Going Down For The Count

by David Stukas

  I was perplexed. “What, the catfight?”

  “No, no. The way you fend off Michael when he clearly has designs on me.”

  “So you’ve noticed that already?” I asked, amazed at his perception.

  “I could see it in the way he acted last night. He was crushed I did not fall for him.”

  I was desperate to figure out where he and I stood, so I went for it. “Did you fall for me, Siegfreid?”

  “Absolutely. I am very interested in you. You are so simple, yet so complex.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told by several psychologists I have a complex. Mainly guilt.”

  “See, and there you go being funny again! So many things to like about you. Robert?” he asked, looking into my eyes—I think. It was difficult to tell with the ever present sunglasses. My clue was the way his head faced. It was like I was dating Helen Keller.

  “Yes, Siegfreid?”

  “I know it is perhaps very soon in our meeting each other, but I want to take you back to my hotel room and make love to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Siegfreid. I didn’t quite hear what you said. It sounded like you said you wanted to take me back to your room and make love with me—but I know that couldn’t be.”

  “No, I’m serious. Right now! I know it sounds, how do you say, pushy, but it just seems so right. Shall we go?”

  My heart melted and, like Bob Dole getting his first prescription of Viagra, I felt what I hadn’t in a long time: a hard-on.

  2

  My, What a Big Crown You Have!

  Needless to say, we did go back to his expansive suite at the Pierre Hotel and we made mad, passionate love for three hours. It started tenderly and ended with such force we knocked over several large pieces of furniture in the process. It was the best I had ever experienced. Well, the only I had experienced lately.

  He had food delivered to the room and we just stayed in and looked into each other’s eyes—his green eyes staring intently into mine during a rare moment when he took his sunglasses off. On Sunday, it was more romance. We had a picnic in Central Park and went to the Museum of Modern Art, where Siegfreid told me all about Kurt Schwitters and about the paintings of his he had in his collection. Then he took me out for an incredible dinner where we talked and talked. Then back to his suite for more lovemaking. When Monday morning rolled around, I thought I had reached the limit of my lovemaking. After all, Cinderella had to leave the ball while she could still walk. But a guy’s gotta eat, so off to the advertising agency I went.

  When I got there and opened the door to my windowless office (it had formerly been a telephone equipment room), a surprise greeted me. My office looked like Hillary Clinton’s bedroom the day after the former first lady found out about Monica Lewinsky’s unorthodox ways of smoking a cigar with Bill. Orchids, roses, lilies—you name it—were there in every size, shape, and form.

  Fellow workers gathered around my doorway, waiting to find out who my admirer was.

  “A German count, if you must know!” I said, putting an end to their speculation.

  They laughed and slowly drifted away, not realizing I had told the truth. See, even my coworkers didn’t believe my budding romance (pun intended—never mind).

  I gathered the cards from each bunch and arrangement and opened them one by one. They all said the same thing:

  To the love that has bloomed between us. May I see you again?

  (And your stamen, too?)

  Count Siegfreid von Schmidt

  Not only was the count in love, but in lust, too. I smiled at his bawdy joke, grateful for the fact that a count could be not only amorous, but randy.

  I sat down and my heart began to race. It was really happening! Me, in love with a German count. I had to tell someone. Michael was out for obvious reasons. So I called my dear friend Monette, the lesbian who helped Michael and me beat a murder rap we were framed for a year ago in Provincetown.

  “So spill the dirt! Are you a princess yet?”

  “No, but I’ve been deflowered, then buried in them.”

  “So what was it like?”

  “Monette! Isn’t that kind of personal?”

  “OK, if you don’t want to tell me . . .” she said, setting the bait.

  I waited only a millisecond before I bit. “It was wonderful!”

  “You’ve got to tell me more than that! I haven’t had sex since New York was part of Gondwanaland, so I need to live vicariously through others.”

  “Shouldn’t you choose a lesbian to live through?”

  “What do you take me for? I don’t need—or want—to know the number of thrusts per minute or the length of his glockenspiel. Just tell me about what it’s like to make love to a count.”

  “Well, Monette, for starters, he wore his lederhosen and crown while we had sex.”

  “Kinky!”

  “To tell you the truth, he’s really good in bed. I mean, the best I’ve ever had.”

  “That’s not saying much. Oh, Goddess, please don’t take that the wrong way, Robert. You know I love you, but you have to realize our love lives have basically sucked.”

  “No harm taken. Anyway, gay men should take a lesson from this guy. He seems to be the only guy who understands the meaning of being passionate. He starts seducing you. Then he’s very sensuous—with his hands, I mean. Rubbing them gently all over you. Tender, yet firm. Reassuring. Then he builds and builds, higher and higher, then backing off, then up again, yet higher this time. Then relenting a bit, then higher still. Hours flew by! Then he takes you to the top, and you’ve become this animal, I tell you. You’ve writhing and slithering all over the room, tearing it up in the process. It’s the most romantic yet wild sex I’ve ever had, Monette!” There was silence on the other end of the phone, yet I could tell she was still there. “Monette? Monette?”

