How to Bed a Millionaire

by Dieter Moitzi

  “Because I’m such a pain in the ass?” I propose.

  “Na. Come on, I’m sure you have… qualities. Somewhere,” he deadpans. When he sees my expression, he laughs.

  I smirk and give him a friendly nudge. “Coming from you, that isn’t only a vote of confidence, but almost a compliment.”

  Suddenly serious again, Chao leans forward and stares at me. “But why are you really single? And why no longer relationships? You’re what? Nineteen?”

  “Twenty!” I protest. “And I don’t know why no one has ever been sufficiently interested to put up with me for more than a week.—Could we change the subject?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs. “What’s for dessert?”

  I get up and gather the plates. “Well, you can choose between ice cream, ice cream, and ice cream.”

  “That’s a tough one. Let me see… ice cream?”

  “Well, give me a hand then. Because the kid who doesn’t put his plate in the dish washer gets nothing at all.”

  My, my, my

  My, my, my. Chao is a mysterious man with mysterious ways. What’s going on in this handsome head of his? Beats me.

  Because… those mixed signals I seem to receive and perceive? I’ve mentioned them, haven’t I? Well, brace yourselves: our dinner ends with my housekeeper almost… kissing me.

  Only almost, but yeah, I know: GASP!

  For once, I’m sure it’s not a figment of my imagination.

  This is how it happens.

  When we’ve eaten our ice cream, cleared the table, and finished the white wine, Chao pours us some of his old cognac again. By now, it must be ten o’clock, I’d say. We’ve taken our time, chatting about this and that. We switch off the lights, leaving only a small lamp behind us lit, move over to the swimming pool, and enjoy the balmy night air and our drinks, with our feet dangling in the water.

  So far, so good, so innocent.

  The silence between us feels comfortable. The night is filled with little noises: the pool gurgling, the cascade gushing at the other end. The darkness strikes me as a cornucopia-like space filled with promises and wishes, dreams, and hopes.

  I take a sip of my drink and lightly ask, “What I’ve been wondering… why did get up so early to take your swim? Is that one of your… routines?”

  Chao is contemplating the glass in his hand. “You are a nosy guy,” he states, but there’s no animosity in his voice. He sounds content.

  “I’m not nosy. I just want to know your swimming schedule so that I can give you the privacy you apparently need when you use the pool.”

  He chuckles. “To avoid sneak-peek spy-prying on me, you mean.”

  “Which always happened inadvertently,” I point out.

  “That goes without saying.” He chuckles again, then thinks about it for a moment. What comes next is a stunning confession. “I’m not like you, all self-confident and comfortable with my body”, he says. “That’s why I don’t want other people to see me half-naked.”

  Me, self-confident? Comfortable with my body? My scrawny body? Where did he get that impression from?

  And he doesn’t like his body?

  WTF! Seriously!

  I stare at him, and my mouth is probably hanging open. “Are you bonkers? You have a stunning body, man. Why would you of all people be self-conscious about it?”

  He shrugs. “I just don’t like anyone seeing my… disfigured belly.”

  “What’s wrong with your belly? I didn’t see any disfigurement this morning. You know, when I was supposedly spying on you.”

  He nudges me with his shoulder. “Supposedly… that’s the word. Anyway, you didn’t look closely enough, then.”

  It must be the wine and cognac talking because the next thing I know, I blurt out, “Well, show me again. I’ll tell you if it’s disfigured or not. I promise I’ll be honest.”

  Which, coming from a guy he probably suspects of having a crush on him, is no masterpiece of subtleness. And which, given his reluctance to show his body, strikes me immediately as a very silly thing to say.

  But what’s said cannot be unsaid.

  And Chao surprises me again. He puts down his glass, unbuttons his shirt, opens it, and leans back to reveal his chest and abdomen. His perfectly eatable chest and abdomen, with the black, hairy trail signaling there’s something even more eatable just a bit southward.

  “There,” he says quietly, passing a hand over his stomach.

