Reclining Nude in Chicago (Encounters) Read online

  I did. Yes, I did. I typed these words back to him plain as day: “What did you say? You like to recline nude?” No backspacing… no, I hit S-E-N-D! Then I laughed wildly; hoping I didn’t kill him. It would have been so tragic if I had caused him a heart attack, but I continued to laugh until I heard my phone chime again.

  Leery about looking at the response; I pondered if my interview would be canceled. With my hand over my eyes, peeking through two fingers, gritting my teeth, I pulled the phone screen into my view. My mouth dropped wide open as I read his shocking words: “Would you like to see me reclining nude, Ms. Van Rothfelder? I mean would you like to see The Reclining Nude? ;)” Yes, he even added a winking symbol. Hmmm… a little playfulness was exhibited by Mr. Curator. Maybe my visit with the old guy wouldn’t be so stuffy after all.

  Chapter Two

  Arriving at Chicago’s O’Hare International airport, I grabbed my rolling luggage and made my way to the curbside taxi stand. Driving into the city, I turned on my cell phone and read a message from Mr. Curator: “Meet me at this address. 7:00pm. Map link. Door Code. Elevator Code. Busy. In meetings all day. Have something to show you. I think you will be very interested. Perhaps shocked. Definitely overwhelmed. Don’t be late!”

  Besides the one phone call, communication between the curator and I had only been via text messaging and a couple emailed articles he insisted that I read. I had absolutely no idea what he looked like. I had tried inputting his name on the internet but no photos popped up. Yes, the Chicago Art Museum Post-Impressionism curator remained a mystery to me, but the more we had corresponded, I was convinced he was an older distinguished, grey-haired gentleman.

  Having several hours to kill after checking into the absolutely gorgeous and historical InterContinental Chicago Hotel along the Magnificent Mile, I took to the streets. With the wind whipping through my long hair, I walked down East Grand Avenue to the Navy Pier also known as “Chicago’s lakeside playground” on Lake Michigan. What a great place for people watching. One of my all-time favourite pastimes. Promenading around the pier watching kids run around, squealing with delight from the amusement park rides, I sat and enjoyed a slice of Chicago deep-dish style pizza and a beer. Yes, I would need to work those carbs off later, I thought, loving every yummy bite and sip. However, I still had more walking to do so maybe I wouldn’t be paying a visit to the hotel gym after all.

  Once I had my fill of family entertainment, I made my way toward the Chicago River. Strolling along the river, I watched the various tour boats glide by with guides shouting out points of interest. Last time I was in Chicago I took a bus tour of the city and once the tour concluded, I wished I had paid for a combined package to include a ride on the river. Hmmm… the last visit to this great city… that was a disaster. Of course, there was a man involved. The wrong man. Yes… another asshole…

  Five years ago, new to freelance writing for Herm, I was asked to cover a celebrity art function in one of the cities trendy nightclubs. Please don’t ask me the name because the club no longer exists and quite frankly without digging through my archives, I don’t even remember the name. So there I was a newbie reporter thrown into the celebrity zone. I was a fish out of water, quickly hooked and reeled in by a fellow writer. Did I mention an inebriated colleague? Quite drunk. Yet quite handsome. I thought I was helping him out when I took the bait. What was the outcome? I set him up at a table and went off to view the works of art and gather comments from a few of the attendees including some well-known public figures. When I returned to the side of Mr. Intoxicated Hunk, I was greeted by eager lips… make that yummy eager lips. Feeling a bit tipsy myself, I left my inhibitions at the club and took him back to my hotel room. Big, big, big mistake. No, the sex wasn’t bad. It was great. The problem was, when I woke up the next morning, Mr. Gorgeous Reporter had disappeared along with my hand-held recorder, digital camera and notebook. Lesson learned; never sleep with the competition.

