Unforbidden Frucht

Azendi Halskette „der verbotenen Frucht“, $490

„Sie können ihre Verzweiflung wie Duftstoff riechen.“

Ich treffe den flüchtigen Blick der cabbies im Berichtspiegel: die Sprünge im Glasecho das rote Spidering durch das Weiß seiner Augen.

„Das ist, wie Touristen zu den Männern und zu den Frauen hier sind,“ sagt er und lächelt. „Sie laufen rauhe Zeit durch? Sie riechen es und sie sind bereit, Sie zu trösten. Sie sind wie ein reifer Apfel baumelnd von einem Baum.“

Ich gackere mit ihm. Ich wurde gewesen gerade, ihm erklärend, daß wie mißtrauisch ich Miamis von der geistlosen Freundlichkeit war und er meine Vermutung geäußert hatte: „OH-, aber Sie können sicher sein, daß ihre Freundlichkeit wünscht etwas von Ihnen.“

Er hatte mich in im Stadtzentrum gelegenem Miami abgeholt, in dem ich eine high-rise Eigentumswohnung betrachtete. Der Rest des Traums Weiß-einpfählenzaun des Landes schmolz unten von der Hitze seiner Habsucht, und sein südliches die meiste Spitze hatte einen Feuerverkauf: für Preis Luxuxgebäuden, die aus altersschwachem Bezirk Geschäft Miamis heraus wachsen, wurden zu temptingly festgesetzt. So war ich gegangen, zu sehen, was wie ein lächerliches Abkommen schien: was ich für eine bescheidene Wohnung in Los Angeles zahlen würde, würde eine Dreißigstgeschichte Wohnung hier kaufen. Zerteilen Sie von einem Glas und die Stahlskulptur, die zum Himmel, die Eigentumswohnung ausdehnt, hatte eine Buchtansicht angeboten, die mich Gefühl wie der Gott bildete, der unten auf Ameise Leuten, zusammen mit einem 24stündigen Doorman schaut, und ein Dachspitze sauna.

Es' d schien passend, daß Miami eine höllische Hitze so nahe setzen würde, wie möglich zum Himmel.

Und die Wohnung war schön gewesen, seine sensually gepflegten öffentlichkeit Plätze, aber ich bin nicht noch sicher, wie Miami nicht die Hölle sein würde, die mit LA verglichen wurde, das bereits ein stumpfes Fegefeuer ist, das nach New York verglichen wird. Ich bin ruhiges Gebäude meine Karriere, und sie bildet mich nervös dieses Miamis carpe diem Befehl ist ausdrücklicher, als in der Wüste Strandstadt ich bereits in lebe: vergessen Sie jede mögliche Bemühung außerhalb des sofortigen Vergnügens, gerechter Schauer heraus.

Ich entspanne mich in den schwarzen Sitz des Taxis, da wir über der Brücke zurück in touristy Südstrand stoßen. Heraus sind mein Fenster Ferienlandhäuser, die Pflasterschlösser, die vom Fahrerhaus durch einen Rasen von Ozean überholt werden. Mein Verstand geht in dieser idealen Insel, seine Palmen verloren, die wie das Zuwinken der Hände, seine Yachten beeinflussen, die ruckartig bewegen wie die ja nickenden Köpfe „.“ Ich passe ein Paar auf, auf einem Pier zusammen writhing.

„Was die verrückteste Sache ist, die wird geschehen Ihnen in einem Fahrerhaus?“ Ich bitte. „Als das letzte Mal Sie in diesem Auto und in Gedanken waren, `, das ich nicht warten kann, um jemand über dieses zu erklären'?“

He laughs, shortly. “Once, it was winter, so it was only five o’clock but already dark. I pick up these women from a hotel and it becomes clear they just met and they want to go to the next bar. So then they are drunk and laughing, and then they start kissing me, touching me, everywhere! They want me to go to the bar with them. They won’t stop.”

“They were hot?”

“Oh, yes,” he nods. “And this was before I was married! But they were drunk. Something about a drunk woman touching me, it is disgusting.”

“I agree,” I say. “It’s somehow insulting, right?”

“Yes.” He makes a left turn, onto the street of my hotel. “Plus I knew, women like that, the next bar we go to, they’d leave me soon as possible for ten other men.”

I laugh.

“Yes, this is a horny city.” He stops, hops out, and opens the door for me. “You’d be surprised what a conservative woman will do here, as soon as she gets off the plane.”

I face the decaying Deco hotel I’m staying in, its white walls streaked with cracks of black. It’d been cleaned since the 1920s, sure, but it seemed so sloppily spit-shined. Under the sun the building shrugged, “Good enough,” like the dark woman that painted my nails red earlier that day, unconcerned about a smudge until I’d tipped her.