  I hold my breath, my fingers itching to touch his smooth, soft skin. The faint smell of shower gel and cologne comes drifting through the warm night air. I’m instantly so hard my dick is pressing against the waistband of my boxer briefs.

  As this seems what he wants me to do, I lean closer and pretend to study his belly. Only superhuman willpower prevents me from licking it.

  “I can’t see anything,” I say hoarsely.

  He points at the tiny scars I’ve glimpsed this morning and lightly touches them, one after the other. “You don’t see these?”

  “Oh, the tiny marks?” I need to get away from his skin, his six-pack, his treasure trail, his body, his scent—the sooner, the better. Otherwise, I’ll do something stupid, something I’m sure I’m going to regret afterward.

  I sit up abruptly. “Did you get into a knife fight?”

  He hurriedly drapes the two halves of his shirt back over his torso without buttoning it up. Despite the dim light behind us, I see his face is flushed with genuine embarrassment. He manages a brittle laugh. “Nothing as romantic as that, no.”

  “Since when are knife fights romantic? Unnecessary violence is what I’d call them.”

  He shrugs, still holding his shirt closed with one hand. “Probably.”

  “So where did you get these?”

  “Surgery. Gall bladder removal if you must know.”

  “Oh. But what’s your problem? Your scars are barely visible. One of my aunts had her gall bladder removed, too, and now she has that big, large scar all over her belly. Doesn’t prevent her from going to the beach in a bikini.”

  “Good for her. But I hate my stomach. I find it… ugly.”

  “Ugly’s not the word I’d have used,” I declare firmly. “You’re fit and toned, and the scars somehow highlight your perfect skin.” I go crimson as I say this. But hey, I promised to be honest, and I usually keep my promises.

  Then, don’t ask me what demon causes me to do it—one called lust, maybe—I gently take his hand and remove it from his shirt. I pull the two halves apart and touch his skin with one finger. It is as smooth as I imagined it to be.

  “I can barely feel the scars, either,” I whisper. My hard-on is pounding in my underwear with each beat of my heart.

  Your skin’s so silky and warm and pulsing under my fingers that it makes my soul burn with a desire you don’t want or need.

  That’s what I do not say out loud.

  I want you to make love to me. I want you to envelop me with your body so that I can feel each square inch of that soft skin.

  No, that part I keep for myself like my very own, painful treasure.

  Chao has closed his eyes and swallows. Then he grasps my hand so hard I fear he might crush my fingers. I feel a shudder run through his body. “No one… no one has ever touched me like that,” he croaks.

  “I’m… I’m sorry,” I murmur. “You were right. I do have boundary issues.”

  He reopens his eyes, lets go of my hand and leans toward me. “Don’t be sorry,” he says so softly I think I might have imagined it. His mouth is almost brushing over mine, almost closing in for the final kill, the kiss.

  Then he pulls back, very slowly, buttons up his shirt at last, and downs the rest of his cognac.

  I follow suit without thinking.

  He stares at the pool as if trying to find out what to do next.

  Fin
ally, he turns to me again. Brushes my lips with his finger. And whispers, “Good night, sweet Trevor.”

  With that, he gets to his feet and disappears in the kitchen.

  Leaving sweet Trevor behind, dumbfounded and clueless.

  “Is there any butter in this household?”

  “Is there any butter in this household?” I ask. It’s nine o’clockish, which means I’ve dreadfully overslept. By way of an excuse, I had a hard time falling asleep after Chao’s unpredictable behavior. The enigmatic and exhilarating ‘Sweet Trevor’ went around in my head for hours and still hasn’t vanished.

  We are now standing in the kitchen trying to prepare a Sunday breakfast that deserves that name. And we both pretend nothing out of order has happened last night.

  “Chao? Butter? I haven’t seen any in those two fridges.”

  “Have you looked in the dairy fridge?” Chao asks while pouring orange juice into two glasses. He volunteered to search the food storage room for appropriate eatables and has brought back a whole bunch of things, juice included.

