Moans, Pools & Caterpillars

Unruffled by Saturday night road congestions and the foul weekend weather we braved the grueling elements and made it to the Fort in roughly one piece. I didn’t author this insanity. It was the brilliant idea of Euclid [name changed to protect the guilty] who wanted to support a DJ friend spinning for the night’s Looper Sessions—some last-breath-of-summer dance and pool party at the posh One McKinley Tower.

Then the slut of a universe, being one irresponsible spoilsport, hemorrhaged a drizzle to discourage the whole bacchanalia. Not to be dispirited, people still convened to the thumping grind of house, techno and smooth grooves, marinated by bubbly and beer.

We arrived right in time when the party is just peaking. Drenched in smattering downpour, unmindful gorgeous Caucasians, stunning Latin Americans, cute local brats and assorted cool cats dance, slither and writhe like spineless caterpillars on hormone overdrive. Some lounge around drinking inexpensive champagne out of plastic cups. Others crowd the taco and hotdog stand within reach.

Everyone seems to be furtively checking each other out, plotting permutations of possible hook up stratagems to ensure a weekend isn’t wasted. Not to be outdone, we participated in this sly game. You'd have to invoke vast supply of fortitude to feign non-stimulation when everywhere you turn you are confronted with washboard abs, meticulously toned physiques, crotches gifted with winking bulges, bubble butts threatening to leap out of spandex, cleavages so deep you’d call to mind the Suez Canal. It’s practically an orgasmic grocery. A few couples make out in the pool openly and no one blinked when an attractive bombshell accidentally unhooked her bikini top and created quite a stir.

Though the party is civilized, you can practically inhale hormones soaking the air. It’s as if The Playboy Mansion has gone coed and relocated to Cancun.

Letting our baser instincts go unleashed we launched into manic people-watching. It's an embarrassing diversion to admit but a basic human being can't stare at buxom breasts and think at the same time.

“Four o’clock,” a breathy, panting bud alerted me on a hottie, “total dynamite!”

I stealthily turn sideways and check out the object of lust aided by bionic strength of my peripheral vision. He’s right: I am witness to knockers so proud and nipples so firm they seem to be smugly beckoning the sky.

“Eight o’clock,” a strained urbane gasp leaked out one of the girls in our group.

She's eyeing an edible number indeed.

“Isn’t that George Michael?” I chuckled.

A few paces away a George Michael deadringer wade the pool in skin-clinging board shorts.

“Oh lord,” a smart aleck rolled her eyeballs. “Don’t let him burst into Freedom 90!”

We laughed, drained our cups of bubbly, cast one final lustful glance toward the crowd and split — our breaths labored, our excitable imaginations exploding like New Year fireworks in Beijing.