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Angie gazed skeptically up the vast set marble steps in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  “Really, Peg?”  Angie liked the library and wouldn’t say she disliked museums, but… “I mean, isn’t it a little…”

“Stuffy?”  Peggy finished briskly.

Angie reddened.  She hadn’t wanted to say it.  “Well…”

Peggy’s eyes twinkled a little.  “Don’t worry, darling.  I’ll show you around.”

Angie bit her lip and tripped lightly up the steps alongside Peggy, her eyes catching on the subtle gold hoops in Peggy’s ears, and then lingering on the side of her neck.  She couldn’t help wondering what Peggy had in mind.  She had memories of high school trips to this place, her steel-spined schoolmarm Mrs. Cimetti leading them through the Egyptian wing, showing them the stone sarcophagi of the pharaohs.  She had memories of the light slanting in wide bars from the windows along the top of the ceiling, filled with an ocean of floating, swirling dust motes.  The memory wasn’t an unpleasant one but it didn’t scream romance.

But the moment she stepped inside the vaulted front lobby, it was as if she were seeing it for the first time.  The great marble columns stretched up to the high arch of the ceiling, and the music of a string quartet reverberated through the space, playing a gorgeously fluid bouree.  The neatly-dressed crowds moved quietly and spoke in quick, hushed voices.  It shimmered softly.  She took Peggy’s arm.

Peggy moved her swiftly past the entrance to the Egypt wing.  “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,”  Peggy answered briskly.

Soon enough, Angie found herself in the Renaissance wing, surrounded by paintings resplendent in the rich colors of the age: DaVinci's "Virgin of the Rocks," Raphael's "St Michael Vanquishes Satan"... representations of the stories she'd had to sit through at Sunday mass when she was growing up.  "I know the stories behind these paintings," she contributed gamely.  

Peggy smiled at her.  "The Bible stories, you mean?"

Angie nodded.

"Ah, well, darling, that's only half the story."

Angie frowned.  "Whaddya mean?"

Peggy gave an airy sigh.  "Well, HE," she began, pointing at DaVinci's John the Baptist, "was a womanizer and a weapons designer known for getting into drunken sword fights."

"John the Baptist?"

Peggy chuckled. "No, Leonardo DaVinci." She continued as they strolled along.  "And he," she went on, pointing at a series of three framed sketches that appeared to be a few of Michelangelo's early studies for the Creation of Man, "was....a homosexual.". She dropped her voice to a whisper, and waggled her eyebrows suggestively at Angie.

Angie clutched at her pearls and gasped theatrically.  "No! Say it's not so!" she exclaimed in a hushed choice as they walked.

Peggy smirked.  "And he," she went on, pointing to an absolutely luminous Raphael painting of an angel¹, "hung around the Platonic Academy in Florence with the rest of these degenerates." 

Angie raised an eyebrow.  "So?"

"The Neoplatonists weren't the best Catholics," Peggy said delicately.  She looked at Angie and, with that warmth in her gaze that could turn her into a little pool of liquid, she said, "Beauty, they believed, enters the soul through the eyes, and inspires it to divine frenzy." ²  

Angie blushed a little, but didn't miss a beat as they continued strolling through the gallery.  She gave it right back to her. "Divine frenzy, huh? Is that what we had last night on the roof deck?"

Peggy's delicious lips pursed for a moment, restraining a grin, admirably keeping it at a smirk.  "Quite so," she agreed after a breath of hesitation.

Angie realized that while they'd been walking and flirting, they'd wandered into a portion of the renaissance wing which featured fewer biblical paintings, and more paintings from Greek myth.  And a lot more naked people.  She found herself standing underneath a large painting of two women, one on the left dressed in flowing white robes, and one with what looked like scarlet silk over her shoulders, but with breasts bared, leaning over and gazing at the other with great significance.

"Well," Angie remarked, flushing again, "that's one way to get a gal's attention."

"Hmm," Peggy agreed, nodding.  "You might try that one on me if you'd like.  This one's called Love, Sacred and Profane." ³ 

Angie snickered.  "Let me guess, the one who still has all her clothes on is called Sacred."

Peggy gave her a naughty grin.

Angie looked around her, taking in the walls lined with Titians and Botticellis and Caravaggios depicting scenes of high drama.  “Gee, English,” she observed a little too loudly, “there sure are a lot of naked tits in this room.”  

