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“Mind if I sit near the window?” The Boy, my boy, nods his assent, so I squeeze his ass and slip into the leather seat.

The jet slides inside the sky, and gravity pushes me against my chair: soft as a bed, I feel it from heel to head. We’re angling into the air, entering the blue blurring with the Pacific. I watch the earth fall off, like a silk nightie slipping to the floor, and the outside shrinks: the ocean waves smooth into regular rolls, then tiny splashes, and finally just a pretty pattern played up by the sun. Just a product for my pleasure.

We keep climbing.

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Lazy waves hum, cars chuckle over cobbled streets, and layered thick above this I hear tinny music piping through the hot air. I take The Boy’s hand and we walk deeper into Puerto Vallarta, the music growing fatter. Soon we intersect a parade swaying towards the chapel tower we’d heard ringing in the morning. I step in line with Mexican kids that barely hit the hem of my skirt, and a priest splashes holy water on the children, on me.

“Watch out that it doesn’t burn!” The Boy calls across the river of people.

I smile and nod, teetering into the church on vintage hooker heels. I stare up towards heaven, and see centuries-old paintings of Christ suffering, watching over a naive scene of natives singing his praise. I feel a presence focus on me, and I turn my eyes earthward: there’s a teenaged boy eying my legs.

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“Wake up, baby.”

I blink away a dream of hard blacks and whites, and the Pacific sun dances on my face and bells’ bright noise bounce through the room.

“Listen, it’s that church,” The Boy says. I look out the window, and over hotels crumbling into the blue air, I see a green hillside tiled with soft white homes, setting off the rusting iron crown of a church tower.

“Very charming,” I say. Then I sit up, listening more carefully. “That’s my iPhone’s alarm.” I turn it off.

“Oh,” The Boy says, and his voice is an echo of mine from last night, when we taxied into seaside Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and passed my personal North Star, Starbucks. “La estrellas bucks!” I cooed. “So we’re still in civilization.”

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“Let’s drive,” I say to The Boy, my boy, when he asks if I want dinner delivered or picked up. We ride his elevator to the garage, and I’m tempted to jump in the little lift. We’re out before I do, and I play police woman in my platforms and fox-trimmed coat, directing The Boy out of his dark, deep driveway, hopping into his Porsche as it warms on the empty street. As he grabs his Carrera’s stick shift, sliding gears in and out, my hand shifts to his pants, resting where each leg grinds into the other.

I pet him as softly as his thumb rubs against the sphere of his stick shift, as the black air from the ocean breaths on the city lights lining the coast. I watch him drive, feeling each time he pumps his feet in a half-second dance to switch gears. He swings wide through a curve on a cliff, while my hand hugs the circle of his thigh.

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“What are you wearing?” asks The Boy, my boy.

“Oh, I’m totally fine for hiking later,” I say. The sunshine smashes through his home’s French windows, bouncing off my rhinestoned riddled heels, finally soaked up by the black of my mini-mini dress. “If anything, I think I should ask you what you’re wearing. But I’d rather you just take it off.” My fingers fly to The Boy’s pants’ zipper.

The Boy sniffs me. “No, I meant your perfume.”

“It’s Elle, Yves Saint Laurent’s latest,” I say. “It’s smart and sexy. Like me. Like you. Now get naked.”

“This is nice.” His nose grazes my neck, so my spine lights up. “Very floral and a bit citrusy, but musky. Feminine, but not girly.”

“Did you just invest in Sephora?” I ask. “Yes, Elle is very a girl named Kristopher. But why are your clothes still on? Do you need me to take some initiative?” I slip my dress off my shoulders.

“Now that’s nice,” The Boy says.

“Thanks, I’ve been on the soy latte diet.”

“No, I just got whiff of the base notes. That sort of woodsy smell, it reminds me of when we were driving through Lithuania…”

“That’s it.” I put my dress back on. “I’m making you watch Die Hard 3.”

“Come shower with me,” calls The Boy, my boy.

I walk into his bathroom, and see him naked in the shower stall, wiping its glass clear with old Wall Street Journals and a jug of vinegar. “Are you pickling your pickle?” I ask.

“You should hope not.” I stand there, watching him through the glass, as he looks over the snaky spaces in the carved Roman marble of the shower, eyes pausing on a New World black and chrome switch box. “I’ve never tried the sauna in here.” He presses its buttons, and we’re quiet, waiting. A couple minutes pass, and we hear the shower stall breath, transforming into the steamer of a giant espresso machine. “Hop in, Little Satan.”

I strip and slip in, sitting on the cold marble bench. Spirits of water begin to kiss me, clinging to my skin, and I watch the temperature climb on the black box. 65° F to 70° to 75°… The steam’s slowly exploding into our marble and glass world, and I steal a little breath, and cough. My lungs choke on the water in the air, but I breath deep, I make myself relax. The Boy sits next to me, and we lie against the marble walls on opposite ends, book-ending the space between us, our legs open to each other. Steam dances and beads on the glass, on the walls, on our skin, though I only see the drops through touch: the steam is fogging my vision. “Just breath deep,” says The Boy. “How calming is this?”

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I’m taking a break from stringing dirty words together, flipping between porn and Money.com, when my iPhone rings. It’s The Boy.

“Sexy one,” I answer.

“I went to check out that table, for the kitchen nook,” The Boy says. “It’s really, really nice. Probably worth 25 grand. But I want to get him down to $7,500. The seller, this Italian dude, wants $10,000. He was freaking out at the idea of taking less. I could tell he’s emotionally attached to this table, so I try to get into his head, to figure out how to motivate him. So finally I tell him, ‘I completely know how you feel, you’d rather donate this table to a charity than sell it below the right price. You call me if you change your mind.’ And he nods his head.”

“You worked him harder than I worked you on our first date,” I say. “So he’ll call you when he knows he can’t get 10 grand for his table.”

“It’s like when you want to get a chick to lick your balls,” says The Boy, “you’ve got to convince her they’re candy.”

“Who needs an MBA when they’ve got you on speed dial?” I ask. “And I think you persuaded me they were a soy latte.”

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“Grab our left overs,” says The Boy, soft shutting his Porsche’s door.

“Why?”

“We can’t leave it in the car.” And though I’m not sure why, I take the food and we walk to my building, an Art Deco bit of bricks. “I’m so curious to finally see your place,” says The Boy. “And I’m so ready to crash.”

I realize he wants to spend the night at my place, and though we’ve slept together in over five countries of apartments, hotels, planes, and trains, I go shy and say, “I don’t think you want to.”

“Why not? Is your other boyfriend coming over later?”

“My only other boyfriend is my right hand. And I like to think of it as a hot chick.”

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“Hi, may I speak with Kristopher?”

“This is she,” I say, waiting for the usual–

“Oh! Oh… I thought–”

“That I was a gay man?”

“Heh heh! Well,” he says, “I saw your site and the photo and I figured it was stock photography, and then, you know, that part of your site that says, ‘SEX’ in all caps, that didn’t seem like something typically a girl would write.”

“I’m not typical. And though I’m flattered you thought I was a random model, does that mean you also thought the Kristopher behind all these dirty words was a fat man who likes it on his stomach?”

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I hear my glossy iPhone make its old school ring, and I smile at the blocked number calling, and I answer: “What are you wearing, pool boy?”

“How excited are you about those toys you got in the mail?” asks The Boy.

I finger the blush-pink packaging from Booty Parlor, lying on my desk. “Not as excited as I was before I used them.”

“Already?” asks The Boy. “Did you light candles and have a glass of wine?”

“Of course,” I say. “But within five minutes I grabbed my tits. So then I slapped myself. I said, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

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