  Fast forward to my current trip, I was completely enveloped in the city’s charm and decided to take a break in my walk. Placing myself on a bench parked on the corner of the River Esplanade and Michigan Avenue, I marveled at the incredible architecture that surrounded me. Sleek, modern glass buildings shiny and new mixed with landmark structures such as the famous Wrigley Building with its French Renaissance and Spanish Revival details. My mind started reeling. Perhaps I would plot my return to the Windy City by dangling the possibility of an architectural piece. Herm was nuts about historical architecture.

  I loved that Herm allowed me to present ideas to him along with assignments he dished out. In the first year of working under his direction, I was completely infatuated with him, hanging on his every word. I couldn’t tell you how many wet dreams I had about him. Fed up with going without the real thing, one night I went to his office around quitting time. Unfortunately, I arrived too late; Herm had already left the building. Stepping into his office, I was engulfed with his scent and my body began to quiver. Waiting until everyone had gone home for the night; I re-read and edited my article. When the last person abandoned his cubicle, I stripped out of my clothes and wrapped myself in a sweater I found on the back of Herm’s door. Returning to his big antique leather chair, I wiggled my wet pussy hoping for some relief. Unsatisfied, I leaned back with my eyes shut and imagined his hands caressing my burning flesh. Moaning, I spread my legs wide apart, slid my one hand over my sweater covered breast, pinched one of my nipples hard and reached with my other hand for my moist folds. Stroking over and over, I slipped two fingers inside of me, pressing the pad of my thumb to my clit and fucked myself rapidly, panting. And as I was about to come, I heard a noise, glimpsed the cleaning crew, and quickly swiveled the chair to face away from the door. I knew I should stop but I couldn’t and as I was feeling the first spasms begin, something fell on the floor and my eyes flew open in the direction of Mr. and Mrs. Herman Straiton on their wedding day. From that day forward; I was cured. I had no desire to be a home-wrecker and he definitely belonged to someone else. Don’t get me wrong, that man was fine and if he were ever to get a divorce; I might be tempted. Oh and yes, my face does flush when I see him sitting in his leather chair.

  Hot and bothered and flustered, I headed back to my hotel contemplating a much needed dip in their pool. Realizing I did not come prepared for a swim; I popped into the posh gift shop in the lobby and purchased an overpriced string bikini. With a brief stop in my room, I changed into the suit, concealed it with a plush hotel robe and took the elevator up to the famous pool on the fourteenth floor, once known as the highest indoor pool in the world. When I tell you it was a beautiful facility, I was not doing it justice. It was breathtaking; the junior Olympic size pool was surrounded by ornate columns and tiles while fancy black iron lighting fixtures hung from a decorative coved ceiling. Stunning.

  After a few laps in the pool, I returned to my room and hopped into the shower to get ready for my big meeting. With my long brown hair blown dry, I twisted it up into a messy bun. Then I applied a little mascara to emphasize my green eyes and tinted lip shine to my full lips. Slipping into a pair of skinny blue jeans, a tight taupe ribbed turtleneck sweater, and a pair of navy blue platform pumps, I dabbed some of my favourite Chanel parfum on the back of my neck. I was ready for my meeting with old Mr. Curator.

  With a little time to spare, I sauntered into the warm and inviting ENO wine tasting bar. Seated at the wood bar, I ordered an appetizer platter filled with three artisan cheeses, three cured meats and rich dark decadent chocolates that were deliciously paired with my glass of red wine…. a full bodied Cabernet Sauvignon. The atmosphere in the bar was relaxing and I was feeling very good about my appearance as a bevy of men, from the bartenders to businessman, engaged me in conversation. Was I still giving off pheromones from earlier? It was possible because I can tell you now that the cool blue water of the famous hotel pool did nothing to curb my sexual appetite. No, the way that bikini cradled my pussy and the soft triangular fabric rubbed against my n
ipples as I stroked through the water, my body was still tingling. Oh, why couldn’t the curator be a hot young guy? Maybe I should collect a phone number from the bar before I departed for my meeting. Yes, a hot and spicy midnight rendezvous might be just what would ease my sexual desires.

