How to Bed a Millionaire

by Dieter Moitzi

  “I’m from Paris. And no, I’m not on vacation. I’m working here during the summer.”

  “That’s why I’ve never seen you before.” He gives me another dazzling smile. “And I wouldn’t have forgotten a handsome face like yours, that’s for sure.”

  Hey, wow. My gaydar’s working fine. Because he’s flirting with me, and not a little. ‘Handsome face,’ indeed…

  “Wouldn’t you, now,” I say, smiling back.

  “You staying in Nice?”

  “No, over in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.”

  He whistles. “Fancy. And what a nice coincidence. I live in Beaulieu. That’s right next to Saint-Jean.” He winks. “Like, really right next to it.”

  “Oh. That opens… interesting perspectives.”

  “It does.”

  Chao comes back with a little package in his hands. He overhears the last exchange as he puts the package in the cart, looks at the sales assistant smiling at me, at me smiling at the sales assistant. Then he takes a step closer. And…

  … lays his arm over my shoulder. In a gesture that I can only describe as proprietary. What I can not describe right now is what that gesture does to me.

  The sales assistant’s smile freezes. “You together or something?” he asks.

  “Or something,” I answer. At the same time, Chao says in French, “Together.” He even squeezes my shoulder.

  Er. What? I mean, WHAT?

  I can’t tell you what surprises me more—that he speaks French, that he has answered without hesitating, or what he has just said.

  He squeezes my shoulder again. “Let’s take some tuna steaks, too. What do you think, Trevor? Tuna okay for you?”

  I can only nod, still too stunned to speak.

  The sales assistant’s eyes wander from Chao to me and back again. He seems to make a connection between ritzy Saint-Jean, Chao’s expensive clothes, and my cheap outfit. Maybe he takes me for a hooker or something. Whatever he’s thinking, his initially genuine smile becomes professional. He weighs the breams, wraps them up, and hands them over. “Very well, sirs. I’ll get the tuna…”

  I guess that I’ll never know if only his forearms are hairy.

  It’s not before we reach the dairy section that I come back to my senses and remember to shake off Chao’s arm from my shoulder. “What were you doing back there?” I hiss.

  The housekeeper shrugs. “I thought you wanted me to intervene. That man was clearly flirting with you.”

  “Yes. He was. So what?”

  “You looked uncomfortable with the situation.”

  “Did I?” I turn to face him. “Listen. This is how I look when I’m feeling uncomfortable with a situation.” I pull an exaggeratedly distressed grimace. Then I smile the way I smiled at the strapping sales assistant. “And this is how I look when I’m not.”

  “Well, sorry. I thought…”

  “Don’t do that ever again. Okay?”

  Something seems to dawn on Chao at last. “You dug that guy?” he asks, incredulous. “You wanted to… maybe date him?”

  “What if I did? He was cute.”

  Chao blushes. “Cute?” He shakes his head. “He wasn’t that cute. Plus, I’m sure he smells of fish.”

  “So what? After a good shower, he’ll smell of roses. Or vanilla or whatever.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is Chao… jealous? Is this what it is? Can someone tell me what’s happening?

  I mean, what the fuck? We’re not speaking mixed or muddled signals anymore. We’ve now entered the realm of a foreign language.

  So, if you could explain to me how I should interpret all this, I’d be grateful. Even spell it out while you’re at it. In plain English or plain French, thank you.

  We don’t talk much after that weird incident

  We don’t talk much after that weird incident. I’m really cross with Chao, and somehow Chao seems to be cross with me, too. Which, seriously? I haven’t done anything wrong.

  When a bored cashier has rung up our purchases, Chao utters his first words. “I’ll pay.” He takes out his credit card—a Visa Platinum, of course—and holds it out.

  I swat his hand away. “No, you won’t,” I snarl.

  Which is a very stupid move because, remember, I’m just a poor student and didn’t have my first paycheck yet. Moreover, Chao has filled the cart quite indiscriminately with expensive things we did not put on our shopping list, so the amount I have to pay would have normally made me gasp. Or weep.

