by Lexi Whitlow
“Sometimes you need to say things out loud. Doesn’t matter exactly who is listening.” I shrug and take the joint from in front of her, digging out a lighter from my pocket and burning the end, inhaling so that it’s started now.
“Share this joint with me, and tell me your name. I’ll take you around the city.”
She laughs, raspy and rich. “You’ll play tour guide and ask me questions about my personal life while you’re creepily trying to—what—take me home after that, like all the other girls? No thanks. Last night, I saw you propped up outside a bar in the bad part of town—”
“It’s not bad exactly. It’s historic. And it’s got a historic reputation. Some people come just to stay there. Because it’s so—historic.” And yes, it’s not exactly the best part of town.
“Sure it is. Tell me why I need a tour guide. Seriously. I’ve been going around Europe for months without anyone bothering me. Tell me why I need one now, and I’ll tell you what.” She takes the joint from me and inhales, coughing. When she catches her breath, she hands the joint back to me and shakes her head like she’s not especially interested in taking a second puff. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll consider it if you can give me a good reason why.”
“The city’s a lot more fun with someone to talk to. I’ll take you to the best restaurants, and I know a few people who can get it us into the museums after hours. No crowds.” This isn’t a thing I do—take girls around to places with me. My life is solitary, but something about her makes me want to know her, if only for a few days. And a few days is all I give, especially now.
“Special museum friends? That’s all you’ve got, isn’t it? I don’t have museums on my list for today. I was going to walk some more and check out the fountains.” She sips her coffee and grins at me cheekily, and I wonder if she might be feeling something from the joint. I take a puff and offer it to her again. To my surprise, she takes it.
I watch as she inhales again. This time she doesn’t cough. When I take it back, I finish it up and reach forward to grab a bite of her pastry. “I’m good for walking tours too. I know all the best pastries so I can repay you for part of this one. I know the best coffee so we can keep walking all day, and I know several old bookstores that I think you might like. Maybe I’ve got you figured all wrong, but those seem like things you might enjoy.”
She waves her hand and pushes the rest of the pastry my way. “Those are all nice reasons to walk with someone.” Her eyes are the slightest bit glazed over now, and she finishes the final gulp of her coffee. “But I don’t think you know what you’re in for. And I don’t know why you’re so insistent.”
“What am I in for? Besides a good day? What’s so terrifying about you?”
“I’m depressing,” she says flatly. I imagine the words are coming more honestly now that she’s very slightly high. “I walk through all these places and take it all in, but I don’t know really why I’m traveling. Not anymore. My sister told me I should and that I should meet people and get laid, but I don’t know anymore. She died a year ago and—now I’m rambling.” She sits back and sighs, then reaches forward to grab the remaining pastry. She peels away several layers of flaky crust and pops them in her mouth.
“That doesn’t sound out of the norm for someone who lost the person they were closest to. Tell me your name, and we’ll spend the day together. That’s all I ask for now—one day.”
Just then, my favorite waitress brings by my normal order—an apple pastry and a large, black coffee. The girl eyes me suspiciously. “Do they know you here?”
“It happens to be my favorite cafe. I was going to ask if you were stalking me, but chance meetings happen all the time in this city. It’s a smaller town than you might realize. In some ways, that is.”
“Okay,” she says, stealing a bite of my breakfast. I don’t think she realizes I didn’t ask a question.
“Okay what?” I sip at my coffee, blowing on it. A breeze starts to roll through, signaling the coming autumn.
“Okay, you can be my tour guide. Tomorrow I’m going to the museums. Or the next day. I think. Today, I guess we do what you want.”
I grin. “You forgot to tell me your name.”
“Mallory.”
“I’m Matthias. And I promise—I’ll make today worth your while.”
Chapter Four
Mallory
“You can stay here, you know. I promise I won’t try to sleep with you. Not tonight anyway.” The grin he gives me causes a deep heat that starts in my belly and spreads to my upper thighs. It’s been a long time—years maybe—since I felt something like that. In college, I poured myself into my design work, and it wasn’t often that I let myself get involved in anything more than a one-night stand. There had been a few boys here and there, and maybe one made me feel that thing—the thing I felt when I first saw Matthias, the thing I’m feeling now that I’m standing in the middle of his giant fucking house in the middle of one of the most expensive cities in Europe. In the most expensive part of town.
From outside, the building looks the same as every other building in the neighborhood—old, regal, quaint. But inside, it’s decked out with light hardwood floors and sparkling white countertops, furniture that was unmistakably hand-crafted.
The whole thing makes me nervous.
“I have an Air BnB place down the street. It’s not even that far.”
“Can you be sure it doesn’t have bedbugs?” He grabs an apple from a bowl of fruit that sits decoratively on the warm wood of his dining room table. “Or that it’s not infested with mice? It’s an old city. There are plenty of places people rent out that aren’t on the more savory side of things.”
