Copyright Anita Fontana, 2022
Openings
It was kind of a drizzly snow, and I didn’t want to go out that night because my hair always loses its curl in that kind of weather. But my friend, Glen, who rented a cramped studio with two other painters in the gallery district, had persuaded me to go to the Friday night openings. “I’m determined to educate you about real art,” he vowed. “Not those crappy framed posters you have hanging in your apartment!” I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I wasn’t very excited about being “educated.” Beside the weather and concern for my hair, I thought art was the 500-year-old, dust-covered, pompous stuff in museums.
It was early November and, crammed into the back seat of the cab, four of us were talking turkey.
Joannie, munching on nacho cheese corn chips, asked: “So Paula, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” with a “you poor little orphan” look on her face.
I was divorced and my only family, my sister, lives on the East Coast and we don’t get together on holidays. I had received a few invitations, but I still hadn’t decided how I was going to spend Turkey Day.
“I’m not sure,” I said, brushing cheese powder off my skirt and sidestepping her question until I could make up my mind.
“I don’t believe in Thanksgiving,” Glen said, smugly. “We’re celebrating the friendly takeover of a native people that continues to this day. I’m going to volunteer at a soup kitchen. At least I might be helping one or two homeless Native Americans,” he sniffed.
“Kevin and I have been invited to his family’s house for Thanksgiving,” Robert said. “You can come with us for moral support, Paula, if you want to. I’m so nervous,” he shuddered. “It’s the first time I’m meeting his family and all he’s told them is that we’re ‘just friends.’ I hope I can keep my food down.”
Thinking I might have trouble keeping my food down, I sidestepped his invitation with a “I’ll get back to you” and looked out the window.
When we arrived at the gallery district, I was thrust into a carnival-like atmosphere—hundreds of people, dressed mostly in black, crowded the streets and doorways of the galleries.
“I’m surprised to see so many people out in such crummy weather,” I said, my mouth agape at the enormous gathering of eccentrics.
“Oh, nobody cares about the weather,” Robert said. “Anyone who is anyone and wants to be seen goes to the Friday night gallery openings. I just wish Kevin had been able to come,” he sighed, looking dejected.
“Yeah,” Glen chimed in. “All the galleries offer free wine on opening night so they’re popular gathering places for hipster wannabes and art freaks who dress all in black, travel in packs, faces stiff as cardboard, profusely smoking or vaping.” He finished with an exaggerated imitation of smoking.
“What a bunch of weirdos,” Joannie mumbled, popping a handful of M&Ms into her mouth.
Although most everyone wore black, there was an obvious competition for the most fashionably hip. The required dress for the men included a neat ponytail or a man bun while the women sported garish makeup and bizarre, colorful hairdos. I observed that none of the packs seemed the slightest bit interested in the artwork; only in standing around looking bored and making judgmental comments to each other about everyone else in the room.
I, on the other hand, was fascinated, drifting from one painting to the next. Periodically, I noticed the “people in black” firing disapproving looks in my direction because, I assumed (a) I wasn’t wearing black, and (b) I was actually looking at the artwork! How gauche. I ignored them.
I had never experienced abstract art up close. I didn’t understand what the artist was trying to convey and the titles of the pieces—“Breakfast in Budapest,” which displayed no breakfast or any scenes of Budapest, or “Window to the Soul” which had neither a window nor anything that might resemble a soul—made no sense. But his work touched me on a visceral level; a new experience for me.
I circled the gallery at least three times before I felt I had absorbed enough of the beauty to focus on one painting that particularly caught my interest—a riot of brilliant yellow-gold, silver and black splashed across the canvas with animal rawness. Someone handed me a glass of wine and I murmured a distracted “Thank you” never taking my eyes off the piece. I stood, sipping absently, studying it, losing myself in its sensuality, the colors, and the brush strokes.
My reverie was broken by a soft voice in my left ear: “Do you like?” I registered a slight accent. Spanish? Italian? I turned and faced the most beautiful man I had ever seen: thick dark hair, deep brown eyes—eyes to spend the rest of my life drowning in—surrounded by luxurious eyelashes, a perfectly carved face, and a sweet smile.
