On a balmy Miami evening (our dead of winter), I cut through a pack of the young international beauties that gravitate toward the Delano (one of Ian Schrager's blousy, white-walled, Philippe-Starck decorated, vast-area hotels, and a nightspo
t most conducive to seeing, being seen, and letting nature take its course, in a townlet known for the latter); I walked through the rows of 25ft. columns joined with immense sheer cotton fluttering drapes, past throngs of shiny chatterers gathered on a red velvet couch here and a leopard-furry round bed there, to the long oak bar, where I looked intently, through smoke and pool-shooting, dancing, flirting nubile bodies, for a guy in leather pants carrying a photographer's case, and, failing to find one, already aroused by the steamy stolen gazes of strangers that ran over my body infecting it with the energy that keen fans from the bleachers transfer to players on the court, I ambled on, my heels clicking on the echoing parquet, my shoulders straightening out ever so vainly and my hips swinging front to back of their own accord in the way they have of letting me know that I am flesh, and out the stone steps, beyond the terraced restaurant, down a row of 50ft palm trees, alongside the lulling swimming pool—150ft long and 50ft wide and featuring at the shallowest end marble dining tables with lit and dripping candelabra for those who like to drink and keep wet—to the outdoor thatched-roof bar, where I detected a pair of David-ian cheeks and short, sinewy legs tightly bound in black leather and on the gravel next to them a photographer's metal case. He leaned facing the black of the soughing ocean, so I only saw his curvy backside and his hair which was bleached blond. I stopped and reminded myself: I'm not on the make. Leather trousers and bleached tresses, I thought, how tacky can a male get! Then I took two steps and offered my hand to the taut stranger, who was here to photograph my work. We got our drinks (a mediocre Scotch cost $9.50) and strolled under the New Agey colored swinging lights, exchanging vacuities over the Latin beat. Along the pool runs a row of white cabanas, each containing a sofa with a wrap-around curtain for privacy. We slipped into one. I sat with my legs crossed and kept my voice cool and professional, hoping to cut the pulsating tension of unsaid propositions, the temptation of so much easy lust so easy at hand. For a few minutes we pretended to discuss acquaintances, shoots, the challenge of catching a spray of water as it cuts against a model's body, while the night aroma of flowers, the flickering torches, the risky nearness of nice-smelling strangers passing by, made it impossible not to take a plunge. I felt my legs open in his direction, enough to convince me that he could glimpse that I had nothing underneath in the dark, and the feeling of the ocean breeze on my labia tipped the scales. I didn't know him from the proverbial Adam, but we started making out effortlessly even before I pulled the curtain. The proximity, two feet away, of guests shuffling by, playing chess on the grass, giggling on hammocks, and the prospect of our silhouettes being visible in the moonlight emboldened me. I lowered the top of my dress, hiked up the skirt of it, and straddled his lap, guessing he was ready without having touched him anywhere at all. We kissed, fondled, and by unspoken agreement started masturbating each other. When seconds later I began to climax melodiously I was so busy looking for hands and skirts to stuff in my mouth I didn't realize how fully I was releasing or that he was no quieter. He peeked out from the side of the curtain before he opened it, convinced that some guests must have heard us orgasm or seen my head bent down over his lap. I remained dizzy for a while, but I did notice that the restaurant waiters were unusually deferential and quick.