Peggy shushed her, barely containing a giggle as she noticed a couple of grey heads snap round to their direction to give them sharp glares.  “Yes, there are,” she agreed, chuckling, “but let me show you my favorite.”  She placed her hand on the small of Angie’s back and steered her further down the gallery.  

“I never knew it was so racy in this place,” Angie whispered. “I woulda gotten into art a long time ago but Mrs. Cimetti never told us.”

Peggy smiled and stopped her in front of a large painting of a young woman, reclined on a bed, her arm thrown back behind her head, and the light and shadow playing on the pale skin of her nude body.  It caught on her small, round breasts and cupped her face as she lay, eyes closed, looking all at once peaceful and ecstatic, sensual and serene.  She was human, and yet angelic, her curves graceful and face luminous, framed by sandy-gold waves tumbling down her back.  She was breathtaking.  Angie was speechless. ⁴ 

“She reminds me of you,” Peggy murmured in her ear, “the very first time we made love.”

Angie blushed, full-on scarlet coming into her hot cheeks.  “Peg…”

Peggy looked pretty damned satisfied with herself.  After admiring her handiwork, she took Angie’s elbow and said with a suggestive eyebrow raised, “Now that we’ve gotten warmed up, let’s go look at the good stuff.”

Angie’s breath was still tight in her chest.  “Oh, OK,” she squeaked.

****

As Peggy moved briskly up the narrow side hallway toward the shaded glass doors at the end, she whispered, “Can you put on an English accent?”

Angie was baffled but replied, “Sure, Peg.”

“Good.  Then follow my lead, let me do the talking, and if you absolutely have to speak, sound English.”

They marched up to the set of glass doors and the security guard stationed outside of it.  “Right then, soldier,” she addressed him briskly, and Angie could hear that tone that Peggy must have used when commanding actual troops.  “Margaret Carter, curator, National Gallery.  I believe Mr. Stark left word that I would be coming to view his private collection this weekend.”

The guard looked dumbfounded but couldn’t help reacting to Peggy’s natural authority.  “Um, sorry ma’am, but nobody told me nothin’ about that.”

“Nobody told you anything,”  Peggy corrected him, staring him down despite being several inches shorter.  “It’s anything, soldier, not ‘nothin’.  Nobody told you anything.”

“Uh, no ma’am.”

“Well, soldier,” she went on, punching every fifth word for emphasis.  “My colleague and I have flown in from London, from the National Gallery, to review Mister Stark’s collection for a possible exchange of works between the Gallery and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  We are only going to be here this weekend, catching a return flight tomorrow.  Now.  Would you, soldier, like to be the one to explain to Mister Millay why the Metropolitan Museum will not be borrowing the highlights from the National Gallery’s Rubens collection?  I know for an actual fact that Mister Millay was very interested in our Samson and Delilah, soldier.”

Angie couldn’t believe it.  She knew Peggy gave orders at work and that she’d commanded troops in the war, but it was another thing to watch her turn that on like a light switch and watch that authority emanating from Peggy’s stylishly dressed, curvaceous self.

“Uh, ma’am, I, uh… how… how’d you know-”

“I was a major in the RAF, I can spot a soldier from a hundred paces.  What was your rank…”  She paused, looked at the guard’s nametag.  “...Mr. Brinsley?”

He snapped to attention.  “Corporal, ma’am.”

“I outrank you,” she observed sharply.  “The Gallery will not fly me out at its own expense again, Corporal.  And I believe your Mister Millay will be very displeased if I cannot conduct my review in order to arrange the exchange of works on Mister Stark's behalf.  You will either get Mister Millay on the telephone-”

“He won’t answer the phone on the weekend.”

“Good,” she finished.  “That simplifies it.  Then you will open up Howard Stark’s private collection and allow myself and my colleague Miss Martin inside to review its contents in an expeditious manner.”  

The guard reddened, shuffled uncomfortably, and after a moment of indecision, took his key and opened up the door to Howard Stark’s private art collection.  The guard flicked the lights on and the large space came to life; the  walls were covered with paintings, and various items of pottery and sculpture sat in glass cases around the room.  Peggy looked around with satisfaction and then turned back to the guard, who stood watching her uncertainly.  "Corporal Brinsley, are you or are you not meant to be guarding that door?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, yes ma'am."

