Wednesday was gorgeous -- sunny skies, no rain, and the opportunity to go to the beach for the first time in a month. Now that most of the snowbirds / tourists are gone, Miami is much easier to get around, and parking is plentiful, especially on a weekday afternoon.
Yeah, I feel guilty passing by an office building, knowing that people were inside toiling while I got to go to play, but I got over it.
I was on the sand for about fifteen minutes when I bumped into Adam -- who, like me, decided to take advantage of the nice weather. We merged towels and began talking, and of course the topic eventually steered to sex.
(Reading the blog, you'd think I rarely talk about anything else, but that's not true. Still, do you really want to read about President Obama's proposed health care reforms, or the fate of the GOP with their ever-dwindling numbers and influence?)
"Is it just me," Adam said, "or is the work getting lighter?"
"It's the summer season," I replied. "Things are always quieter. That's why you need to work hard during the winter and save your money. Feast or famine -- but only if you spend too much."
"You always were a smart-ass. Answers for everything."
Adam told me how his favorite client was at her summer house in Maine, and wouldn't be back until mid-November. He missed her (and by that I assumed he meant her money), although that didn't stop her from calling him not three days after she left.
"We had phone sex," Adam said. "Do we charge for that?"
"I never thought about it. Telecommuting isn't something you hear about in escorting."
"You never did anything over web cam, then?"
"God, no. Nothing that will leave evidence. Photo or video."
Adam seemed to take my suggestions seriously. It's funny, because he's only a few years younger than I am. Just old enough to drink, actually. And while I wouldn't consider myself a mentor by any means, I do try to look out for him the way Rebecca looked out for me when I first got started.
Once the beach got a little too hot, we headed over to a pub on Ocean Drive for some food. I laughed once we sat down at the bar, remembering a time when I first moved to Miami when my first roommate (a musician type who I liked then, but haven't talked to since) and I were mistaken for a couple.
The musician, a guy from the mid-west, didn't like it so much. I thought it was funny, and after I told Adam, he did too.
"You would make a good homosexual," he said. "Once you start working out more, that is. Oh, and stop looking at women's breasts and drinking breeder beer."
"Miller Light, Budweiser -- the shit you find at a frat party."
"Fags have too much class for that crap," Adam said. "Well, class or pretentiousness. I haven't decided which."
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