4-Way Nude Capitulation

But either they didn't or they had marvelous control.

And then there we were, the four of us, Malte, Janet, Costas, and me, standing there, discussing the paintings on exhibit, including Malte's offerings—including the two paintings of me right there in front of us. Neither Janet nor Costas were indicating any recognition they were of me and Malte was just looking amused. I reached the point of not being able to stand there any longer, so when the other three were in an animated conversation, I looked at my empty wine glass to establish that I was leaving to refill it, and I drifted away from them. I tried to make it look like a drift, but it felt more like screaming into the night.

The disturbing surprises weren't off, however. I moved on to a room I hadn't been in before, and found myself standing in front of paintings that undoubtedly were of Janet. And not just of Janet, but of Janet in provocative nude poses. Of course the artist was Malte. The University of Cyprus connection. I fled from there to yet another room, one that was out of the way and known only to a limited number of Costas's clients—the room where he showed his photographs of young men nude after coitus with him on the drapery-covered studio couch in his photography studio. I was on the wall there, too, in the nude. But at least there my face was covered by an elaborate Mardi Gras mask. I knew it was me. Costas knew it was me. But other men who had found in the room and were ogling the photographs on the wall most likely couldn't tell it was me.

"You are the sexiest of the lot," a voice behind me said. I turned to find Costas at my elbow.

"I've missed you. I'm glad you came tonight."

"It's my job," I said. "People would notice and wonder if I stayed away from your openings."

"You want to stay away from me?"

"I think it best," I said. "I'm trying to be good—to change my lifestyle."

"I am going down to the beach house at Perivolia the weekend after next," Costas said. "I was hoping you might go with me—for more photos, beach time, and . . . you know."

"I don't think that would be wise," I said.

"We were good together, Sandy," he said. "We could be very good together. But I won't push. Let me know if you change your mind. Or just come on down. I'll be there as of Friday night. You still have the key to the gate. The other key is to the house. You haven't returned those."

"I meant to return them," I said. "I don't have them with me. I'll—"

"I would hope you'd keep them and use them. Here's Malte Jergensen coming now. And I see your wine glass is still empty. Let me refill that for you."

I gave him my empty glass, and he was replaced my side by Malte.

"Those photos there are of you, aren't they?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm glad you came tonight. This next Wednesday at Rita's perhaps?"

"I don't think so, Malte. I'm trying to reform."

"Pity, but just as well, I suppose. I did want you to know that our orders came through. The Danes are being rotated over to Lebanon next month."

"That's probably a good thing," I said. "Listen, Malte—"

"Yes?" he answered. I almost asked him then about my wife, Janet, and the circumstances of the paintings he'd done of her, but I just couldn't do it. Suddenly, I just couldn't continue with any of it.

"Never mind," I said and turned and left him there. I went back into the main gallery, gathered up Janet, said I needed to leave to work on a theater review I was writing, and we left. She didn't object.

I suppose I didn't really have to ask about Malte's paintings of Janet, and I didn't have to wonder about it for much longer. On Saturday morning of the following week, I came home early because an all-day session of student interviews for Fulbright scholarships that I was on the panel for were unexpectedly cancels. Janet assumed I'd be gone all day.

A motorbike was parked across the driveway up to the garage of my house, so I was forced to park down the street. Full-length French doors ran the length of our living room on the street side of the house. I could see the activity in there as I approached the front door, so I more surreptitiously moved to one of the glass doors and looked in.

The clothes were scattered about the living room floor. Malte and Janet were in the same position on the living room floor that the hunky Turk, murmuring, "Ride you, ride you, ride you," had put me in on the Karavas house living room floor six weeks previously. Janet was stretched out on her belly on the floor, ample breasts pressed in the carpet, her buttocks elevated, raised by her knees pushing into the carpet. Malte was hovered over her in a push-ups position, one his toes and his hands holding Janet's arms above her head, his fists clutching her wrists. He was fucking her in the cunt with long, slow slides.

I watched for a while—long enough to see Malte turn Janet onto her back and crouch between her thighs—and to see her long, slender legs raise and spread in a V of surrender. After that, I withdrew. This wasn't working out. I got back in the car and drove out of Nicosia on the Larnaca Road toward the international airport. Costas was stretched out on a towel, naked, on his private beach at Perivolia.

I stripped off my clothes as I descended the wooden stairs from his villa to the beach.