“This guy’s a super host. I think that means he can’t have bedbugs.” Matthias bends over, to pick up what looks like a camera bag, and I catch myself glancing at his shirt as it rides up on his back. And god help me, his very fine ass and legs in those jeans. It’s clear enough that he takes care of his body, that it’s probably higher on the list of priorities for him than it is for someone who doesn’t live a life of leisure. “I think I’ll just stay there. That seems like the best idea. You can take me around the city—that’s fine—but I paid for that place, and I don’t know you—”
“Not much to know. I’m a deadbeat, like you said. But I’m fun.” He slings the camera bag over his shoulder and raises his arms in an open gesture. Like, Here I am. This is what you get.
And Christ on a bike, he does look like he’s fun. There’s a sparkle in his deep green eyes, and he has the casual demeanor of someone whose life has been easy. Really easy.
I’m already traveling around Europe by myself before graduate school—why wouldn’t I want to be with someone like him? It only makes sense that I’d let him take me around. And while we’re at it, it only makes sense that I’d be attracted to him. Not that I have to sleep with him to get the full experience—just walking next to him might make me feel slightly better about life.
Matthias gives me a crooked grin and then steps past me to open the door that leads down to the street. His body brushes against mine, and I suppress a shudder that would surely give away what I’m feeling. Which is… what exactly?
You’re just needy for human interaction, Mal. This guy is good for a day in Amsterdam, and that’s it.
He’ll definitely look good walking next to you, for sure. And he’d look even better lying across a bed. My sister’s voice rings out in my brain, and I try to silence it as I run down the steps toward the street.
“Do you own this building?” I say, looking back to the tall brick edifice. “None of the other apartments have names on them.”
“Good observation,” he says, shrugging. “What if I do? Does that make me more attractive to you or less? I’m going for more attractive, in case you were wondering.”
I feel color coming to my cheeks, and I don’t quite have my bearings after sleeping for so short a time. I’m not entirely sure where we’re going—and I don’t have any idea ho
w to answer the question he just posed. “I—I don’t know.”
“My family owns it. I’ll go with the honest route. But I have plenty of my own money. I sell my photos to magazines. I gamble, and I’m good at it. I save every cent of it.” He lifts his hand in a dismissive gesture, as if to dismiss his family, the owners of the old stone building where he lives and brings women every weekend.
“Gambling? That’s what you were doing when you got that bruise. Wasn’t it? A little dangerous for an ordinary autumn weekend.”
“It isn’t quite autumn,” he replies, leading me on through streets of the city I didn’t pass in any of my walking. “It’s early September still. It’s just cooler than it is here than—where did you say?”
“Florida. It’s always summer there. Not the pleasant kind, either. It’s nice here in Europe. Not humid.” We pass by a line of coffee shops where a string of American tourists sit, smoking pot and talking loudly. “What is this—where are we going?”
“Back to the Red Light District,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Red Light District? I go there every day.
“I’ve been there.” My voice comes out rather pinched when I say that, like I have a problem with the Red Light District.
“Not like I have. Did you go to the stores on Spuistraat? I have a feeling you need to loosen up. And you might need a souvenir from your time in Amsterdam.”
I stop in my tracks. “You don’t mean—”
“Americans,” he says, huffing and walking ahead of me. He takes his camera out of his bag and snaps a quick picture of me, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, flanked by trees that have just started to change color. And here I am, an American as plain as day, with a shocked expression on my face because a man hinted that I might need some kind of sex toy souvenir from the heart of Amsterdam’s most debauched activities. “Have you ever used anything to enhance…. mmm.” He pauses as if searching for the right words, then takes another picture of me standing there in the middle of the street. “Nighttime activities?”
“No—I—” I gulp. “I never needed to.”
“No one needs to. We all have hands.” He holds his fingers up as if to demonstrate, and for some reason, I turn uncomfortably hot. “But these things are made to make life a little more fun and interesting. Don’t you think that life can be a little more fun and interesting? Or did you come to Europe just to be depressed?”
“I didn’t—I’m not—well, I guess I did say I was depressing.” I laugh and cover my face with my hands. He knows he’s put me on the spot, and he comes up and takes my arm, walking with me back toward the Red Light District and whatever kind of store he’s leading me to.
“How about we look at a few toys that will make you less depressed? Guaranteed to lift your spirits.”
I can’t ignore the heat spreading through my sex, so for once, I decide not to dispel it. Instead, I let him lead me closer to the place we met. We turn down another tree-lined street that opens onto a broad street, covered in colorful street art and graffiti. We’re closer to the city center than we are to the Red Light District, but there are enough coffee shops and bars, and seedy-looking shops that I know we must be on the outskirts of Amsterdam’s most famous spot. I spot a shop and see the lingerie and videos advertised inside and blush hard, stopping and pretending to take pictures of the street with my phone. “This is… vibrant. I think I passed by this street on the north end.”
“You didn’t come where I’m taking you.” He emphasizes the word “come” very slightly, like he’s biting his tongue and trying not to say anything else. “Lean against that wall there, Mallory. I like that background.”
Behind me, I see the wall he’s talking about. On it, there’s a painting of a tall, pear-shaped naked woman. Surrounding her is graffiti of all kinds. It’s more pop art than the art I came here for, but I can see why he likes it. Tentatively, I put my bag down and go to lean against the wall, cocking up one knee. My white skirt drapes over it, and Matthias snaps a picture before I can smile.
