Camille and I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the Matisse show. I had already seen it with my friend Alex but agreed to go again. It’s so beautiful that I’ll probably even go a third time.

As we swept through the Great Hall I see two good looking men checking out the cheese, as my dad used to say. If I had to describe what types we were, I’d say Camille was a creamy Brie while I was a hunk of aged Cheddar.

How so?

Camille had just come from getting her highlights done wearing a chic navy pants suit while a sexy beige brassiere peeked from her tightly fitted button-down. Need I say more? I, on the other hand, looked as if I was changing tires. I had on jeans and short Hunter rain boots with an old black turtleneck beneath my ripped Barbour with its collar flipped up. To break it down, I was lunch and she was dinner. Well, maybe I was more of a snack. In any event, these two fellows seemed intrigued by our presence, and for once, I noticed before Camille did.

“Hot males to the right of ticket booth.”

“Where…I only see two fat men with camera bags.”

“No, not them…keep looking.”

“Oh, now I see. Hmm, look at that blazer on the one on the left.” Camille has a sports jacket fetish. It can actually make or break an attraction and this guy, as she put it, had shoulders she’d like to slide down from. Yes, she really said that.

“Let’s pop over there,” Camille said, pushing her butt out to make it look bigger (old model trick).

“You go, how about I meet you in the gift shop.”

“No, what am I gonna do with two…you know how tired I am after I get my hair done.”

“You mean if you had more rest you’d…oh never mind. I just want to go buy some cards.”

“What’s bothering you Susannah. Come on, I know you…tell Camille.” I really had no desire to discuss my shortcomings but I knew she wouldn’t relent. This is how I know I’d crack under torture.

“Well…I’m rusty in the flirt department, that’s what the matter. Remember what happened the last time we went out.”

“You mean at the Pierre? Are you still obsessing over that? You were drunk and didn’t mean to tell that Swede he had a nose like Danny Thomas. Besides, he didn’t even know who Danny Thomas was. He thought he was a hockey player.”

“That’s not the point. I got nervous and freaked out. I’m rusty I’m telling you. And those men seem very global. Look at the way Blazer holds himself, like he’s posing for The Economist…all that polished virility and cash hanging out…it’s just too much for me.”

“If we don’t get over there, the ship’s gonna leave port without us. You can practice on them, how bout that? You know, brush up on your flirting skills. They’re clearly not locals so, what have you got to lose? Come on.”

Next thing I know Camille is pretending to admire a mural where the two men were standing. She’s so obvious it’s funny, but it’s also part of her charm…jumping in the trap to save the hunters time. I have to say, they were pretty obvious themselves checking out her cheese so to speak.

“Excuse me,” Camille said to the other guy who looked a little scruffier. “We want to see Matisse…do you know the way?”

“Ma-tisse…bud-uv coss, we are Fronch.. bit we’ve seen it. Too bod, we might have all gone to-geth-ar.” Nothing like verbal foreplay that makes you want to vomit. They had heavy French accents and reeked of too much cologne. Camille didn’t seem to notice either. She was too busy staring at those shoulders.”

“Would you care to join us on ze bolco-knee for a drink?” Before I could even digest the word bolco-knee Camille accepted. She walked ahead with Blazer while I strolled with Scruff. They really weren’t my type…too coiffed for me and full of themselves. I noticed how they caught their reflection in all the windows. I prefer an earthier man with a little dirt under his nails…and not the kind you can see either. Let’s just say his hotness has a lid on it to be inhaled later.

We sat upstairs at a crummy table far away from the quartet that plays every Friday night, but no one but me seemed to care. Camille looked like an Afghan Hound in heat wiggling in her bistro chair.

“Why are you moving around like that?” I whispered.

“I didn’t wear tights under this suit. The wool is killing me.”

“Great, now they’ll think we’re hot to trot.” And though Camille is, she’s not trotting anywhere without me. As far as my flirt exercise was going, I was failing miserably, especially when he asked if I was Camille’s girlfriend.”

“Yes I am,” I said.

“She is not,” Camille said giving me a dirty look. The two guys seemed disappointed at this news which turned me off even more. When you hit 50 group sex, I don’t care how much Purell is involved, is a maximum turn-off. And yes, that includes a naked game of Twister.

“You look very sport-tee,” Scruff said to me, his cashmere hoodie brushing against my arm. I want to say what their names were but frankly I can’t remember. By the time introductions were made I was on my second martini. Yes, well, the wine at the Met isn’t very good so what other choice did I have?

Who said abstinence? Yeah, like that was really going to happen.

“I didn’t expect to be meeting anyone except my girlfriend here so I didn’t bother to change. If I had known I might have switched shoes.”

When he heard the word girlfriend again he seemed to perk up. Up till then he was bored with whom he thought was a great big, possessive dyke. Honestly, just because my hair’s short and I wear functional footwear doesn’t mean I’m a lesbian….

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against gay women but, I have never in my lifetime ever played for the other side.

Because of cologne overload, I excused myself to go to the ladies room. I couldn’t help it, I was gagging.

“Hurry back,” said Camille, but I ended up tooling into the poster shop losing track of time. That’s what a little vodka can do. Not only that, I am now the irritated owner of 3 new Georgia O’Keefe posters; buy 2 get the 3rd one free…what was I thinking? I don’t even like Georgia O’Keefe. Have to remember not to bring my AmEx next time I go to the ladies room.

When I came back, Camille was sulking all by herself.

“What happened?”

“What happened? They got tired of waiting and left. Sa long, they said. Sa long my ass. Where have you been and why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“So that was my phone ringing…and to think I yelled at that woman. I’m sorry, I got sidetracked.”

“We could have gone out for a nice dinner, and why did you make them think we were a couple.”

“I am your girlfriend…girl/friend, get it? I didn’t say anything wrong. It’s not my fault they took it the wrong way.”

“Well maybe if you weren’t dressed like Fran Lebowitz.”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m wearing a tuxedo…can we just move on from this please. What about Henri?’

“Who?”

“Monsieur Matisse. He’s the one you came here to see, remember? Now that’s what I call a classy Frenchman.”

“Yeah but he’s dead.”

“But his art isn’t.”

“Alright, let’s go,” she said, but not before she drained what was left in all 4 glasses.

One can say many things about Camille, but not recycling isn’t one of them.

SB