“Please to forgive me Signorina, I did not mean to frighten you. Or is it Signora?” he asked with a mischievous smile.
“Oh ... it’s Signorina, I think,” I said, giggling. I wasn’t up on my foreign languages but, being from an Italian family, I was pretty sure Signorina meant that I wasn’t married. “No, you didn’t frighten me. It’s just that I was so absorbed in this painting, and I didn’t hear you come up behind me.”
My God, he was gorgeous. I had grown up around Italian men with their bronzed skin and rugged good looks, but this man was different—light skinned, dressed in fashionable clothing with a sophisticated edge and, by his demeanor and speech, he appeared to be well bred and cultured.
“And you?” Might as well get this over with right now. “Is there a Signorina or Signora in your life?” I asked, cautiously.
“No,” he said with a weak smile. “Not at the moment.”
He looked so sad, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. That meant he was available, so happy day for me.
“Do you like?” he repeated, pointing to the painting, his perfectly manicured hands elegant yet masculine.
“Oh, yes, I like it very much. Are you the artist?” I asked.
“Oh, no, Signorina, please you are too kind. I could never make such a beautiful painting. I only love them and protect them until they are no longer mine.”
What was he talking about? I was confused, but more importantly, my palms were getting sweaty, and I could feel the heat rising to my face.
“What do you mean?” I asked, coyly.
“I am an art dealer. These are my paintings. Well, not really my paintings, but I think of them as mine. When I represent an artist, I become attached to their work. You think me silly, no?”
Silly! My God, this man could have had me right there on the pristine, white oak floor and I wouldn’t even have noticed if there was another person in the room. Silly! How could I respond to his question without letting on that I wanted to grab his luxurious dark hair and seal my lips to his for about two lifetimes? I swallowed a sip of wine to give myself time to collect my thoughts.
“Silly? No, of course not. I think you must be a very sensitive man to feel that way.”
Was that too obvious? I felt my knees getting weak. Was it the wine or the fact that every time I looked at his hands, I wanted to feel them lifting my skirt, cupping my cheeks, and pressing his pelvis against mine? I tried to imagine what kind of underwear he was wearing. Was he a Jockey or boxer man? Or did he wear any underwear at all? I had heard that European men had different habits from American men.
This is insane, my mind screamed. Stop this right now. He couldn’t be attracted to me and, even if he is, he’s probably one of those European playboys and I’ll get AIDS and die alone and penniless in some horrific nursing home. Stop it! Take a deep breath, take another sip of wine. GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF.
“Are you here alone, Signorina?”
“No, I’m here with friends.” I said, shaking off the voices in my head. “Actually, I have a little confession to make.” I thought I would get this thing rolling and see if he takes the bait.
“A confession? Are you Catholic?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Catholic? Oh … I see.” I laughed a little too loudly. “Well, I was a Catholic once, but that’s not my confession.”
“Oh, what is your confession? Will it shock me?”
Ah hah! There it was ... the sign I needed. The hook was buried in that delicious mouth.
“Well, I don’t know, are you easily shocked?” I asked, the tension building.
“Not really. In fact, I love hearing confessions, especially from beautiful ladies.”
“Well, I’m afraid after all this you’ll be disappointed when you find out what my confession is.”
“I don’t think I could be disappointed by anything you said, Signorina.”
Dear God, I was being seduced by a master, but I didn’t care. Board of Health here I come. I wickedly began thinking of ways to turn him on so I could watch him get an erection. I wanted him to want me as much as I wanted him—so much so that he wouldn’t care if the whole gallery full of people saw the bulge in his pants.
“Well, it’s just that I’ve never really been very interested in art ... fine art, I mean. My friends sort of coaxed me into coming tonight. I’m a little ashamed. I guess I didn’t know what I was missing.”
“Oh, please do not be ashamed. Art is the soul on canvas. The artist exposes his most vulnerabilities completely when he makes his art.”