“I didn’t even pose—”
“Did you say you were going to design school? You should know that not every good picture is posed. In fact, very few of them are.”
“I’m a designer and a seamstress. I didn’t study photography.”
Matthias walks up to me and takes my hand, a surprisingly intimate gesture.
“You have a lot to learn,” he says, leaning in. I half expect him to kiss me, and my heart starts racing fast, beating so that the noise drowns everything out. Instead, he picks up his camera and takes another picture, the lens a breath away from my face. “Beautiful,” he says.
Camera around his neck, he takes my hand. I pull my fingers away, almost like I’ve been burned. It’s an instinctive reaction—it’s not because I don’t want to be touched by him. It’s the opposite. His fingertips touching mine give me an incredible shock, jolting straight to my center, arousal rushing through my veins and giving me an undeniable yearning. To his credit, he moves his hand to my shoulder and guides me down Spuistraat, pointing out his favorite street art and explaining how the street got to be so colorful. At last, we reach a quiet part of the street, headed toward the Red Light District. For something that’s supposed to be so harsh and forbidding, this area, all cobblestone and flowering bushes, seems quite nice.
“We’re here,” he says.
“We’re where?”
“The shop I had intended to take you to. There’s a woman here who knows exactly what her clients want, and you’re exactly the type of client she loves best.”
I look across the street and see a small white building with a pink sign. It’s brick or stone, like most of the buildings here, and the exterior looks classy rather than garish. But with the black lingerie—and leather—displayed in the window, it’s clear what kind of place this is. My stomach drops, and I laugh nervously. “I don’t think we’ve known each other quite long enough—”
“Nonsense. It’s a classy place. Female and Partners—it’s unique among the shops here. All for girls, all very lovely and refined. And we’re just two friends, browsing for the sake of entertainment.”
“So we don’t have to buy anything, right?” I chew my lip, and he starts to drag me across the street, hand on the back of my arm.
“I didn’t say that. Estelle is an old friend. I’d be ashamed to go in her shop and not get anything.”
“Matthias—I’ve never—” We’re at the door now, and he ushers me in, the shop bell ringing to alert everyone inside that we’ve arrived.
“That goes without saying, Mal. You’ve never been in a place like this. You’ve never used a vibrator—”
“Matthias!” A petite woman walks over to us and puts a hand on Matthias’s arm. She starts talking in Dutch, and I look down, my eyes exploring the white carpet instead of the walls and rows full of sexual paraphernalia.
“Estelle, this is Mallory,” Matthias says to her in English. “She’s never been to a shop like yours. And she might need some assistance choosing the right kind of thing.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say blandly. “I think I might just be looking today.”
“Impossible. If you’ve never used any helpful aids before, I can show you just where to get started. I can promise you won’t want to leave empty handed.” She looks back at Matthias and winks at him. “And Matthias won’t want you empty handed either. It’s been years since he’s brought a girl here. You must be quite special.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I feel that unwelcome pressure building inside of me again. When I look back, Matthias is staring at me. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches with amusement as Estelle guides me over to the wall at the far end of the store—the shelves positively lined with vibrators.
“This is our beginner section, dear. I think we’ll find something perfect for you. Do you like simple vibration, or do you think you’ll want internal stimulation as well?” She smiles, motherly and kind, a jarring world of difference betwee
n her and my own mother. This woman, she’s kind. And strangely to me, she doesn’t believe that sex is the deadliest sin of all. Instead, she sells it for a living. I stand, stunned, my eyes roaming over all manner of pink and purple silicone—some smaller than a tube of lipstick and some quite a bit larger than any man’s anatomy that I’ve seen.
“I guess I—” I look back to Matthias for encouragement.
“Always go for the internal stimulation. Then it serves a dual purpose. Or maybe we should get you both. I think it might be good for you to have a variety in your arsenal. For an adventurous girl like yourself.”
“Um.” The blood seems to rush to my head all at once, arousal pooling between my legs. I’d never even considered something vibrating there before. Good God. What have I gotten myself into? “Maybe show me one of each?”
Estelle nods, like she knows exactly where I’m coming from. “Maybe this one.” She plucks a small, sleek-looking vibrator from the shelf. The shape of it is curved so that it would fit the shape of the female body. I swallow hard and feel myself starting to perspire at the very top of my forehead. But Estelle carries on, placing the contraption in my hand and letting her fingers roam over the other store samples. “Don’t worry, lieverd. The floor samples are all only for show, not for practice.” Estelle selects another vibrator from the shelf, this time a thick phallus-like thing of seven inches or more. It’s bright green, and the head curves inward.
“For the g-spot. Good selection.” Matthias’s voice rings out behind us, and I blush even harder, if that’s possible.
“I think maybe that’s enough—” I fidget with the thing in my hands and then set it down next to me, barely able to concentrate. I feel Matthias’s eyes lingering on my backside, and I can’t help but think of him and these devices, and the women he may or may not have used them with.
But Estelle keeps picking out toys, some of them long and thick, some shorter and squatter. “And the Lelo. Very reasonably priced for being so effective. I have two myself.”