  More silence. Then a few words managed to dribble out of Monette’s mouth. “Go on, Robert. I think I just had an orgasm.”

  “You’re just faking it! Did I tell you about the mink mittens he wore?”

  “No kidding!”

  “Yes, he put them on and ran them all over my body! It was so refreshing to have a date use his hands to excite me and not to relieve me of my wallet.”

  “So what’s next for you and the count? Marriage in Holland? White stag hunting in the Bavarian forest?”

  “I don’t know. We’re just to the flowers stage. But, Monette, I’m really in love, I tell you!”

  “That’s fantastic! It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. If anyone deserves it, you do.”

  “Thank you, Monette. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said. I mean it.”

  “Well, I care for you, Robert. You’ve supported me through numerous breakups, including the last one.”

  “With the woman who wore feather-covered combat boots and brought a crow to work in a cage? How could I forget? I mean, she followed you around the city for weeks screaming caw, caw after you broke up with her.”

  “Your plan to get rid of her was brilliant,” Monette admitted.

  “I thought wearing that stuffed tiger tail out of the back of your pants and painting whiskers on your face would do the trick.”

  “I certainly appreciate your help with the Bird Woman. And I still have to thank you for bailing me out of jail for following Ellen DeGeneres too closely.”

  “That’s what friends are for, Monette.”

  “Right. Now, don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way.”

  “Monette, give me a little credit.”

  “Good,” Monette continued. “Have you ever wondered why the count would be interested in you?”

  “Could you repeat that, Monette? I was distracted while withdrawing a knife from my back.”

  “You know what I mean. It seems a little far-fetched. I’m not trying to rain on your parade, but you need to be cautious. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “You sound like he might be using me. Listen, Monette, if he had some kind of fiendish plot up his
Hugo Boss shirtsleeve, I’m sure there are plenty of men in Germany he could use. Why come all the way to America?”

  “I don’t know, Robert. It just seems a little . . . not quite right.”

  “Monette, I don’t know if he’s really in love with me, but he makes a darned good attempt. But you haven’t spent time with him like I have. I think maybe he’s tired of all the fakery that comes with being a count and having money. Maybe it’s like in Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn. He’s tired of being a count and he wants a real down-to-earth guy like me who will love him for being a regular person.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “You know, between you, Michael, my parents, and the Catholic church, it’s a wonder I have any self-esteem left at all.”

  “I didn’t know you had any to begin with.”

  “Well, I do, and as a matter of fact, it’s one of the things the count loves about me.”

  “Your low self-esteem?”

  “That’s your interpretation. I prefer to call it my vulnerability. He says he wants to wrap his arms around me and protect me. Like a frightened bird.”

  “You’re joking! That’s nauseating!”

  “Well, the way he said it, it sounded better. He put a little German accent on it and it sounded wonderful.”

  “I’m sure he could tell you to go stick your head into an orangutan and it would sound good to you. Well, take it easy and enjoy yourself. But be careful. Oh, and find out some more about him while you’re at it. For my sake . . . and yours.”

  “The next time I see him, I’ll grill him thoroughly.”

  “And when will that be?” Monette queried, letting me know her radar was up and trained on the count.

  “Tonight. I hope.”

  I knew the wheels were turning in Monette’s head. “Well, have a good time. And call me and report what you found.”

  “I will.” As I hung up the phone, I wondered whether I should’ve told her about the fact that the count wore his sunglasses while having sex.

  I spent the next few hours writing a brochure for a client whose overpriced and completely unnecessary home furnishings typified nouveau riche conspicuous consumption combined with new-age materialism. But at least these ridiculous items paid my bills. And it gave me something to work on besides the client to which I was regularly assigned—feminine hygiene products.

  The Hemingway Clothes Hook ............$34.95

  When Hemingway traveled to Africa for numerous safaris, he found the one thing he most missed about civilization was having a proper place to hang his pants. This beautiful hook is in homage to Hemingway and his very special need. Born in the same spirit of the African wilderness Hemingway once traveled, our hook is hand cast in brass and covered with several coats of hand-rubbed shellac to preserve its handsome burnish. The timeless styling will look perfect in any home decor.

  It was a goddamned clothes hook made in Kenya for twenty-nine cents, then shipped to the United States, where an astronomical markup was applied, most likely to pay for the expensive stores that sold this stuff, their catalogs, and the people who wrote them. Yes, dear friends, this is what I did for a living—if you’d call it that.

  Now you can imagine what went through my mind when I began to think about the count—a life of privilege I’d only dreamed about. The count flew on chartered private jets for the most part, didn’t worry about the cost of a pair of really cool shoes, and didn’t frantically try to reanimate dead house plants because he felt he couldn’t afford replacements.

  Of course, thinking about the life the count led naturally took me in the direction of thinking about the kind of life I could have with him. After all, it was very possible the count could present me with expensive gifts such as a Rolex Oyster Submariner wristwatch (the one with the black face and date/time and water-resistant to one hundred meters). I would have to learn to accept these tokens with grace, since to refuse them could cause insult to the count. After all, foreign customs are a tricky thing, and it’s best to go with the flow in such matters. The count, being a generous soul, would no doubt not stop with a mere wristwatch. There would be clothes, trips to exotic locations, and maybe a Jackson Pollock for a Christmas present. Only one hundred eighty-six shopping days left!