  But I’m fuming so much that I don’t care. Does he think he can excuse himself by waving a stupid Platinum debit card around?

  After I’ve paid, we push the cart to the car. The silence between us is as heavy as the heat pressing down on the parking lot. We load our purchases into Sean’s trunk and on the backseats.

  Without speaking, we get in the car. I start the engine and leave the parking lot with squealing tires. Yes, I’m afraid I might be driving a teensy bit aggressively. I don’t even bother opening the sunroof, which just goes to show how upset I am.

  Chao is staring outside, brooding.

  Not one word is exchanged all the way to the old port of Nice. Not one word as we drive up the boulevard that clings to the rocky slopes of the Mont Boron.

  When the Villefranche roads and the Saint-Jean peninsula come into sight, I finally say as calmly as I can, “Care to explain your behavior, Chao?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “I already did.”

  “Well, try again. Because I still don’t understand what got into you.”

  He shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “I guess I thought it was the right thing to do. Maybe I was being a bit too… protective.”

  I can’t figure out if he really believes what he says. “It didn’t feel protective to me. It felt… possessive. And I hate it when people think they own me.”

  “Is that why you didn’t let me pay?” He turns to stare at me.

  “Could be.”

  “I’d call that misplaced pride.”

  “Good for you to know what to call my behavior. Because I still don’t know what I should call yours.”

  Chao sighs with irritation. “I told you—I saw that guy coming on to you, and I wanted to protect you.”

  “From what?” I snap. “A smile? A friendly conversation? Maybe a date? A nice fuck?”

  He flinches as if I had slapped him. “So, you see a cute guy, and you immediately want to hit the sack with him? I thought your friend Dirk was the slut, not you.”

  Which—wow. I grab the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn almost white. “For fuck’s sake, you sanctimonious prick—yes, maybe I found the guy cute! Maybe I toyed with the idea of letting him ask me out! Maybe I even considered getting laid! That’s no crime! Doesn’t make me a slut, either! I didn’t hand that guy a ‘Fuck me now’ note, did I? We were flirting, and if a flirt leads to something more, what’s wrong with that? I’m young, I’m a guy, I’m gay, and I have needs and urges…”

  He flinches again.

  “Stop doing that flinching thing! You’re a guy, too. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you don’t fancy a good fuck now and then.”

  “That’s not something I want to discuss. Might I suggest we remember the deal we had regarding boundaries?” Chao says tonelessly.

  I don’t need to look at him. By the tone of his voice and the poshness of his accent, I know he’s making that austere face again.

  “Boundaries?” I bark. “Boundaries? That’s rich, coming from you! But okay, let’s talk about boundaries. You know that’s a thing that goes both ways. And back there in the supermarket, you clearly overstepped mine. Yours. Ours.” I’m too exasperated to know which one it is. Or to care.

  “You can’t just…”

  “Listen. You’re not to tell me what I can do or with whom. You don’t get to judge me, eit
her. If I fuck a new guy each day, it’s none of your business. I’m a grown man. Okay?”

  He stares outside, teeth clenched. “Message received loud and clear,” he grumbles.

  Life lesson #7

  People I’d love to get all over my skin are also the most likely to get under it.

  Let’s drape a cloth of silence over it, okay?

  Let’s drape a cloth of silence over it, okay? It’s no good dwelling on things that can’t be changed, and fostering negative feelings does nobody a favor. Only leads to peptic ulcers and hair loss.

  Although—fuck, am I furious!

  It would be so useless to tell Chao why. He just wouldn’t understand it. I guess that’s what makes me so furious in the first place. But you—I trust you. I’m sure you get it.

  You know it’s not about the supermarket employee with the hairy forearms, right? Not personally, anyway. I’m not mourning a missed fuck. Well, I am, but only marginally.