I couldn’t help a little giggle. Even his grammatical mistakes were adorable. Jesus, it must be so obvious to him by now that I was on fire. My panties were getting moist, my hands were beginning to shake, and my face was so hot I just knew it was crimson. I was sorry that I had worn so many layers of clothing. I could feel my nipples getting hard and I wanted him to see them ... poking their heads out, longing to be nibbled by that voluptuous mouth.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, looking a little worried.
“Oh no, no. Please forgive me. It’s just that you have such a charming way of speaking. Are you from Europe?
“Si, from Italy.”
“Oh, really, where in Italy?” I asked with sincere interest.
“My mother is from Naples and my father is from Rome.”
“You’re kidding! My father’s family is from Italy. My grandfather was from Milan and my grandmother’s family was from the Isle of Capri.”
“Buona fortuna! We must have a lot in common. Have you ever been to Italy?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’ve always wanted to go but I could never make the time. And to be honest, I have distant relatives there, but they don’t speak English and I don’t speak Italian. I would love to meet them but I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to communicate.”
“Ah, you would need, how you call it, a translation?”
“Yes, a translator.”
“Perhaps I could be of service to you, Signorina.” He said with a big grin and a low, theatrical bow.
We both laughed sincerely. Things were going so smoothly. It was too good to be true. Gorgeous, sexy, intelligent, cultured, and funny, all in one person. He had to be a heart breaker.
I had made a promise to myself to trade one-night stands and short-term, wildly sexy flings for a long-term relationship. Of course, I wanted lots of sex, but it had to be in a committed relationship. I wasn’t going to spread my legs for just any man, anymore. My fear was that this guy would give me the ride of my life and move on to the next conquest. I couldn’t do this to myself. I had to take it slow and see what his “intentions” were.
“Well, I see my friends are getting restless. They want to go to all the gallery openings and drink all the free wine they can. I guess I should be going.” I said reluctantly.
“Of course, please don’t let me keep you from your friends. I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance, Signorina.” He said. And then, as if I were in an Italian movie, he bent and kissed my hand. He actually kissed my hand! No man had ever kissed my hand before. Don’t ever let any woman imply that having her hand kissed doesn’t melt her heart. I was no exception.
My mind raced; I couldn’t just walk away from this beautiful man. Within minutes his sweet, gentle charm had burrowed its way into my heart ... and my groin ... and was holding on tight. I had to think fast. I wanted him to ask me out. I wanted to play hard to get, not appear too easy. So, I took a chance.
“I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, too. You know, I’m such a dunce about art. But tonight, I’ve discovered that it moves me on a deeper level than anything has before.”
There. That should make me sound pretty fascinating. Hopefully I’ve peaked his interest enough to ask me out.
“I am so happy to hear you say that.” He said, his eyes bright. “For the last ten years I have made myself dedicated to bring art to everyone, not just the rich. I travel all over the world looking for artists who have potential. I see to their schooling and make sure they have everything they need in order to accomplish their dream. Then, when the time is right, I bring their work to the attention of the experts. I love to see an artist become recognized by a gallery owner. It gives me much pleasure.”
I was smiling and nodding through his little speech, thinking I’d like to give you pleasure.
“Oh, excuse me, I am talking too much.” He said with a hint of embarrassment.
“Oh, no,” I cried, “Please, do go on. I’m fascinated, really.”
“If you are sure . . .” he said questioningly.
“Yes, please.” I reassured him.
He told me about the artist he was representing, a young man from a small village in Guatemala, named Fernando Guarino. He took my arm gently and guided me around the room, pointing out the artist’s use of color, composition, and subject. I began seeing the paintings from a whole new perspective.
After showing me the third piece, he turned to me and said, “But Signorina, please allow me to apologize. I fear I have detained you and kept you from your friends.”
Who cares! I thought. My friends could vanish into thin air, and I wouldn’t notice until morning. Although I knew I was being artfully seduced by this man, I felt as if I were on the edge of the Grand Canyon about to fall in. But, at the same time, a voice inside kept screaming heart breaker and I was afraid to trust my feelings and him.
