for the triple kiss, planning to miss his cheek. Of course, before I could pucker up, he pulled away, complimenting me on my shirt.

Regaining my composure, I thanked him and asked, “Where are we going?”

“To eat a multitude of foods you won’t be able to find in Ghana.”

“I approve of your mission.”

He smiled at me before licking the corner of his mouth. “What mission would that be?” He raised his eyebrows.

“The feed Selah all forbidden foods mission.”

“Ah, right. Well, next stop on the food mission, the traditional Rijsttafel.”

“Sounds very Dutch.”

“It means ‘rice table’ and it’s Indonesian. How do you feel about spicy?”

“Love a little spice,” I flirted.

“Good,” he replied, giving away nothing.

Dinner equaled a table full of small dishes, most of which were spicy, saucy, and delicious. Pickles, various sauces, veggies, and mysterious condiments filled the bowls crowding any remaining table space not occupied by our wine glasses. It was a feast.

A feast of confusion.

Yep. Still no clue.

We flirted and talked. His eyes twinkled, and my cheeks hurt from smiling.

And still no idea.

It didn’t matter. I had one of the best nights in memory. I laughed, he laughed. I snorted, he laughed harder. I spit spicy sambal into my napkin, and he almost spit out his water. The restaurant had cleared out when we finally paid the bill.

Stumbling outside, still laughing, I rubbed my belly and called uncle. “No more. No more food. No more laughing. I can’t take any more.”

Gerhardt wiped a stray tear from his face and nodded silently, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Okay. I admit defeat.”

I pulled a tissue from my purse and waved it, which only made him laugh again.

We were punch drunk on each other, walking crookedly down the sidewalk, gaining odd looks from fellow pedestrians.

After a handful of minutes of silence, broken only by the occasional residual giggle or snort, I realized we were walking in the direction of my hotel.

Perhaps I was about to solve the mystery of Gerhard and what got him hard.





THE SAYING ABOUT assuming and asses rang true again.