Two days in Miami, and I’d already acquainted myself with a constant, carpe-diem carnival, a world where no one cared much about anything but the heavy hedonism dancing in front of them. And somehow that never-ending now made the city eternal.

I wander around the corner of my hotel, barely with Starbucks as a goal in my head: it’s so, so hot, iced espresso seems like the only way I’ll keep from forever falling asleep.

As I stroll, I look up into a boiling blue sky caged in by the tips of tall buildings. Miami is a sparse forest of skyscrapers, of towers of Babel, and its streets are little brooks babbling with accents: Texas tourists, Russian revelers, tropical women chirping deep from their throats… But we all melt together in the city’s heavy heat, its hellish humidity that keeps us all sweating, dirt sticking to skin whether it’s red or black, to coughing Fords or crashing Ferraris, to the crumbling buildings that clean condos lean on.

I slide in line at Starbucks. In front of me is a woman with a body built like a Roman statue, though in South Beach she’s just more flesh for an on-going orgy. In front of her is a father and daughter in hip-hugging jeans, both blurrily young. With highlighted hair, lean legs, they’re a reminder of Miami’s immortal youth, the beach’s deceptive, Dorian Gray beauty. I can’t tell their ages, and the only way I’m sure they’re parent and child is how their looks mirror one another, and how they are(n’t) touching each other. Their tanned skin sparkles with sweat, like they’re dusted with cheap crystals, like the sugar sparking off the pastries in the coffee shop’s display case.

I’m tempted by an apple tart, but I make myself only order espresso. Its icy cup is sweating as soon as I step back outside. I ignore men hissing at me from their cars, and when I turn a corner I pretend not to see the homeless man baking in the sun, ghost eyes barely blinking, his corpse hand dancing a bit in the breeze.

I walk into my hotel, straight to the lift. As the elevator creaks up, I stare at the rhinestone crucifix on the ass of a woman’s jeans.

.

I don’t leave my bedroom until it’s dark and I’m starving: I’d been slaving for hours, putting in hellish effort to build my own heaven on earth. When I step outside into the night, its dark is only exaggerated by street lamps. The wind fingers my hair, caresses my face, and the air is wet with the scent of designer vodka.

I roam blocks away from the beach before there’s more than just hotels. Music blows out of bars; sounds from different Me Decades dance: ’80s club throbs in the air, then I pass a wave of jittery jazz. The songs leak into each other, the eras blur together, strung together by their writhing rhythms, their same soul: a fast beat that makes me want to dance right now with whoever is nearest.

I step into a Japanese restaurant, and everything on the menu drips of grease, of sweet sauce, of indulgence. I order a plain-sounding salmon, and the waitress, soft as a geisha girl, says to come back in fifteen minutes. I walk outside, and see a flashing sign across the street. It pulses: Erotic. Sex. Museum.

I saunter into the building, taking a shaky elevator to the final floor. A dim gift shop of wrinkled Marilyn Monroe posters ends in a glassed wall and a sleepy cashier: $13 TO ENTER.

I pay, and walk into space littered with paintings of flappers revealing boyish bodies, androgynous Greek gods twisting into each other, Austrian jewelry boxes that reveal mistresses enjoying their men. Whalebone dildos glisten in a dull display case, a sculpted vagina yawns open to reveal a shark’s jaw, and an orgy of hard-lined, Art Deco-styled women wink at me in a painting from the 1980s.

I float out and pick up my dinner, then head back to my room, as crowds are finally flowing out of their hotels and into others, waves of bodies heaving through the shadow streets like a heavy breath on someone’s chest.

..

The next morning I wake up to sunshine burning through my hotel room’s windows. Out of their corner view of the street I can see little gremlins sweeping up midnight’s mess.

I stroll to the same Starbucks. Walking through Miami in the daylight is waking up to a woman from a bar: she looks aged under fresh light, the morning makes shadows in her face, and what was sexy and disheveled is simply sloppy. But 10 a.m. or p.m., the air is sultry, and I can feel myself moving through it, the humidity like a million kisses on my skin.

I order my coffee, then pause in front of the display of tempting, glittering pastries. I was always so careful about what I ate…

“Anything else, miss?” The cashier is that Latin flavor of friendly, quick to warm people without their realizing it, like a tropical cocktail. “Something to get you going in the morning? How about this one?”

He points to a sugary treat, its center dripping in gold and red, that same apple tart that winked at me a day ago.

I give in.

I bite into it, and taste what I’ve been missing: I’ve been so wrapped up sacrificing for a future heaven, when I might be naked without any concern but for my enjoyment of now.

I feel the heat of someone watching me, and I turn around to catch the eyes of a dark man. With boiled skin, in crisp black, he looks so vaguely familiar, an echo of someone from a dream life of mine. As I hand over my money, his hand interrupts me.

“I’ll pay for you.”

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"Unforbidden Fruit" keywords: Cover Story, SEX, Travel .
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