I never would have bothered to lay Sara, if she hadn't snubbed me.
Sure she was a looker, tan and lean with long brown hair. She wore a sleek cream evening gown that clove to her body like a second skin. But there were many lookers that summer night by the pool, in the garden of the Carmichael Estate. A few models, that girl from all the action movies, plus countless dolled-up wannabes.
It was the opener for Fairfield Styles, a glossy for the fashion crowd. My friend Bobby and I talked our way in at the door, as we always did. He waved his big old Canon DSLR -- fattest lens you ever saw, never mind it didn't work. I flashed my business card, cool in silver and black -- said I was a society blogger, don't you know.
The house itself was a mansion in faux-French style, big and bold and as fake as the guests. Bar downstairs. Upstairs roped off, with a big dude guarding the way. VIPs only, huh. I moved on to the garden.
That's where the action was, I saw at once. Girls, girls, girls everywhere you looked.
Plenty of male competition. Bankers, heirs, even a few clowns in shiny bling -- gold chains and felt hats and fur coats.
I wasn't worried. Clownage works, of course -- you stand out from the crowd, you get laid. But I had moved on from that. Transcended that shit.
You wouldn't think it if you saw me. Thirty, a schoolteacher, with a nose on the big side. Gray suit, white shirt, open at the collar. You'd think, fuhgeddaboudit, this guy's hopeless. But I had my ways.
Bobby and I, we split once in the garden. Time to canvas the grounds. I picked up some wine, made my way around the pool. Met Amy the blonde, read her palm, got her number. Met Janice Too-Hot-For-Accounting, encouraged her to chase that Broadway team, agreed to meet for coffee. Met Ellen No-Shit-From-Anyone, had a nice chat, made no move. That's what guys don't get -- you've got to read girls, pick your battles.
So Ellen, bless her soul, she introduced me Sara. "Here," she said, pulled Sara over by the arm. "You should meet this guy."
Sara glanced at me. I looked her over. Nice, I thought, and introduced myself.
Sara didn't even say hi. Even as we shook hands, she looked away. Her eyes darted from side to side, side to side, side to side. That look, I recognized. SCANNING AREA, it shouted -- beep beep, beep beep -- SCANNING AREA. Looking for somebody worth her time.
"Excuse me," she said, and drifted off.
I stared after her.
"Sorry about that," Ellen said, and she too drifted off.
That's when I knew -- it was Sara or nobody tonight.
I found Bobby back in the house, necking with some Russian model, and bummed his camera off him. You better get this, the camera's big, I mean, big. Length AND girth, ladies and gentlemen. Makes you look like a pro. Hell, it's almost big enough to make you a pro, all by itself.
I hung that bad boy around my neck and headed back to the garden.
I spotted Sara at once, talking with some gelled-hair pretty boy. It had gotten dark, and the bluish lights from the pool sent shadows rippling across her face.
I didn't approach her, of course. Instead, I put myself in her field of view, and worked the crowd. "Can I get your guys' picture?" "How about a shot for Hampton Happenings? Right, and what's your name?" "Let's do a nice group shot, huh, for the cover?"
I worked Sara's left, Sara's right, in front of her, behind her. I never looked at her. I never so much as turned my lens in her direction.
Cue three, two, one. . .
A tap on my shoulder. I turned, as if surprised. There she was, rid of pretty boy. She clutched her handbag in white-knuckled fingers. "You wanna take my picture?"
I waited a second, then looked her up and down, slow and steady. Long toned legs. Curvy hips. Meat on her belly, but no flap. Small yet shapely breasts that filled out her gown in braless perfection. "It depends," I said.
"On what?" she asked.
"The lighting out here, it doesn't work," I said. "Not with your dress. Not with your skin."
She took a short, sudden breath, tried to hide it. "Who are you with?"
I looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "You want the truth?"
"Yeah," she said, and sidled closer.
"Victoria's Secret," I said, my voice low.
She hesitated. "So you're here to. . ."
I gave her a knowing look, and shrugged.
Her eyes went wide. "You mean you're-"
I put my finger against her lips. They were full lips, and soft, a deep and natural red -- I felt no lipstick rubbing off.
For a moment we stood like that. I withdrew before she could, and looked around as if to go.
"Is there," she began quickly, then slowed. ". . . somewhere else we could take pictures?"
"Well. . ." I tilted my head. "I don't know."
"How about inside?" she asked.
"I suppose," I said, the King of Dubious.
"Let's try it," she said.
She made to take my elbow. I stepped away as if I hadn't noticed.
We went inside. Slowly we made a circuit of the ground floor. People talked in little groups. Here and there, couples lounged chatting or at best necking.
Sara stopped in front of a giant photo of Marilyn Monroe. Black-and-white perfection, shoulders tilted, lips parted orgasmically. "Here?" Sara asked, all hopeful-like.
Yeah, darling. As if.
I turned away. I started walking, didn't look to see if she followed. Walked straight to the staircase, where that big dude guarded the way.
He started to say something, but I spoke right over him -- voice in command tone. "We're shooting upstairs. Make sure no one busts in."
