Oldtimer Musuem

Mostly Dave is bored but he's also feeling a bit jumpy. An IT guy, the engineers have dragged him off on a business trip to Germany. His company is merging with a German company and a lot of words have been thrown around, like "seamless interface with our German counterparts", and "smooth operation of exchange of knowledge", and in the end, it doesn't mean a thing. He's bored because he really doesn't need to be here (he could have literally phoned it in) and jumpy because....oh, he's just jumpy.

And besides bored and jumpy, he's feeling cheated. When they corralled him for this trip, and told him Germany, he thought, oh, cool, I'll go to Munich and drink a lot of beer and look at the waitresses with their boobs stuck up under their chins. And then they told him he was going to Dortmund, in the Ruhr Valley, home of Krupp, Thyssen and Big Bertha. And, oh, yeah, you better bring a raincoat or at least an umbrella, this time of year it usually rains.

And Dortmund is small. And was bombed flat during WWII (see Krupp and Thyssen, above) so there's nothing older than 1947. He's from New England, for God's sake, every town has a house from 16-something--why is he here again?

The meetings are endless and he's starting to think if he has to listen to one more speech in choppy German-English, with the slightly wrong tenses, he's going to scream. The spoons are the wrong size (the teaspoons are for the elves and the soup spoons for their friends, the giants and nothing in between) the bed is just weird, with that puffy thing in lieu of sheets, and everyone was right, it's raining.

His arrival on Sunday in Frankfurt threw him for a complete loop--because no matter how much you think you can prepare yourself for a foreign country (and he'll be the first to admit, he didn't try that hard) when you get there, it's just so--foreign. And rainy.

So here it is Wednesday and it's the night of the big dinner out. He's been on these at home, of course. Everyone mills around, gets carted off to some boring restaurant, where they have to make small talk with the same people they've been in meetings with all day, while trying to drink enough to make it bearable without drinking so much that a grave mistake is made. It's a fine line and not one Dave is feeling like walking tonight.

Uwe, a German in a checked sports coat (really?) is going to drive him to their destination, which he refers to as "an oldtimer museum". Dave entertains himself by wondering exactly what is at an oldtimer museum. Is this some sort of weird German euphemism for nursing home? Maybe all the waitresses are geriatric? Honestly, he'd be just as happy at the hotel (the best in Dortmund, they keep telling him, as though they're convincing themselves) with some room-service beer and European ESPN showing Italian basketball. But no, it's get in some strange man's car, and make earnest, cheerful, hail-fellow-well-met conversation with someone who starts every sentence with a drawn-out "I think...."

The car turns out to be a 700 series BMW, so that's not bad, and he's not squished into the back seat with his knees around his ears, so that's good, too. And the sun has come out (punctually for sunset) for the first time since he set foot in the country, and it heartens him to see that the sun shines there too.

He finally decides to ask Uwe where it is they're going again, and makes him explain what it is. It turns out that it's a classic car museum, privately owned, and that there's a restaurant there, too. "Oldtimer" is what they call a classic car in Germany. This sounds like it might have some value, Dave thinks, and settles back for the rest of the ride. Happily, it's on what passes for back roads, so no hair-raising rides on the Autobahn, anxiously watching the speedometer head for 180 and above and trying to remember the kilometer/mile equation and then do it in his head. Just a lot of nice trees, really, and an arrival at a place that doesn't look a lot more prepossessing than a small apartment house.

"I think the others have been here before us," Uwe announces, and Dave winces and levers himself out of the car. There is the standard group of people standing around, with a few female additions. He checks them out.

Hmm. There are four women. Three are clearly wives, of varying ages. He's figured out by now that Germans wear their wedding rings on their right hands, and these three women have rings that match those of three of the men. The final woman appears ringless. She's also slightly younger than the other three, and he finds that interesting as well. He checks her out. She has nice legs and an ample bosom (not Munich waitress quality, but ample) and she's clearly very funny, because after several of her dead-pan remarks in German, great hilarity ensues. Dave is vaguely disappointed that she's German, though why he thought she wouldn't be, he doesn't know. In fact, he knows she must be, because she has one of those really short haircuts he's seen on some German woman, and he finds this strangely attractive, too.

