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frame. A colleague once ordered a bottle on a night out back home and had to leave his shoe behind the bar to guarantee he’d return the glass. There’s no such system in place here. Maybe the Dutch are more trustworthy, or maybe it’s just no longer a novelty.
    Neither he nor his friend appear to pay much attention as I emerge from the bar’s dark interior. They’re chatting away in rapid Dutch, interspersed with the odd raucous laugh. I study them covertly as I flip a cigarette from the pack. Kwak Boy has tousled dark hair and a growth of stubble on his broad jaw. His companion is fairer, with a cynical cast to his foxy features. I wouldn’t turn either of them down, but I’m not vain enough to automatically assume they’d be interested in a woman my age.
    The flint on the lighter strikes, but fails to ignite. I try a couple more times, growing increasingly frustrated.
    “Do you need a light?” the fair-haired lad asks in impeccable English.
    “That’d be great, thanks.”
    He produces a lighter, quickly kindling a flame from it. I lean close, inhaling as the cigarette lights and tasting the first welcome lungful of smoke.
    That’s one of my imminent needs sorted, but not the other. The pulse still beating steadily deep between my legs is proof of that.
    “You’re on holiday here?” the other man asks. I can’t help but notice he’s not looking me in the eyes as he speaks. His gaze is lower, fixed on the point where my olive-green T-shirt stretches across my breasts. Even in my forties, I’m lucky enough to be able to get away without a bra on sultry days like this, and he’s making the most of the sight of my nipples poking hard against the soft-brushed cotton.

    “Yes.” I accept the unspoken invitation to sit, to make conversation, perching on the edge of the bench.
    “Your first time?”
    I shake my head. “I’ve been here a couple of times before, but I’ve never found this bar till now.”
    “You’ve missed a treat. Gijs and I almost never drink anywhere else. I’m Peter, by the way.”
    “Barbara.”
    He takes my hand, holding it for a fraction longer than is socially polite. I’m wondering if there’s more than just friendliness behind his eagerness to make small talk, whether I’m reading the flirtatious looks he’s giving me correctly. His next words remove any doubt from my mind.
    “You have fantastic tits, Barbara. I said that to Gijs when we first saw you.”
    Gijs takes a long swallow of his blond beer before adding, “That’s not all he said. He reckoned you were pretty fuckable, too.”
    There are two ways the conversation can go from here. I can quickly finish my smoke and scuttle back inside, flattered but ignoring the obvious proposition. Or I can—as I do—make eye contact with Gijs and suck on the cigarette as though it’s a miniature cock.
    There’s something I need to know before this goes any further. “When I arrived here, you were sitting with three girls.” I picture them in my mind, young and pert, attractive in a wholesome, farmer-folk way, like the barman inside. “If you’re in the mood for a fuck, what was wrong with them?”
    Gijs shrugs. “They don’t do it for me. I like someone older, someone who knows what she wants.” He leans closer. “Tell me, Barbara, what do you want?”
    I want what I’ve wanted since my first sip of beer, since the
music started to rouse me on some primitive level: to be filled with hot, hard cock. More than that, I want to try something I would only dare in a foreign country, where I know there’s absolutely no chance of bumping into someone I know who wouldn’t approve, or understand.
    “You and Peter. At the same time. And we’ve got to be quick, because I’ve left my beer sitting on the bar. How about it?” As my words hang in the air, I can’t believe I’ve been so bold. Playing for such high stakes has never really appealed to me before.
    Peter spins his empty bottle on the table. Is he deciding