4: Premium Martinis

I woke to Javier leaning above me, fully dressed, kissing my forehead. “What time is it?” I groaned.

“Just after seven. Go back to sleep, mi amor. When you’re ready to leave, just ring for the elevator.”

He kissed my lips, gently, and then he was gone. His bed was so soft, it felt like I was sleeping on clouds. I turned onto my side, clutched one of the fluffy pillows, and fell right back to sleep.

I awoke again just before noon. For a moment, I was disoriented. My apartment wasn’t that bright in the morning, and my bed wasn’t nearly as comfortable. Where was I?

Then it all came back to me. My nipples and my ass were still sore and I had morning wood, but I couldn’t remember having been fucked so well in a long time. I stretched lazily and yawned, then stumbled into the bathroom. It was like a hotel, all marble and glass, with a rain showerhead, a towel warmer, and a wicker basket filled with tiny soaps and lotions on the vanity.

I went back through the night in my head. I had been with a lot of men, from my first hand jobs on prep school classmates to a bearded, middle-aged Dutch tourist I’d met the week before at a club. I’d had bad sex, average sex, good sex, and great sex. I’d been sucked and fucked, experimented with bondage, water sports, and sensory deprivation. But I’d never felt the depth of connection with another man that I had felt with Javier Marisco.

That was scary. I wasn’t interested in falling in love. Been there, done that, got my heart ripped out and recovered. I wasn’t going to fall for that trap again. There had to be something wrong with Javier, a detail I could use to nip this infatuation in the bud.

I took a shower, using Javier’s lemon verbena soap and his citrus shampoo. By the time I finished, I felt like I’d bathed in a supermarket aisle. I walked back into the bedroom, wrapped in one of his oversize fluffy towels, and considered my clothing options.

I hate putting on dirty underwear after a nice clean shower. Usually after a sleepover I end up going commando, my briefs tucked in my pocket. But the thought of slipping into a pair of Javier’s undies and wearing them home made me hard again. I opened the top drawer of the sleek credenza and looked into my options.

Ahh, Javier was a man after my own heart. I think your choice of underwear says a lot about you, and I consider my options as carefully as I do my outerwear. Certain occasions call for boxers, others for briefs, still others for boxer briefs. Javier obviously felt the same, because in neat rows I saw cotton boxers, boxer briefs, silk bikinis, and thongs. I chose a pair of silk boxers with a slit up the side, in a tiger print.

Thus attired, I felt ready to face the world, and faced my first task: exploring Javier’s apartment, starting with his medicine cabinet. Yeah, it’s cheesy and snoopy, but I hoped I’d find some hidden secret that would turn off my lust button. I looked for hemorrhoid cream, evidence of past STDs, dandruff shampoo, or lip gloss.

But all I found was the usual array of over-the-counter medicines, condoms, lube, and some very expensive face cream. I closed my eyes and tried to remember Javier’s face. Had I seen some fine lines around his eyes? How old was he, anyway?

He had worked in construction for years, before starting his own business. That must be why he was so careful of his skin -- all that time in the Florida sun. I have the kind of fair skin that burns rather than tans, so I avoid the sun whenever I can, sticking to the shady side of the street, never going out to the beach without a generous lather of something with an SPF of at least 50.

I went back to his closet, looking for orthopedic shoes, polyester shirts, or any other fashion faux pas that might turn me off. But alas, his array of designer labels made my heart beat just a little faster. Were we the same size, I wondered? Would he mind if I borrowed that crisp, midnight blue oxford-cloth shirt? It would go so well with my coloring.

Giving up on the bedroom, I went out to Javier’s kitchen in search of caffeine. I’d have preferred Starbucks, where they make the coffee for you, but I fiddled around with Javier’s fancy machinery until I heard the divine noise of coffee brewing. While it percolated, I snooped through the rest of the apartment. You had to give him credit; he had good taste. The furniture was handmade: dark woods polished to a high shine, overstuffed cushions in tropical prints.

He had a big-screen TV, a solid collection of novels ranging from classics to bestsellers, and a few elegant pieces of crystal displayed on dust-free glass shelves. He must have a maid, I thought. No one could live such a perfect life.

I went back into the kitchen and made myself a latte, foaming the milk and sprinkling the top with cinnamon powder, then took my drink out to the balcony.

The view of Biscayne Bay, with the Miami skyline just beyond, was fabulous, and I imagined making love to Javier out there at night, with the dazzling cityscape behind us. My dick poked straight out of Javier’s silk boxers, and I had the urge to jerk off right there, marking my territory with whatever semen I had left in my body after having it drained so much the night before.

But I resisted. A boy has to have some standards, after all. One of Javier’s business cards sat in the center of the kitchen table, and on the back he’d scrawled, Call me, mi amor.

I would. But not right away. I’d keep him hanging for a day or two. I wasn’t some lovesick teenager mooning after a handsome man. Besides, I had a date that afternoon.

Not anything romantic, you understand. Purely business. Vlad Solonenko didn’t stir my heart the way Javier did, but he did throw a lot of business my way, and if the cost of that business was the occasional naked romp with the sexy, closeted Russian, I didn’t mind.

The night I met Vlad, I was twenty-one, and I’d been on the Beach for a couple of weeks, making the rounds of all the clubs, checking out the venues and the parties to see how I could break in. It was after midnight one Monday, at a short-lived club on Washington Avenue called the Palms. I was leaning against the bar, taking a break from dancing my ass off when I caught the eye of a bearish guy with beefy pecs, lounging at a nearby table with a buxom blonde.

He motioned over a waiter, and pointed at me, in my skimpy white tank top and tight peach-colored shorts. Soon I was holding my Cosmopolitan up to him in thanks. A few minutes later, he stopped by to say hello. His name was Vladislav Solonenko, he said, with an accent reminiscent of Boris and Natasha from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons.

I thanked him for the drink. “You like vodka?” he said. “I import.” He handed me his card. “You should call me sometimes. We could have interests in common.”

Despite the presence of the blonde, Vlad gave me a vibe, and I smiled and said I thought we just might. After he left, I asked the bartender about him. “Vladi Vodka,” he said, showing me a bottle. “He supplies most of the clubs on the Beach.”

Just the kind of guy I’d like to get to know, I thought. A man with his connections could open some doors for me and help me kick-start my business. I’d been pretty successful in college, running everything from booze-free mixers to blue movie nights at fraternities, and I had an idea that I could turn that hobby into a full-time occupation.

A trust fund set up by my grandfather gave me enough cash to squeak by, if all I wanted to do was fuck around. But I was a victim of that old Protestant work ethic -- I couldn’t just sit around and live off grandpa’s cash. I came from a long line of doctors, lawyers, business executives, and minor nobility. I decided to stake my claim on the party-planning business in South Beach.