  No, what it’s about is… Okay. I don’t find it easy to grasp what, exactly. A missed chance for coupledom and happiness, maybe? A failed opportunity to meet a soulmate and share something with him?

  Or maybe this.

  Chao can’t understand, can’t even imagine what’s going on. Like nine out of ten men, at a guesstimate. That’s because he’s straight. He doesn’t know what a struggle it is to grow up as a gay kid. Even today, even in a dumpy but mildly tolerant village like Sainte-Gudule. It is. You stand out, no matter what. You don’t necessarily want to, but you do.

  Nothing changes when you’ve come out to everybody and are fairly open about your gayness. It’s still a struggle. Not that I’d complain—to be honest, I wouldn’t want to be different from what and who I am.

  But how do you meet other people like you when you’re gay? Hang out exclusively in gay streets, gay bars, gay clubs? And if you want more than just a shag? How do you find that special person destined for you by the gods of fortune? When you meet a guy you like, you can always try to chat him up. Nine times out of ten, however, you know he’ll be straight. Which means, nine times out of ten, you risk life and limb. Yes, even today, these things are a bit like playing Russian Roulette. You never know if the guy you’re trying to flirt with isn’t a fucking homophobic psycho.

  That’s why I for one hate to blow my chances when I do meet a like-minded guy. If the like-minded guy in question is good-looking, and if he smiles at me as though I’m a yummy treat, and if he has hairy forearms and, by what one can detect beneath the unshapely fish-seller uniform, a hot body, that’s a complimentary bonus. But even without details such as these, it always feels nice and flattering when someone flirts with me. Duh.

  If that someone is a guy with whom I could imagine going to bed or spending time or having a longer relationship, it’s outright maddening when someone else shows up and kills the bird in the egg.

  Even if that someone else is a gorgeous master of muddled signals and double standards; even if he’s my newest straight chum who pretends his intentions are good.

  We gays don’t need that kind of interference. I don’t need them, for sure. I haven’t chosen to be gay, but I am. And I want to be allowed to live my life the way I choose. If that means flirting with every single cute guy coming my way, well, then my new straight chum can eat his heart out, because I will flirt.

  And eventually, fuck.

  Or so I hope.

  You see? How could I explain that to Chao? I mean, explain in a way he can relate to? How do you explain being gay to a straight person, anyway? That it’s not about the sex—well, it is, too, but not only—but about so much more?

  To be gay should be nothing special. Some check out women’s asses in the street; others do the same thing with guys’ asses. Should be no big deal. But our world being what it is, to be gay is everything. It sets you apart. You don’t think about it all the time. It’s like when you’re blond or tall or need size forty-four shoes. These characteristics are just there, and they’re there all the time and together with other details define you and permeate your whole being. That’s what is so hard to convey to others, especially those who are different in that aspect.

  Does any of this make sense? Even I don’t know anymore.

  Never mind. I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad you’re so patient.

  For the record: the rest of the drive home consists of heavy silence. When I park Sean under the good old olive tree, we haul our purchases inside. Still without speaking.

  Chao dumps three plastic bags on a kitchen counter, then disappears down the corridor, probably to mope in his room.

  Er, thank you, Chao? Like, we’ve only brought in half of our purchases? A helping hand would have been appreciated?

  What. A. Prick.

  I go back and forth several times before everything is in the kitchen. Then I unpack the bags, put the fresh produce either in the fridge or in small zip bags, which I take down to the freezers in the storage room. I prepare the marinades and the meat. We still have Mom’s last meal for this evening, so I’ll try out the barbecue tomorrow. The longer everything marinades, the better.

  It’s noon, so I eat an apple before I change into my blue gym shorts and finally take refuge in the library downstairs.

  Before I start to work on my book catalog, I send Karim a text message. “I’ll be in town tomorrow. Wanna meet up?”

  He texts me back a minute later. “Thought you’d never ask! Yes! 1 p.m.? On the Castle Hill?”

  “It’s a date.”