  Too wrapped up in socializing and people watching, I had forgotten the time until I heard someone call it out. Shit! I was late! Quickly I asked the bartender for the check and to my surprise and delight, it had been paid. Telling the bartender to thank whomever was so kind; I hurried out the gold framed, glass revolving doors and hailed a taxi. Forty-five minutes after seven o’clock I arrived at a somewhat dark warehouse with the correct numbers etched on the side of the building. Cautiously, I exited the taxi, walked to the door, punched in the code, stepped inside and found a freight elevator and said a little prayer in hopes that I could: One, operate the thing and two, that I was not at the wrong place. I received the answer to both as I typed in yet another security code that the curator had texted to me and the massive beast began to ascend to the third floor. As the elevator stopped, the heavy freight doors opened and I stepped forward into a huge open loft.

  The space was impressive with its brick walls, high ceiling, and exposed concrete beams with metal caged lighting fixtures. The room was dimly lit except for a few strategic areas. Straight ahead there was a seating area with over-stuffed couches placed on a few collaged antique area rugs. To the left an industrial looking kitchen was centered around a wooden butcher block table with metal legs and surround by metal chairs. Just off the entrance to the right there was a chained linked fence storage area containing bicycles, windsurfing boards, sporting equipment and more. Large canvases were stacked against a few walls. Boldly coloured painted canvas were hung throughout the open space. It was hard to see the details on each one because of the lack of lighting. The main focus of the enormous area was highlighted by a spotlight over a king-sized bed and one on a blank canvas sitting on a large easel next to a large wooden work table on rollers. Atop of the table were various tubes of paint, brushes, pencils, markers and other artist implements. I could see how this place must have been pure heaven for any artist.

  As I was doing my final analysis, spinning around the room, a large sliding wood panel door opened just beyond the kitchen area and a tall, big, male figure stepped out of what appeared to be a bathroom. With a large bath towel wrapped around his slim waist, using a smaller towel to dry his chin length, inky black hair, he leered at me. “I didn’t think you were coming… you’re late… take your clothes off and get on the bed…” he commanded moving away and disappearing behind a large wood moveable screen.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, shocked by his directions. I certainly thought the curator would have had far more manners even if I was, in fact, late and he said not to be late.

  Frozen in the same spot, the chiseled very male figure reemerged wearing faded, ripped, paint-splattered jeans and a tight v-neck T-shirt smeared with paint. “I don’t have time for this. You’ve already kept me waiting long enough. Strip now!”

  “Uh… uh…” I said wearily as I moved to place my oversized leather tote bag filled with all of my interview tools on the heated cement floor.

  “Don’t be shy,” he implored me, “and take your hair down.”

  Slowly, I removed my clothing, waiting for him to say “just kidding,” only he said nothing, just let out a heavy sigh and I moved a little faster. Settling myself down on the silky, smooth, ivory percale cotton sheets rumpled on the bed, I wondered why I was obeying this demanding man as I pulled the pins from my hair. Let me rephrase that, this absolutely gorgeous demanding man. Now that he had moved into the light I had a full view of him. He was nothing like most of the curators I had interviewed in the past. He had dark penetrating eyes teamed with a strong nose, full lips, and a heavy stubbled, chiseled face. He was extremely muscular; big and manly. He looked like a WWE wrestler not a curator.

  “Does this have something to do with what you wanted to show me?” I inquired, still confused.

  “I’ll show you when I’m done… lie on your side… bend your legs… cross your right calf over your left… twist your upper torso and lean back on the pillows…” he directed me movement by movement. “Don’t move!” was his last command.

  With an intense, furrowed brow, he raised a pencil and rapidly scraped it across the canvas.

  “Will I get a break?” I asked, receiving no answer. “Can we talk?” I tried another approach and he remained silent with his pencil moving quickly across the canvas. “May I ask you questions?”

  “No… later… stay still,” he answered abruptly causing me to jump a little.

  Realizing I was not going to get what I came for at the moment, I closed my eyes and drifted off. I’m not sure how long I was asleep when I was jerked awake by the harsh sound of a metal stool leg being dragged across the concrete floor.