They're the last to arrive, he and Uwe and Jim, the guy who rode along, and someone else--Dave thinks his name is Jochen, but he has trouble absorbing German names, most of them could as easily be the names of breakfast cereals, as far as he's concerned--announces, "I think that we are all here now, so we may go upstairs, yes?" A murmur of assent passes through the crowd and they start inside. A flight of stairs leads up to the restaurant and a gallery looks down on the dimly lighted museum floor. Dave cranes his neck to see some of the cars and manages to spot of couple of interest, but the gang is ascending, and so must he.

Nice. Actually pretty nice. As corporate dos go, this one is probably not going to be bad. It's a real restaurant, for one thing, not the snack bar he was anticipating, and a long table with an appetizer already at each place, and a mural on the wall that doesn't look like it was done by his 9-year-old nephew. Pretty slick.

After all the jockeying for seats is done, he's next to the woman he was watching when he arrived. She smells good. She smells a little foreign, (things smell different here, too) but she smells good. He hopes she speaks decent enough English that they can have a reasonable conversation. As he's settling himself and waiting for the waitress to arrive at their end of the table, Uwe (Uwe is clearly in charge of the Americans) gets his attention and says, "Dave," (the "v" sounding every so slightly like an "f") "This is my sister, Silke." Silke, hearing her name, turns her head to look at Dave, and says, in a perfectly cultured British voice, "How very nice to meet you, Dave." And this time the "v" sounds exactly like a "v".

Her eyes are blue-green and a little playful, as if to say, I dare you to ask about my English, and so he decides to take her up on it and says, "You sound more English than German."

"My sister has studied at Oxford," announces Uwe. "She has only been back in Germany since three weeks. She has been bored, so I ask her to come along tonight"

Silke smiles and a dimple appears in her cheek. "I'm lucky that I have a chance to practice tonight--I don't want my English to get rusty."

There is absolutely nothing even slightly risqué in what she's just said, but somehow, the way she said it made it seem so. He likes her voice, too. Not overtly seductive, but with a lot of range, somehow, and just a bit of a twist on the words.

She starts making expert small talk with him, and he realizes she's trying to find out if he's available. Has he been to Germany before? Oh, the first time? But does he travel much for his job? Not much? So did his wife mind him taking this trip?

"I'm not married," he tells her, and then, way out on a limb, asks, "Are you?"

Another flash from the eyes as she tells him no. He's pretty sure she's cut him out of the herd, for herself, but he's not positive. Meanwhile, across the table, Uwe is ordering for him what sounds like a Ruhr Valley boilermaker--a local beer (half a liter of it) with a shot of the local liqueur on the side. His appetizer is two slices of bruschetta (the restaurant has an Italian theme, go figure) and he wonders if that's going to hold up to the booze. Oh, well, he'll find out.

Silke is drinking a tasteful glass of white wine. Her wine glass has a twisty green stem, very pretty. She's sipping and Uwe is urging him to chug. Everything. He's gotten himself the same thing (it enters Dave's head to wonder who's going to drive at the end of all of this) and so he demonstrates.

A shot and a chug from the half-liter glass, and he's done. Done with chugging, at least. Silke is eyeing him over the rim of her wine glass and Dave fears that he himself simply looks glassy-eyed.

After the bruschetta comes a salad, and he ends up bumping arms with Silke as they eat. He eats like an American, right-handed, she eats like a German, two-handed (fork in left), and since she's on his right, they bump. The first time they both jump and apologize, but successive bumps begin to feel more accustomed. Intimate. Is she rubbing? Yes? No? Soup arrives, and that she doesn't eat with her left hand, so no bumping, but then--

Someone's bumped his foot. He moves it away and there it is again. After consideration, he realizes that this is being done with intent, and that's no bump. That is a stockinged foot nuzzling his ankle. He looks at Silke, the only person it can be (he really hopes it's not Uwe, across from him) and she looks at him over her soup spoon (why does she always look over things? So she can show off her eyelashes?...they are nice....and her greeny-blue eyes are level and yet inviting.

Dave has two solid former relationships behind him, plus one that's shaping up nicely, but he's never experienced anything like this. Never really had a woman make such a play for him, quite in this way. The foot continues to nuzzle, he finishes his soup, knocks back another slug of his beer, and moves his foot over for ease of access.