  The Nice people are actually nice people

  The Nice people are actually nice people. Their warmth and their smiles come as a welcome change after the frosty atmosphere that we brought to the Kinner summer house after we got back yesterday. Yep, you guessed it: dinner was a silent and unpleasant affair. Apart from the background noises—pool, birds, cicadas, distant waves—the only sound you could hear was that of our forks and knives scraping over our plates.

  This morning’s breakfast turned out to be just as icicled and taciturn. I felt so oppressed that I didn’t dither and left immediately afterward. I was down to my very last half-decent T-shirt anyway—half-decent meaning the sniff test didn’t make me recoil—so I decided I’d do a bit of sightseeing and shopping before my meeting with Karim. You know, a little pleasure before the pleasure.

  I park in one of the parking garages in the center. When I see the price, I almost have second thoughts, though. Christ, fifteen euros for the couple of hours I’ll be staying seems… harsh. Then I tell myself, Accept it as the price for handiness.

  I stroll through the Old Town and have a coffee and a croissant in a nice café. It’s situated on a busy square facing the cathedral. While sipping my hot drink, I notice how many young people are milling about. Talk about a surprise! From what I’ve heard, the French Riviera can be compared to Florida. Basically, it’s a place where the elderly and old flock. In the thousands. That’s why I thought I’d only see retired people. But no. There are loads of youngsters, many of them very pleasant to look at.

  Well, I won’t complain. The sun is shining, handsome youths in tight summer clothes are all around me, things look brilliant, life is smiling, so what can I do? I smile back.

  After the coffee, I do my tourist thing for over an hour, wandering aimlessly and idly through the narrow alleyways of the Vieille Ville with its colorful buildings, its shops, restaurants, and ice cream parlors, enjoying the dainty and picturesque character of my surroundings. Don’t ask me how many photos I take because I stop counting after fifty. Really, Nice is worth a visit. I could even imagine living here, actually. Not only because of the many handsome dudes I come across.

  I end up on the Promenade des Anglais, the world-famous, seven-kilometer walkway that extends from the airport to the Colline du Château, the Castle Hill on my left. I breathe in the salty air and enjoy the atmosphere of the beach below me. Peo
ple are sunbathing, chatting, swimming, playing with their kids. Everyone’s tanned and happy and relaxed. I even walk down to the shore and dip my feet in the surprisingly warm waters of the Mediterranean.

  After that, I sit down on a bench and type in some quick Google searches. I have some shopping to do, remember?

  The main thoroughfare turns out to be just around the corner.

  That’s neat. It’s way too hot to do kilometer-long hikes through the city.

  After twenty minutes, I find a Celio outlet5 and treat myself to two new pairs of shorts and four T-shirts, all on sale. I also buy a pair of cargo pants. On the face of it, I can’t afford them as they’re not on sale. But on the other hand, they underline the perkiness of my ass, and I persuade myself I look positively devastating in them. So there. Pampering oneself has no price.

  After I’ve paid, I ask the young girl behind the cash desk if I could use the changing room. She smiles indulgently—probably because of all the money she has just cashed in—and says, “Of course, no problem.” She leads me to the cubicles at the back of the shop.

  I quickly undress, then slip into one of the new tees and the cargo pants, remembering just in time to take off the long, transparent size-sticker on them.

  A quick glance in the mirror—well, I can live with what I’m seeing. It’s the best I can do with the scrawny raw material I brought, anyway.

  The young sales assistant gives me a thumbs-up when I leave her shop. She sure pays back my expenses in positive reinforcement.

  While I’m slowly meandering through the charming labyrinth of the Old Town once more, I check my watch.

  Oh. I still have an hour to go. Fu…dge.

  Throwing all caution to the wind, I decide I need a teensy bit of alcohol to steady my nerves. Don’t bother telling me how foolish that is—normally, I don’t drink when driving. But I’m starting to get fidgety. If I were an actor, which I’m totally not, I’d call it stage fright. Maybe it’s date fright? Is that a thing?