  “The dairy fridge? You have a special dairy fridge?” I ask. “Which one of the two is it?”

  “None. The dairy fridge is the small one over there.” He points out the cupboard next to the dishwasher. “Don’t tell me you haven’t looked inside yet.”

  “I do tell you. Because, believe it or not, I don’t spend my time sneak-peek spy-prying around the kitchen.”

  “Only around the swimming pool, I know,” he grins.

  I slap his arm.

  Oh, for the record: my Australian housekeeper is having what one might call a Casual Sunday. Meaning he’s wearing shorts and a polo shirt. Shocking, right? I didn’t even think he possessed garments like these. Of course, he looks as smart and stylish as ever. He’d probably be gorgeous in a potato sack, too.

  I find the butter in the dairy fridge indeed—individual portions like in a hotel—together with some organic yoghurt and a banana that looks a bit out of place in there. I peel and slice the latter and put it into two small bowls, emptying a pot of yoghurt into each.

  We sit outside, the table laden with food: jam and marmalade, the last slices of ham, the butter, the bowls with the fruit, and a pan of scrambled eggs. I’ve prepared our first coffees, and we’ve defrosted two baguettes, which are slightly steaming and crunch when I break them in half.

  While we dig in, we chat about trivial things, avoiding any mention of bodies or bellies or scars or touches or sweet anyones. I shoot surreptitious glances at my table partner, trying to pierce the mysteries he’s hiding behind that good-humored smile and easy banter of his.

  To no avail.

  Wouldn’t it be great if we were like dogs? All they need is a sniff of another dog’s ass, and they instantly know what they need to know: whether they like each other, whether they want to play and frolic together or rather growl and snarl at each other. They even signal it very clearly with wagging tails—no inuendo intended—or flattened ears.

  Whereas we humans must make do with the puzzle other humans represent.

  Chao is a prime example. He’s telling me about an art exhibition he visited in Nice last week, and I cannot appraise what he’s thinking or feeling. Does he regret what happened last night? In his book, did something happen, to start with? Or was it a non-event we never need to mention again?

  I’m so afraid to ask that for once I don’t heed Mom’s advice to put unsaid things on the table. There are moments, I guess, where unsaid things are better left unsaid. Because saying them out loud could ruin a certain pleasant balance that was hard enough to achieve.

  When we’ve finished breakfast, Chao announces he has to leave for another meeting, anyway. So, I’ll probably never find out.

  The house feels much emptier once he has left. I decide that although it’s Sunday I had better work in the library again. That’ll keep me occupied and prevent me from overthinking things.

  I schlep my laptop downstairs, switch the cascade into its open-curtain position, and open the French windows. The room remains cool without AC because of the light breeze caused by the cascade.

  I catalog the stack of books left over from yesterday before preparing two new stacks.

  At eleven, I receive a text message. From Karim. Remember? My ruggedly handsome Amazon delivery man.

  It says, “Hey, cutie. Been thinking of you. You wanna meet today?”

  An emoji accompanies his message. It’s an eggplant.

  I mean, brazen much?

  At least, his saucy overture has the easygoing and outspoken lightness of a dog having sniffed my ass and having liked what he smelled.

  Er, not that Karim has sniffed my ass. You were there, you know I’m not leading you on. But you get my drift.

  Strange, though. Despite the clear signals Karim sent me when I met him yesterday and even though I find him hot, I don’t feel like hooking up with him right now. I feel a slight excitement, however, so I message him back, “Sorry, am busy today. Can we see each other next week?”

  His answer comes so quickly I’m sure he was waiting for my reaction cell phone in hand. “Sure. I take my lunch breaks around one p.m. Text me in the morning, and we can fix a place. You able to come over to Nice?”

  “Yep, I have a car. I’ll text you, promised.” I put my phone down.

  “Can’t wait,” Karim sends back. “What you doing today?”

  “Working.”

  “It’s Sunday, cutie.”

  “I know, but I’m behind schedule.”