  The phone rang, jarring me from my daydream of instant riches. “Robert Willsop.”

  “This is Siegfreid. Did you get my gifts?”

  “They’re lovely. I liked your card, too.”

  “Since your office is so close to where I am, I would like to take you to lunch. I have a table reserved at Litmus at twelve-thirty. Can I expect you?” the count said, with just a hint of begging. This was too nice.

  “Well, I was going to get a hot dog from a pushcart vendor on the street, but I guess Litmus will do.” This guy is unbelievable, I thought. He seems to know all the New York hot spots. It was as if he read everything published about New York.

  “Excellent! I will see you there at twelve-thirty,” he said excitedly, then hung up.

  I got the feeling he was going to spring a surprise on me at the restaurant. A gift, maybe? I had my hopes pinned on the Brandenburg gate, but I was afraid it might not fit in my studio apartment.

  My intuition was right. When I arrived at Litmus, there was a beautifully wrapped package sitting on the table, just screaming for me to open it. As I sat down, I tried to remain nonchalant.

  “For me! Siegfreid, you shouldn’t have!” I said, feigning surprise. “And I didn’t bring anything for you!”

  The count was as charming as always. “You have brought me the most precious gift in the world. You.”

  “Oh gosh,” I gushed, then realized I had sounded like a hayseed from Indiana. Oh gosh? I sounded like the kind of person who called his grandfather his grandpappy. Had I checked my overalls to make sure there was no manure on them before I sat down? I waited the obligatory three seconds before asking if I should open the gift now.

  The count laughed. “No, Robert, it is an ancient German custom to buy an exquisite gift for someone, then not let them open it. Ever.”

  For a second, I believed him. He then chuckled and motioned to me to open the gift.

  I began to tear at it like Morton Downey Jr. expecting a kilo of booger sugar inside, then caught myself. Manners, Robert! Good breeding. Remember with whom you’re dealing. Best not to be thought the greedy, ugly American.

  The paper gave way to reveal what was obviously an elaborate box containing a wristwatch with the most wondrous word in the world on top: Rolex. The box opened like a graceful scallop, revealing a gold watch, but not the Oyster Submariner. A flash of disappointment spread across my face, but I was able to hide my despair when I thought of the incredible sentiment behind the gift . . . and the comfort of knowing I could probably trade it in for the model I liked, with cash back to boot.

  “Look on the back. I had it inscribed,” the count said, beaming with pride.

  In regal-looking lettering were the words that explained his intentions with no mistake:

  Robert von Schmidt.

  (Please make it so.)

  I was so touched, a few errant tears escaped from my eyes. Then another thought went through my mind: I could forget about trying to trade it. (Why did I have this thought now? Jesus! One minute I’m Doris Day and the next I’m a ravenous gold digger hoping my rich husband has a bad heart. Care to go white-water rafting, dear?)

  “Oh, Siegfreid, this is the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received!” I lied. The best gift I ever got was a motorized car park for my Matchbox miniature cars when I was nine. But times change.

  “Will you become Robert von Schmidt?” he asked, looking into my eyes with such honesty and eagerness I was afraid that to say no would shatter him completely.

  “You want me to take your name, Siegfreid? That’s very serious.”

  “I am serious, Robert. I want you to go off and live with me ... forever.”

  “Woah. This is so overwhelming, Siegfreid. Are you sure thi
s isn’t too soon? I mean, we have great times together . . .”

  “ . . . and sex,” the count reminded me.

  “Yes, that too. But you don’t know a lot about me.”

  “So you are a murderer. Or an international art thief. I am still crazy about you.”

  “Siegfreid, I truly love you, but this is all so sudden.”

  “Please, Robert. You must come to Germany with me to live.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Siegfreid. The only German word I know is schmuck, which means penis.”

  “It does in Yiddish, but in German schmuck means jewels.”

  “See, I can’t even speak German! There’s so much to think about. I don’t know.”

  “Robert, come away with me. I will show you the world.”

  “Siegfreid, I don’t even have a passport. And my vaccinations aren’t up to date. I don’t think right now is such a good time. I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Robert, you must come away with me. I won’t accept no for an answer.”

  “I don’t know, Siegfreid. After all, I have a job to consider.”

  “Robert, come live with me, and you’ll never have to work again.”

  “Never?”

  “Never, Robert.”

  “When do we leave?”

  3

  Take a Walk on the Wild Side

  After work, I met Siegfreid at his hotel and we made passionate love. We actually broke some more furniture in the process. For the first time in my life, I was living with wild abandon and I didn’t care one bit. Of course, life is so much more carefree when someone else is picking up the tab, a fact to which Jane Fonda could no doubt attest.

  We went out to dinner that night to celebrate my decision to become Mr. Robert von Schmidt. And, as usual, Siegfreid picked one of the hottest restaurants to go to: Desert.

  We got a prime table immediately. Within seconds of sitting down, a bottle of champagne magically appeared.