"I was afraid this evening was going to be boring," he tells her, in a sudden attack of semi-smoothness, "but I'm not really bored at all."

She rewards him with a wide smile. "Boredom is a terrible thing," she agrees. "I would hate to think that a visitor to my country would be bored."

He's wracking his brain for some James-Bondism to come back with, when Juergen announces that they're going to take a break and have a tour of the museum. They all troop downstairs again, this time into the actual museum.

It's a distinctly odd place. It's dimly lit, so that the cars won't be damaged by excessive light. Mannequins, many of them the same vintage as the older cars, are sprinkled about, dressed in styles to match the oldtimers themselves. Juergen is introducing an employee of the establishment, who further explains himself as the head mechanic, passionate about the cars, and eager to answer any questions they might have. He resembles a German Ichabod Crane, being tall and skinny, with a long, pointed nose. Dave gives him points for being willing to stand in front of a bunch of half-bombed Americans and speak English, but his English really makes the head spin. His favorite phrase turns out to be "But wait!" He says something about the car, insinuates that's all there is, and then cries, "But wait!" Dave starts to wander off the beaten path, peering at the cars on his own.

It's pretty heavy on the Mercedes and Benzes, which he expected, plus the requisite Bentleys and Rolls. There are also Fiats, Saabs, BMWs, and a DeLorean. He makes it into the corner with the Citroens, when he realizes Silke is behind him. With the beer still floating through his blood, he's half-decided to try to kiss her, when she beats him to it. She motions him back into a corner out of the line of sight, beckons him down to her (she's about a head shorter than he is, even in her heels--back on her feet) as though she wants to say something, then gets one hand on the back of his neck and proceeds to kiss him most thoroughly, her tongue insistently parting his lips and swirling around his.

This is not exactly a shock, but still a bit startling, especially as he has no wish to be spotted by the rest of the gang, making out with the German IT head's sister. Silke is not to be rushed, however, and she takes her time with the kiss. She smells good still (and foreign) and tastes like wine and lipstick and when he gets unsurprised enough to get an arm around her, feels like a real, live girl. And that ample bosom feels quite nice pressed against him.

She ends the kiss (not him, he's given up the reins completely here) with one last, lingering swirl, and she steps away, eyes glowing even in the false dusk, and says, "Oh, I like the way you kiss. But come on, the others will notice we're not with them."

In fact, when they appear, Uwe says, "Where were you hiding?" She dimples at her brother, and says, "I was showing him my dream car, the Citroen. He didn't make fun of me the way you do, for loving it so."

"Only because you aren't telling him about the, the--what is it in English?"

"The hydraulic suspension," she says, rolling her eyes.

Uwe starts to say something, but Ichabod is once more calling, "But wait!" and so attention is turned to him again. Dave hasn't understood one word of what the siblings said, he only knows that Uwe swallowed it hook, line and sinker. He's now finding the whole forbidden fruit thing very exciting, especially now that's he's tasted the fruit.

The tour seems to go on forever, but eventually they traipse back upstairs. In their absence, dinner has been brought out--artfully arranged plates of meat and vegetables, with a tasteful little side dish of some pretty pasta. The food distracts him for as long as it takes Silke to get her thigh pushed up against his, which is no mean feat, since they're on chairs and not a banquette. There it is, though, warm, solid, the sweetly muscular thigh of a German woman who rides a bicycle a lot. She's only on her second glass of wine, and Uwe has switched to mineral water, but they've been topping up Dave's beer every chance they get. He's pleasantly buzzed and the more Silke comes on to him, the more annoyed he's getting at being surrounded by so many people.

After the main course comes another plate of what looks like dandelion greens, to cleanse the palate, and then a tasteful dessert and coffee. Somehow, at this point, the talk has turned to cell phones and everyone has his or hers out and comparisons are being made. Silke types away for a moment on hers, then shows it to him, saying, "See, this is what the display looks like on mine."

The text reads, "Meet me by the loos. I'll go first, you wait, then follow."