She folded her arms and stared at him.  “Are you waiting for an invitation, soldier?”

He coughed.  “No, ma’am.”  He left the room and shut the door behind him.

Angie clutched at Peggy’s arm as soon as the door closed, and they leaned on each other, collapsing into a fit of silent giggling.  When Angie could finally breathe, she said, “Oh my god, Peg, that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.  I’m not the only one who belongs on Broadway!”

Peggy leaned down and kissed Angie’s lips in a way that made clear she’d been dying to do it for a little while, nibbling at them and sending little shivers down Angie’s spine.  “Yes, I was quite good,” she agreed, smirking.

“Who’s Mr. Millay?”  Angie asked in between kisses.

Peggy laughed.  “He’s the curator of the entire museum.”

“Do you actually know him?”

“God no, of course not!” Peggy laughed.  “I saw his name on a placard as we were walking in.”

Angie dissolved into a new fit of silent giggles.  She recovered her breath.  “How come you couldn’t just get Howard to let you in here?”

“He’s in Thailand, doing I don’t want to know what.”

“I see.”  Angie started looking around, and realizing that all of the paintings, the sculptures, the triptychs, everything in this room, had a … theme to it.  “Peg…” she began cautiously, pointing to a silver cup with raised designs on the side depicting young men doing what looked a bit like playing leap frog. “Are the boys on the side of that cup there doing what I think they are?”⁵  

“This is Howard Stark’s collection,” Peggy replied.  “What do you think?”

All of it was art, in the truest sense of the word: beautifully executed, masterfully crafted, aesthetically captivating.  And it was all depicting couples (and other configurations) in the throes of what looked, to Angie’s admittedly untrained eye, like some pretty spectacular sex.  Men with men, men with women, women with women… It was really quite a lot to take in and Angie was struggling to find words as Peggy took her around the room.  “Is… is this really art?” she squeaked.

“Well,” Peggy replied warmly, enjoying Angie’s slightly shellshocked, slightly aroused expression.  “I think people would argue about that.  That’s why it’s in Howard’s private collection. His public collection is considerably tamer than this.  Fortunately our Mr. Millay has a fairly… liberal outlook when it comes to what qualifies as art and feels that erotic art has its place in the representation of history and culture.”

They wandered past a series of very small, gilt-framed pre-Raphaelite paintings depicting some very happy women receiving some very enthusiastic oral sex.  She blushed.

They paused in front of a bronze table that, at first, didn’t seem that remarkable until she realized that the legs were actually men with giant erections.⁶  She blushed even harder.

“OK, so, you must have your favorites in here, right?” she asked, her voice shaky from nerves and excitement.  It was all so illicit; faking their way in, looking at all of this sexy artwork...

“Of course.”  Peggy took her hand, and Angie could feel that their palms were equally hot and sweaty.  “This way.”  

Angie had seen the large white marble sculpture from the door when they’d first entered, but they were facing the back of it, so she hadn’t been able to tell what it was, but now, as Peggy led her around the front, she was in disbelief.  “Oh, Peg… It’s amazing.”

The placard beside it dated it at approximately 1504, (just a few years after Michelangelo’s Pietá, it noted) and the configuration was remarkably similar to the Pietá, except that it was two women (and the ensuing controversy over that similarity had gotten the artist in a great deal of trouble).  One was lying naked across the other’s lap, the two locked in a passionate kiss.  The woman sitting up had cupped one of the prone woman’s breasts in her hand and had her other hand on her delicate charge’s thigh.  Their bodies, frozen in that position, glistened as if they were alive and sweating.  Angie’s knees felt weak.  “Is that bench over there for sitting on or is that a piece of pornographic art too?”

“Well, I don’t see any erections carved into it.  I’m fairly certain it’s just a bench.”

“Good, let’s go sit on it.”

They parked side by side, gazing for a few moments in silence at the sculpture.  Angie remembered Peggy saying to her that that painting in the Renaissance wing had reminded her of the way she looked the first night they’d made love.  “Peg?” she whispered after a few beats.

“Hmm?”

“You think that’s what we look like?  When we, you know….?”