“May I invite you and your friends to join me for a drink after the gallery closes?” he asked.
“Um, well ... I ... I’m not sure. You see, I don’t know what my friends have planned afterwards. I know they want to take me to all the openings. They want to educate me,” I said with a shy grin.
He smiled a precious smile and said, “Please forgive me if I am being too bold, but may I ask if I might teach you a little about art? I could take you to some galleries and show you different artists and styles. It would make me very happy.”
OK, that was it. I was his. Lock, stock, barrel, heart, soul, and groin. I really had to play it cool now, but not too cool. This man had me, and I was sure he knew it. But I didn’t want him to know that I knew he knew. So, I asked coyly, “But what about my friends?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean right now,” he said. “I cannot leave the gallery tonight until after it closes. I must stay and talk to, how you say, big wigs with lots of money and try to convince them to buy Fernando’s paintings. It takes a lot of hard work to make people buy a painting.”
Hard work? I imagined that all he had to do was smile and say anything and rich women would drop to their knees and beg him to sell them a painting. I assumed that his elegant charm worked on men as well as he moved through the world with an ease and grace that was disarmingly seductive.
I wanted to scream, “If I had money, I’d buy all these paintings just to make you happy.” Instead, I said, “I don’t imagine you have a hard time convincing people to buy. You seem to really believe in the artist.”
With that, he placed his hands on his heart and bent slightly at the waist. “Thank you Signorina, but you flatter me. I am just a working man who respects artists and their work.”
By now I could see out of the corner of my eye that my friends were glaring at me. I had to do something. So, I said, “I’m keeping you from your work and my friends are getting impatient. I should go.”
“Signorina, I do not mind that you keep me from my work. It has been my pleasure to talk to you. Forgive me, but you did not answer my question,” he said with anticipation.
Direct—I like that in a man. No beating around the bush. The qualities in the “pros” column were piling up and so far, the “cons” column was empty.
Lightheartedly, I asked, “What question was that?” pretending I had forgotten.
“If I may show you around the art world and reveal to you some new experiences.”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely. I think I would enjoy that very much,” I said with forced calm. Inside my head I was screaming, Yes, yes, take me anywhere, take me now, show me anything. But then show me what you look like naked! Show me to your bedroom, or my bedroom, or any bedroom, as long as we can stay wrapped around each other through the next millennium.
“You have made me very happy, Signorina. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” he asked with a boyish cock of his head.
Oh God, tomorrow. I was always told never to accept a Saturday date after Wednesday, and it was Friday night. What should I do? On one hand I never wanted to leave his side ever again, but in order to insure a future together, I should play hard to get. The skirmish between my heart, my head, and my vagina had just escalated to a full-fledged war. I decided to follow my heart and let my head and my vagina settle their score without me.
“Tomorrow, hmm, I don’t know,” I hedged as I reached in my purse for my phone.
“You see,” he said, “On Saturdays the galleries are quiet, and we will have a better chance to seeing the artwork more closely. Many times, the artists are here on Saturdays, and we could meet them and talk with them about their work.”
“Oh, I see. That sounds very interesting. Let’s see, I have an appointment in the morning and plans for dinner, but it looks like my afternoon is free.” I didn’t want him to think I was just sitting around waiting for him to walk into my life. I also wanted him to know that he couldn’t extend the date into the evening. He shouldn’t think he was asking out some wall flower, after all.
“Wonderful,” he exclaimed. “May I pick you up at 12 o’clock?”
Hmm, pick me up, that’s the sign of a gentleman. But I still wasn’t sure about him; after all we had just met. So, I took the cautious route.
“Thank you for offering, but I’m going to be nearby anyway. How about if I meet you somewhere?” I asked. A public place—can’t be too careful.
“All right, as you wish. Why don’t we meet here around 12:00 o’clock or 12:30? If you will allow me the honor of taking you to lunch, then afterwards, we can walk around to the different galleries. Would you like that?” he asked with a delectable smile.
Like it? Just try and stop me.
“That sounds like fun. Let’s say 12:30, all right?” I asked brightly.