  “Aw. Work ethics. That’s sexy.”

  “What are you doing today?”

  “Currently on the beach.” He even sends me a selfie. Baseball cap on his head and sunglasses covering his eyes, he’s grinning into the camera and making the V-sign. I can see a nice and mouthwatering portion of his hairy chest.

  He’s good-looking, in his rugged feet-on-earth way, no doubt about that. He also seems to be a cool guy hiding no secrets or mysteries behind his open smile.

  Without thinking, I text back, “Mmm. Wish I was there. Looks hot.”

  For a second, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Is he one of those guys who only need the slightest of nudges before sending out nude pics? Not that I’d protest like a shy virgin, but I’d be disappointed.

  For your information, yes, I like sex and sexy innuendos. But I also like to be courted. At least a minimum. If sex is gratifying both physically and psychologically, being courted panders to something deeper within me. It tells me I’m worthy of some effort, and that fuels my self-esteem.

  Karim doesn’t send me anything untoward, though. He simply replies, “Wish you were here, too. I’d buy you an ice cream.” He adds the emoji of an ice cream cone.

  That makes me chuckle.

  A good sense of humor is the way to go with me.

  I feel better, somehow, and tackle the next books in a lighter mood. Probably because there’s something I can look forward to, now.

  Something… uncomplicated.

  When Chao comes back from his meeting

  When Chao comes back from his meeting, I’ve finished the library tasks I set myself and am lounging on my deckchair. No need to gasp and fear the worst—I’m not naked. No, I honor my latest gift and am therefore clad in my brand-new designer board shorts that have cost so much money I still have a hard time processing it.

  The housekeeper waves at me from across the swimming pool. I notice he changed before leaving the house this morning. He’s once again wearing a white dress shirt and formal-looking gray pants, holding a jacket in his hand.

  I wave back and shout, “Hi, sunshine. What’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  “How did your meeting go?”

  He shrugs. “It was all right. Things, er, are moving forward.”

  I could ask what things, but I don’t. S
o far, he hasn’t been very forthcoming with information about those meetings. He even seemed less than happy to attend them, so I’m wondering if he isn’t in the middle of a divorce. He’s very young, but divorce, like love, knows no age. That would explain why he never mentions the lady he called his former “girlfriend” the other day. You know, the one he supposedly broke up with recently.

  It’s none of my business, of course. If he wants to talk about the subject, okay. Until then, I’ll remain my good, old, unobtrusive self.

  Don’t you chuckle!

  I sit up on my deckchair, shield my eyes, and give him a once-over. “You look hot,” I say.

  “Why, thank you.”

  His knowing smirk makes me blush. “I didn’t mean it like that, you vain peacock. You look like you should get undressed…”

  “Yeah. I can see why you’d think that.” He puts a hand on his hip and winks, his smirk getting broader and broader.

  “Again, that seems to have come out the wrong way… What I wanted to say was, why don’t you change into swimwear and join me?” I pat the empty deckchair at my side. “Go for a swim, first? Then chill out? Have a glass of wine?”

  “Know what? I might do just that.” He points at me and says, “And I take you up on that glass of wine. Let me take a shower, and I’ll be back.”

  I get the rosé and two wine glasses from the kitchen. Back in my room, I pick up the portable speaker I brought with me. I bring it out to the sundeck, switch it on, and tune my cell in to my favorite chill-out playlist. A Sade tune starts softly playing.

  Fifteen minutes later, Chao steps out of his room. In his white Speedos, which, yummy, yummy. He dives into the pool and swims around for a while. Then he heaves himself out of the water and sinks into the deckchair beside me.

  I hold out his glass of wine.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  We fall silent. What follows is an awkward half hour where Chao tries to pretend he’s perfectly at ease—he isn’t—and I try not to gawp at his stunning body. Difficult to ignore what the see-through quality of minimalistic wet swimwear does to my lust. Thank God for subtle positions where you can hide a hard-on. Oh, and thank God for sunglasses.