  Watching him, I saw that he had several globs of paint on a palette and he had replaced his pencil with a variety of paint brushes. I was tempted to speak to him, but the look on his face was focused and shut off; telling me I should remain very quiet. This was definitely the strangest interview I had ever done, I thought resting my eyes again. Never in my five years as a freelance writer had I ever conducted an interview in the nude. Well… maybe this wasn’t the strangest now that I thought about it.

  One time I was assigned an exclusive interview with a very well-known, eccentric female artist. She was rarely seen in public, never attended any of her exhibits and had only permitted one other interview that was never published. Why she agreed to submit to my questioning, I had no idea, but I was thrilled to be privy to her world. On the day of the interview a driver pulled up in front my off-white stucco apartment building, introduced himself, blindfolded me and helped me into a waiting limo. “Sit back… relax… we should arrive at the airstrip within twenty minutes,” the driver informed me before closing the privacy glass; halting any questions from my lips.

  Still blindfolded, I was guided up a short set of stairs onto a private plane and the attendant informed me we would be taking a two-hour flight, journeying to an unknown destination. The aircraft smelled clean and new, like a new automobile smell. I was treated to a fluted glass of champagne. The bubbles tickled my nose as the divine liquid slid down my dry throat. When the attendant brought a plate of gourmet finger sandwiches, I asked if I could remove the snuggly tied blindfold and she simply stated, “She requested that you keep it on at all times.” Complying with the artist’s request, I quietly ate the extremely tasty morsels. Sitting back, relaxing, running my hand along the smooth, velvety leather chair, I tried to imagine the decor in the cabin. Lost in my fantasy, I drifted off until I felt the wheels of the plane touch down on the runway.

  Once we landed another uniformed driver guided me to a waiting black town car on the tarmac. I was thankful that I did not wear a short skirt, a dress or high-heels today as I was gently manhandled. By the time I was seated inside the artist’s studio and the blindfold was removed I was so happy that I wore waterproof, smudge-proof mascara on a regular basis. I always veered away from the raccoon look at all costs.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light of the room, the free-spirited artist strolled in casually dressed and immediately said, “No questions,” as soon as she greeted me and panic started to set in. Followed by anger. I had traveled all this damn way mysteriously and now I could not ask questions. Shit! Luckily, she put me at ease immediately, taking my arm she lead me around the multiple rooms of her studio. It was extremely large and sectioned off like a movie lot studio building or an airplane hanger. I was overwhelmed by the amount of art pieces she had created; canvases, sculptures, pottery. I had no idea she worked in different mediums. Explaining her work in great detail, she included intimate stories about many of the pieces, and she informed me what stories I could and could not divulge. She had so many interesting and fascinating stories. My brain was swimming as she told a new tale about e
ach of her works of art. How would I ever remember everything?

  When the enchanted tour ended, she took me into her old world kitchen and began to prepare food and poured me a glass of chilled white wine. Hoping to jot down a few ideas, I moved to get my notebook and she placed her firm hand over mine and said, “No. This is an experience. You will not take notes. You will not ask questions. When you write about me in your art magazine; you will write what you came away with from our meeting. You will not quote me. You will not use my words. You will tell of your experience.” Then she released me from her grip and returned to the final plating of our food. Carrying two plates with white fish, brown rice and asparagus spears, she stated, “Now we eat and drink and I will tell you something about my many, many lovers.” And with a wicked smirk she added, “Perhaps you will share something about some of yours as well.”

  “What the fuck” were the first words that threaten to slip from my gaping lips, but then I was truly enchanted as the words immediately trickled sweetly from her mouth.

  As our meeting drew to a close, I was once again blindfolded, returned to the aircraft and eventually to my quiet apartment. A few days later when I sat down to write the article I was overwhelmed with such emotion, I cried like a baby. Once composed, I threw my shoulders back proudly and wrote what I would call my best piece ever, or maybe the one that topped the charts for me. I couldn’t imagine I would ever top that experience.

  At the sound of the elevator and the heavy freight opening, I was right back in the present and watching another equally handsome man strut swiftly in my direction. Holy shit! What had I gotten myself into?