“Hmm, let’s see…”  Peggy reached over, pulling Angie down, slowly lowering her body across her own lap, supporting Angie’s upper body with a strong arm underneath it, hand reaching all the way around, just as in the sculpture, to gently cup one of Angie’s breasts.  “I’m afraid you’re going to have relax a bit more and put your feet up,” she whispered with deep seriousness.  

Angie obliged, and felt herself getting warmer as Peggy’s hand settled on her thigh.  “Oh, Peg,” she sighed softly, and melted into the passionate kisses that Peggy laid all over her sweet, eager mouth.  

They lost a moment or two or three, becoming the flesh and blood embodiment of the sculpture, the sculpture itself a mimicry of something divine and beautiful and heartbreaking.  She let herself melt in Peggy’s strong arms, reclined across her lap, forgetting herself in the softness of her lips.  

The sound of the door opening interrupted them.  Peggy jumped to her feet so quickly that Angie almost fell off of Peggy’s lap onto the floor.  She gathered herself up.  Brinsley came into the room, peering around with a slightly lost look.  “Miss, uh, Major?  Carter?  Miss Carter?  Ma’am?”

By the time he’d made his way around to them, they had managed to straighten themselves out enough and clean the smudged lipstick off of their faces.  

Angie banished the panic from her face and gave him a polite smile.  

She saw a tall, slim, elderly gentleman in a perfectly tailored suit, walking in Brinsley’s wake.  “Miss Carter?  Miss Martin?  Wallace Staunton Millay,” he said coolly.

Angie’s panic was reaching fever pitch.  Her mouth was dry and her heart was jackhammering in her chest.  She breathed slowly and hung onto the cool emanating from Peggy.

“Margaret Carter, National Gallery,” Peggy said, stepping forward and shaking Millay’s hand.

“I managed to reach Mr. Stark in Thailand,” Millay remarked, smiling at Peggy and then at Angie.  “He was quite happy to confirm your arrangement, although it was rather inconvenient that he had forgotten to inform the museum.”

Angie’s heart slowed down.  Relief flooded through her.

“Fabulous.  I trust that there’s no problem, then?”

Milay smiled.  “Of course.  I simply wanted to extend the invitation to you both, when you’re through in here, of course,  to have Mr. Brinsley escort you by the special exhibit in the Antiquties wing so that you needn’t wait in that dreadful line.”

Peggy smiled.  “Thank you, Mr. Millay.  That would be lovely.”

Millay excused himself.  Brinsley retook his post.  Peggy and Angie spent a few minutes more, wandering through Howard’s collection, and then they exited the gallery.

***

That night at the Stark penthouse, Peggy sat in her thick, white bathrobe, reading a magazine on the couch.  She could hear the sloshing sounds of Angie taking a bath, singing “Swing on a Star,” in a particularly sweet part of her vocal register.  Peggy smiled.

The telephone rang.  It was Howard.

“Margaret Carter, National Gallery?  Peg, just tell me next time you want into my collection.” His tone made the words sound needlessly suggestive, the way it always did.  He could lay out technical specs for an electrical grid and he would sound like he was implying something sexual.  

“Well, Howard, you failed to leave your number in Thailand, so I was forced to improvise.”

She heard the sounds of Angie climbing out of the tub and strolling into the living room.  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Angie glide by, wearing the red silk dressing gown of Peggy’s that she coveted and borrowed so often that it was practically hers.

“What were you doing in there, anyway?” Howard pursued.

“Trying to impress my date.”

“Trying to arouse your date, you mean,” Howard chuckled.  “Did it work?

“Pssst, hey!”  Angie whispered.  “Hey Sacred!”

Peggy glanced over at Angie, who was sitting at the other end of the couch, the dressing gown open and hanging off her shoulders, breasts bared, gazing significantly at Peggy.  Peggy’s face lit up.

“None of your bloody business, you letch,” she laughed into the phone.

“I’d call that a big yes,” Howard remarked, amused.  “Take some pictures for me, will ya?  For… you know… art.”

Peggy sighed loudly and disgustedly.  “Goodbye, Howard.”

Trying to arouse your date, you mean.  Did it work?

Yes, she thought, looking at Angie’s delicious shape, half out of its dressing gown.  Yes, it appears so.  

She slid down to the other end of the couch.