Naked Ambition

Rolf wedged himself awkwardly behind a display case, the footsteps of the night guard ringing in his ears. They sounded close. Too close.

“This will be easy,” Monica had said. “I’ve been taking the class for a month now, scoping out the place—security is a joke.”

Easy my ass, thought Rolf, as his bare butt pressed into the cold marble walls.

They’d sketched out the plan across several napkins, the ballpoint tip making furrows as they drew a rough map of the art museum.

“The class is here. The figure models dress and undress here,” she said, pointing. “And the sculpture room is right there. You’ll be in and out in 15 minutes.”

“Don’t they have…you know…laser…grids…or…?” he trailed off, his hands moving in front of his face like a mime swatting away invisible tomatoes.

“Not while they’re under construction for the new exhibit, which they will be next week. I’ll distract the guards while you nab the statue. I already have the buyer lined up…easy…peasy…pudding…pie.” She walked her fingers up his chest with each word, ending with an affectionate boop on his aquiline nose.

“And I have to be naked?” He furrowed his smooth brow in concern. “I thought they wore…you know…lettuce leaves. Kale?”

She’d laughed, throwing her head back and showing all her teeth. “You’re thinking of fig leaves, you glorious idiot. And no, those got added later. By the prudes.”

He paused, buffering, as he always did when she mocked him. “Can I wear my Calvins?”

She pounced on him like a lioness, growling in mock frustration.

“Totally! And! Completely! Naked! Here, let me show you….”

She went first. Rolf quickly forgot about his inhibitions, and the plan was on.

#

The day of the heist was clear and cold. Rolf fretted over the temperature (for obvious reasons), but Monica assured him the figure drawing classrooms were always well heated.

She was correct—there were two space heaters pointed at his platform, and as he emerged from the dressing room it felt positively tropical.

“Um, there’s a robe in there…” the instructor stammered, taking in all of Rolf.

“No need,” he said with false confidence, striding briskly to the center of the room. He had seen the robe and considered it for a brief moment, but it had been a silky, gauzy pink thing. He had a vision of Monica collapsing in a fit of giggles on the floor at the sight of him in it. That terrified him more than going all-in…and all out.

Surprisingly, once he actually started posing, it was kind of nice. He felt confident and powerful as he flexed his hard-earned muscles and relaxed into the movement.

He began to daydream about where they would go once they sold the statue to Monica’s mysterious buyer. France? Italy? Both had good wine and topless beaches.

He faltered mid-pose, then, as he caught Monica’s eye and felt a precarious tingling in his exposed nether regions. She raised a mocking eyebrow and let her eyes drift downward, then back up to his.

Keep it together, Rolf, he scolded himself, as he bit his tongue on purpose. Monica topless, her teeth gleaming in the sun as she laughed, wine drunk on an Italian beach…not the ideal daydream at this point in time. He refocused on the logistics of the heist.

Get dressed. Get to the target. Pop it in the duffel. Back through the classroom and out through the side door.

Monica had been vague on the planned distraction, debating between faking a seizure or flirting with the guards. Rolf had advocated for the seizure, but she wanted to keep her options open. Still, she promised him five uninterrupted minutes—and that he would only need four.

When the hour ended, he felt energized. Monica threw him a wink as she passed through the dressing room on her way out the door with the rest of the students. The instructor gingerly handed him his pay as he stood there, nude, making small talk while the room cleared.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” the instructor mumbled on his own way out the door. Rolf slowly counted each of his fingers and toes, just as Monica had instructed, before heading into the dressing room. Except when he’d gone to get dressed, his clothes had been gone—even the robe.

He’d crept out of the room, acutely feeling the loss of the space heaters. The museum was eerily silent.

“Monica?” He whispered. “Babe?” He tiptoed towards the target. Maybe she’d decided to meet him there.

He was almost at the sculpture gallery when a loud siren blared. His skin stood up in goosebumps as he looked down to see a web of sparkling red beams, with his bare foot square in the middle of them.

“Laser grid!” He cursed under his breath, weirdly satisfied he’d been right. His smugness was a cold comfort as he heard shouts and running footfalls behind him, echoing through the hall.

He picked his way carefully through the grid before realizing the futility of that effort, the siren still blaring. He ducked into the first room off the hall and took cover.

The pursuing guard was almost on top of him. He had to make a move. The grand entrance to the museum was directly across from the gallery. Just twenty wide marble stairs up to the lobby.

He popped out, sprinting full speed up the stairs like a Superbowl streaker. He made it to the landing just as the lights came on, revealing two more guards. Among other things.

“Freeze! Hands up!” they shouted in unison, brandishing tasers.

Rolf wished with all his heart for a fig leaf. But he sighed, and complied.

#

It would have been a misdemeanor. But, because the statue had been stolen, Rolf was charged with aiding and abetting felony larceny and sentenced to two years in prison. The museum’s CCTV footage leaked online and a version of Rolf’s nude dash set to the Benny Hill theme racked up 3M views. A cut that showed Monica stealthily cutting through the staff-only hallways and lifting the statue while Rolf distracted the guards was set to the Mission Impossible theme. She hadn’t been seen since that night.

“You know, they have art classes there,” his public defender said after his sentencing hearing, as Rolf was ushered down the dark courthouse hall.

The postcard showed up a month into his sentence. It featured a photo of Michelangelo’s David in all its glory and a Florentine postmark. He knew who it was from before he flipped it over.

“Thinking of you.

Xoxo, Monica”