6: Chocolate Shake

I walked out to Lincoln Road toting the six-pack of premium martinis, still processing everything. I went right to the Ghirardelli Café, ordered a massive dark chocolate raspberry shake with vanilla ice cream, and pulled out my cell phone to summon Jean-Jacques.

Jean-Jacques and I met at that first party at the Palms, where I noticed him lounging next to the bar as I was unpacking 1.75 liter magnums of Vladi Vodka for the bartender. He is still skinny as a rail, and that night he wore a skin-tight white silk tank top with a low-scooped neck and white short-shorts that highlighted his coffee complexion.

It was about as close to naked as you could get and still be dressed. I looked him up and down and liked what I saw. He reminded me of one of my college boyfriends -- a chocolate-colored alto with the glee club who sang to me in bed. Though we’d broken up after a couple of months, I still remembered him fondly.

I flirted with Jean-Jacques as I worked. “I judge the quality of a club by the men it attracts.”

“Really?” He stretched one long leg out to the barstool next to him, and if his shorts hadn’t been so tight, I was sure his balls would have slipped out. “How does this place rate?”

“So far, so good.” I stopped working for a minute to wipe my forehead, holding one of the magnums at crotch level with my other hand.

“Your bottle is so…big,” Jean-Jacques said, smiling.

“That’s what all the boys say.” I winked at him. “You want to give me a hand?” I nodded toward a sealed case.

“Girlfriend, these hands do not do manual labor,” he said, tossing his long black locks. “But for a sexy little thing like you, I could make an exception.”

“I’m sure I can find a way to make it up to you.” I bumped his hip as I turned back to the bar. When the Palms ran out of limes, he let me send him to the twenty-four-hour bodega around the corner. At four a.m., when we ran out of vodka and the bartender made last call, we collapsed together at a table in the corner. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” I said. “I’m doing another one of these next week. You want to work with me? I get a grand per party, and I’ll split it with you.”

“Any fringe benefits to this job?” he asked, stretching his legs out so that they brushed up against mine.

“I’ve been told I’m a world-class cocksucker.”

He frowned. “Oh, honey, that’s sweet, but I’m a bottom.”

“I can top too,” I said.

“Well, then, now you’re talking my language.”

I took him back to my apartment, and we slid into bed together. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him; he was all arms and legs. He sucked me, he took me up his ass, and then we both faced the awful truth: I was more of a bottom too.

Not that I can’t dominate a man, if I want to. And I do want to, sometimes. But I just wasn’t man enough for Jean-Jacques, who was the dictionary definition of insatiable. He was also a romantic, looking for love, and somewhere around six in the morning, naked and sweaty, we decided we would be better off as best friends.

While I waited for Jean-Jacques to get his skinny ass over to Ghirardelli, I sipped my shake, pulled out my pocket notepad, and started making a to-do list. I know, it’s old school to use paper and pen, but my fingers are just too big to make much progress on my iPhone other than the briefest of text messages.

By the time Jean-Jacques arrived, I was on my second shake and third sheet of paper. “You’re going to get fat, girlfriend,” he said, ticking his fingernail against the tall chocolate-filled glass.

The waiter came over, and Jean-Jacques ordered a glass of water. “No chocolate?” I asked.

“Honey, I am all the chocolate I need,” he said, crossing one long, slim leg over the other. “I gained two pounds from all the stress of that party last night, and I did not get to work it off with anyone.” He raised his eyebrows. “I want to hear all about the workout you got from that sexy Cubano last night.”

“Forget about him. This is huge.” I told him about Vlad’s plans to introduce the vodka cocktails around the country, and showed him the bottle carrier.

“Now that is a six-pack I can get into,” Jean-Jacques said. “It’s probably the only kind of six-pack I’ll ever see again.”

Jean-Jacques was going through one of his periodic romantic depressions. He was sure that he would never find Mr. Right, that he would never be able to get sex and romance in one package. He’d sworn off casual hookups a few weeks before the party, vowing not to get naked with a man unless the guy showed some long-term potential. I didn’t even bother to argue with him any more, though our attitudes were a hundred-eighty degrees apart.

“You need to get laid,” I said. “The sooner the better. So do I.”

“You just had wild sex with that Cubano last night, didn’t you? Don’t tell me you didn’t get naked with him. He is one fine piece of man flesh.”

“We got naked. A little too naked, if you know what I mean. I feel like I need to get laid again fast, or I’m going to find myself in love. And you know how I feel about that.”

Jean-Jacques was nearly panting for dirty details, but I forced him back to Vladi Vodka. “Look at these notes,” I said. “I’m thinking ads and coupons. We need to get Leslie working up some layouts pronto.”

Leslie was an artist friend who drew our ads, posters, and so on. She and her girlfriend lived in a converted garage in the Collins Park neighborhood just north of Lincoln Road.

We brainstormed for the better part of an hour, dividing up the tasks at hand. I’d work on the contract and the budget, while Jean-Jacques would research clubs and publications. By the time we were finished, Jean-Jacques had succumbed to the lure of a shake, and we’d each devoured a chocolate bar.

But if I thought I was going to get away without giving Jean-Jacques a play-by-play of the night before, I was about as wrong as bikini briefs on an overweight, sunburned Canadian tourist. We left the café and started walking on Lincoln Road.

“So, last night,” he said. “How was he? He looks as hot as a shot of cafecito.”

My dick stiffened at the memory of Javier Marisco as I spilled the coffee beans. “He got under my skin. I can’t stop thinking about him and the way that his body felt next to mine. And he has the most gorgeous apartment, and beautiful taste in clothes. He’s perfect -- and that’s just too scary.”

“It’s not fair. You want to spread your seed all over the Beach, and I want to settle down. But you meet the keepers, and I meet the losers.”