Loos? What the hell? And then somehow, miraculously, the penny drops. The restrooms. She wants him to follow her to the restrooms. He's starting to feel as though nothing at all could surprise him, so--why not? She excuses herself, says she has to go to the ladies, he times three minutes on his cell phone (since it's out), and excuses himself too, using the old chestnut of not buying beer, only renting it. Since mostly everyone who didn't drive is pretty blitzed, this brings cheers.

The hallway leading to the rendezvous is lit only by the half-light from the showroom below. The cars are there, an enormous silent presence, and then, so is Silke, at his elbow. This time he's faster than she is, and he gets her in his arms and begins kissing her. He runs his hands down to the small of her back, enjoying the voluptuous solidity of her. One hand moves from her back to her breast, which seems to be what she wanted since she breaks the kiss and makes a noise that is half-gasp, half-sigh and all desire. He begins to kiss her neck, enjoying the scent of Eau de Silke as he does so. Her nipple is getting hard under his fingers, and--

She's moved her hand to his crotch. Now he's getting hard, or, harder. A primly silly thought forms itself in his head, she's very forward. And this is bad because....? They've moved a bit further back, where the hallway is dark and there's an alcove of sorts. From there you can see the restaurant, because it's lighted, but they can't see you, for the same reason.

Zip.

That was Silke, unzipping his fly. Yes, it was. "...what?" he manages to utter.

"Let me blow you. Here." Her BBC announcer voice makes it seem even more unreal.

He's not about to say no, and the agile Silke is suddenly on her knees in front of him, and he's in her mouth.

OH, yeah.

And damn, she's good at this. She's got every point down, from that now-familiar swirl of the tongue, to the hot little hand at the base where she can't quite manage with her mouth, to the other hand cupping his balls, to...oh, now that pointed little tongue, tracing the tip, and then changing tactics and going with the good old slurpy suck--

It's the sound effect, plus her eyes looking up at him, that send him over the edge. Well, all that and the fact that a company dinner turned into a blowjob on a gallery above several hundred thousand Euros worth of vintage automobiles.

He blows his wad, it blows his mind, she's blowing him--whatever. It's amazing. She proves to be efficient in every way, as he expected; she swallows. Neatly, tidily, lapping up the last drops as he groans. He says something, he's not even sure what, and she says, "You can return the favor tomorrow night. Now we'll go back together, just give me a minute."

"Go back together?"

"Yes, of course, you ran into me coming out of the ladies' and we were admiring the cars together."

So they stroll back in side by side and no one even asks anything or says anything.

Ten more minutes and the bill is being settled, and arrangements are being made to get everyone back home. Silke begins some sort of rapid-fire conversation with her brother in German. They go back and forth a few times, and then she turns to Dave and says, "I'm going to do Uwe a favor and drive you back to the hotel. I live in town and he lives in the other direction." Uwe looks pleased by this turn of events, and again, no one else bats an eye. Dave is beginning to like Germany very much.

Silke shows him her car, a red Mini and they get in. He's really starting to wonder about this woman. He asks her what she does, and when she tells him she works in a bank, he says, "You're no teller."

She flashes him a look that says, and you're no dummy, and says, "No, I work in arbitrage. Normally I'm in Hamburg, where I'm from, but there was a temporary opening here and since my brother is here, I took it."

This makes sense in some weird, oblique way, and he's really not surprised to find out she's in high finance. After a few moments of silence, he says, "Well, thanks for the ride home."

She slides her eyes briefly onto him, smiles that slow little smile and says, "I wanted to get you really alone."

"Yeah? What else did you want to do to me tonight? Do you have some rope and handcuffs in the trunk?"

"All I have in the boot is a first aid kit," she says, calmly, "but I wanted to make plans for tomorrow night."

Dave is completely nonplussed by this. Tomorrow night? Plans? Well, she did say he could make it up to her, apparently she was serious. No such thing as a free blow job, he thinks, and can barely keep from snorting with laughter. After a moment, he says, "What did you have in mind?" (Boy, are you ever suave, he tells himself).

"I'll pick you up and bring you to my place. I thought it would be nice if I made you dinner."

Dinner? With a side of....scungili? No, that's not the word, but he's a still a little too buzzed to come up with the right one, but he definitely knows what he's thinking of.

"I'd like that," he says, again cursing himself for not being James Bond, or at least Mike Myers.