“Yes, that would be fine. I look forward to seeing you again Signorina,” he said with a sincere smile and doe eyes. Then he bent and kissed my hand again! I let out a little giggle and headed toward my friends, saying over my shoulder, “Tomorrow then.”
I walked across the room feeling his eyes on me. Thank God, I had decided to wear a short skirt and high heels. I hoped that he was surveying my legs and the way I moved my hips as I walked toward the door. I held my breath and didn’t look back. I wanted him to long for me the way I longed for him.
When we got outside, my friends began teasing me and pumping me for details. We giggled and laughed as we walked to the next gallery, and I told them of my plans for the next day.
“So, Paula, what’s his name?” asked Joannie.
“His name?” I asked vaguely. “His name! My God, can you believe I don’t know. I never asked, and he never said.”
“Well, did he ask you your name?” Joannie asked, laughing.
“No, he didn’t ask, and I never thought about it. I was so taken by him that it never occurred to me,” I said, still incredulous.
“So, Paula,” Glen began with a smirk, “are you gonna take him back to your lair and have your way with him?”
“Shut up Glen!” I spit, pretending to be offended. He knew that my sexual appetite rivaled that of a rabbit, so I couldn’t protest too much.
“No, Mr. Smartass, this one’s different,” I said. “I think I could really have a relationship with this guy. I don’t want to screw it up by screwing him too soon.”
“That’ll be a first for you, Paula,” Robert said, jabbing Glen in the ribs.
“Very funny, very funny,” I chided. “You two should take your act on the road.”
We all laughed and chattered, wandering from one gallery to the next, enjoying the art and the people watching until late into the night.
By the time I got home, my head had invaded the beach of my heart and began scolding me: You made it too easy for him. What’s wrong with you? I thought you were going to start playing by different rules. Just because he jump-started your libido, doesn’t mean he’s not gonna screw you and leave you.
“Shut up,” I screamed and scared my cat. I picked her up and apologized for my behavior. I carried her into the bedroom and we sat together, me stroking her thick, black fur, she rewarding me with her deep purr. As we lazed on the bed, my private war continued to rage inside me. The enemy was advancing. Now it was my heart that began scolding. Why didn’t you tell him your name? What if something comes up and he can’t make it tomorrow? At least he would have been able to look you up and message you. He has no way of finding you! You let your groin do the thinking for you and see where it got us?
Hey, watch that! my libido chimed in. I’m just takin’ care of business, that’s all. I have my needs you know. Hell, if I waited for you two to get your shit together, I’d never get laid.
“Shut up, all of you!” I shouted. Again, my cat jumped but settled down with a few strokes of her fur. “Just shut up and let me get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day and I want to be rested.”
But before sleep could come, my libido demanded satisfaction. I gave in willingly, allowing myself a long, luxurious fantasy about my Italian mystery man. Satisfaction came easily with thoughts of his lips on my body, his hands caressing my most secret parts. It felt different this time—deeper, more satisfying. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if it was a sign of things to come.
I awoke hugging my pillow, something I never do. My libido had woken up before me and was demanding a replay. I ignored it and went about preparing to meet my Latin lover. I had purposely fibbed about having an appointment in the morning so I could have plenty of time to prepare.
I ate a leisurely breakfast, showered slowly, then began choosing an outfit. It promised to be another damp, cold day, so I knew I couldn’t wear anything too flimsy. I chose perfectly fitting black pants that caressed my bottom, a lacy black camisole under a burgundy sweater with a plunging neckline and, praying that it wouldn’t rain or snow, burgundy suede peep-toe, pumps. Small gold hoops in my ears and perfectly applied makeup finished the picture. I was ready.
As I walked to the Belmont el station, nagging doubts tugged at me again. The magic of the night before seemed like a dream now in the gray daylight. Yet, beneath the doubt was a roiling, bubbling excitement that tingled through my every pore.
As the train wound its way toward downtown, I stared out the window trying to picture his face. I wondered if my heart would be broken or opened. But first, I needed to ask him his name.
