"Punish me, Giorgio!". Mr. Zemlinsky pressed Giorgio against the bulkhead, crushing her lips into his ear and whispering hoarsely: "I'm naughty!".
Mr. Zemlinsky, holding his cell phone, gestured. "Can you take it downstairs, hon? I'm working on a deal."
"C'mon, Giorgio!" Mrs. Zelinsky pulled Giorgio by the drawstring of his loose-fitting sailor pants.
There's no other way to put it. Giorgio is a hunk, and an Italian hunk at that, which means he is an uber-hunk (at least in Mrs. Zemlinsky's mind). Though nominally he is the steward of the Natasha, it's fair to say he was hired more for his hunkiness than his stewardship.
Giorgio thinks Mrs. Zemlinsky is well-preserved for someone just past forty. To paraphrase W. S. Gilbert, she is the remains of a hotty. Giorgio has no shortage of female companionship in Barcelona, Monte Carlo, Capri, or wherever the Natasha calls -- or back home in Stresa, for that matter. But Giorgio know which side his bread is buttered on -- so to speak -- and he knows who wears the pants in the Zemlinsky family. And so, as the great retailer Marshall Field said, "Give the lady what she wants!". Which Giorgio will now do, with vigor.
And with velvet handcuffs.
Mrs. Zemlinsky, to say the least, is desperate. Three months past forty, body parts beginning to sag, she acutely feels the limits of plastic surgery. Never exactly discriminating in her choice of partners -- it's fair to say that there is some doubt about Natasha's paternity -- she now finds that male attention is increasingly scarce, unless she pays for it.
So pay for it she will.
Mr. Zemlinsky, on the other hand, is -- shall we say -- focused. He gives the impression that if a gorgeous sixteen-year-old Swedish masseuse named Bibi wrapped her arms around his neck and begged him to please, please, please teach her the ways of the world, he would explain the ins and outs of private equity and leveraged buyouts, then set her to work doing deals.
Speaking of a sixteen-year old Swedish masseuse named Bibi, meet the new neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Ericson, moved in to the empty Victorian on Elm last month. Their twins, Jock and Bibi, finished school in Stockholm and flew in yesterday.
Mr. Ericson owns a company based in Stockholm that makes "green" composting toilets and hot tubs. Surprisingly, he discovered that composting toilets were slow to catch on in America, so he remarketed the large round wooden hoppers as hot tubs. The President invited Mr. Ericson to America as part of the "Green Jobs" initiative -- encouraging companies that create "green jobs". Mr. Ericson hasn't hired anyone yet, but when he does, they will be green.
Jock and Bibi are twins. Jock likes to run, barechested and sweating. When he's not running, he likes to work out in the gym, sweating and barechested. Jock wants to go to college, then work in his father's business. He is already a skilled installer of composting toilets and hot tubs, so skilled and efficient that Mr. Ericson can sell many toilets and hot tubs without creating jobs (green or otherwise).
Bibi wants to be a masseuse. Excuse me, a "massage therapist".
Since this blog trades shamelessly in stereotypes, Jock and Bibi look exactly as you might expect: Jock is tall, blonde, nordic and athletic; Bibi has long blonde hair, which she invariably wears in braids, blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a gorgeous figure. Jock and Bibi speak English perfectly, except for a slight tendency to pronounce "w" like "v", and to end sentences with the word "ya".
On Sunday, Roderick rang the Ericson's doorbell. Bibi opened the door, somewhat shyly.
"Um, hi", said Roderick. "I heard that you moved in to the neighborhood, and just wanted to say hello".
"Oh!" said Bibi. "Come in! Sorry, our house is a mess. Ve are -- how do you say -- furnishing, ya?"
Roderick stepped inside. There were boxes everywhere, and Scandinavian-sytle furniture scattered hither and thither in the room, as if the movers had just dropped off the Ericson's belongings and abandoned the place. The scene would make sense if the Ericsons had arrived this morning, but since they arrived a month ago Roderick felt that there were two possible explanations: either the Ericsons are creative procrastinators, or they are just pigs. Roderick reserved judgment for the moment.
Bibi gestured to a massage table set up in the middle of the living room. "You like massage, ja?"
Roderick wasn't sure if he liked massage; he'd never had one. Still, he felt attracted to any sort of activity with Bibi, and one that involved her hands on his body seemed exceptionally so. In any case, Roderick is too polite to say no.
He lay shirtless on the table, and Bibi demonstrated her mastery of the arts of effleurage, petrissage and tapotement. Roderick melted into the table.
Afterwards, as Roderick buttoned his shirt, Bibi asked: "You like ze hot tub, ya?"
Roderick didn't know if he liked ze hot tub. But what's not to like. He told Bibi he'd be right back, and ran home and put on his bathing trunks.
On his return, Roderick found the hot tub out in the back yard, with Bibi immersed up to her neck. She beckoned. Roderick started to climb in the tub.
"No, no, no!" Bibi exclaimed. "In Sveden ve alvays do ze hot tub vizout ze clothes!". She stood up, and Roderick observed that she was, indeed vizout ze clothes.
The reader should understand that Roderick is in general not inclined to the open display of his body parts. Unlike Molly -- to cite one example -- Roderick generally prefers to remain dressed when among others.
In this case, however, intrigue trumped modesty. Roderick shed his trunks and climbed into the large wooden tub. It was warm and bubbly.
At this moment, Natasha peered out her bedroom window. She could see the tub in the Ericson's back yard. It looked inviting, but...
