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Sex in the hamptons


Inside a Hamptons Sex Party for the Elite

"This is going on too long," said a 30-something guy with a job in the film industry. "If we all get to know each other, nobody's going to even want to have sex."

It was a warm, late June evening in the Hamptons, sky turning pink and orange at the horizon, and I was at that moment sitting in white La Perla underwear in an outdoor Jacuzzi with my friend Carol and three couples whom we had met hours earlier. The topic then eliciting much concern in the hot tub: that nobody was having sex at the sex party.

We'd been at the party, run by the London-based company Killing Kittens, which boasts its members-only events are for "the world's sexual elite," for going on five hours. More than just a host of sex parties, Killing Kittens calls itself "a movement and community whose sole aim is the unwavering pursuit of female sexual pleasure." Every article about Killing Kittens seems to repeat the canard that the company founder, Emma Sayle, is a "friend of Kate Middleton. " (The two briefly attended the same high school four years apart, and later were equally briefly involved with the same charity.) On this particular Saturday night, Killing Kittens, which last year expanded to New York and Toronto, was making its grand Hamptons debut.

But so far, nobody seemed to be pursuing any female sexual pleasure, unwaveringly or otherwise. As afternoon turned into evening, a button might have come undone here or there on a man's shirt, a woman who had been wearing a bikini top under her semi-sheer dress might suddenly be no longer wearing that top — but nobody was having sex. Nobody was even making out. And everyone agreed this was a problem.

"We'd been warned not to say the words 'sex party' or mention the 'Killing Kittens' name anywhere on the South Fork."

• • •

Let me back up. When Carol and I had arrived, half an hour after the party had begun, the front door of the house was open, and a tray of prosecco-and-spiced-rum cocktails was sitting in the sun on the porch. Gweneth Lee, the host, materialized. We'd been warned not to say the words "sex party" or mention the "Killing Kittens" name anywhere on the South Fork — the term of art was "Gweneth's birthday party," as in, "Don't worry, I'm pretty sure they'll have lube at Gweneth's birthday party." Now here, in a yellow-and-white sundress that showed ample cleavage, was the birthday girl herself.

Gweneth, who had kindly invited HarpersBazaar.com to her "birthday party," had a shape-shifting pan-Atlantic accent I couldn't trace — she talked like Madonna when she was still married to Guy Ritchie. "Welcome, welcome," she called out. Her handshake was firm. Gweneth seemed like a woman buoyed by a deeply felt enthusiasm. She popped prosecco with more gusto than the gamest bottle-service waitress I've ever seen. Her email signature was "Your Orgynizer." "I'm also a dominatrix," she told Carol and me, smiling.

Killing Kittens promises its members parties held in "New York penthouses, St. Tropez super-yachts and über-exclusive luxury locations the world over." Accordingly, the Hamptons venue didn't disappoint. The large, architecturally striking home had a realtor's sign out front and seemed to be unoccupied but staged for sale, giving the space a kind of unreal quality. "I feel like we're on a movie set," Carol said, "Like all these walls are flats." I nodded. Nancy Meyers could have filmed a romantic comedy there.

The house was furnished in white, which seemed appropriate given this was technically a "white party" with a dress code. Giving Carol and I a brief tour, Gweneth pointed out two designated "play" rooms for sexual encounters. The bathrooms and most of the house's flat surfaces were stocked with Lifestyles condoms, Summer's Eve baby wipes, and chewing gum. In the living room, white paper LELO gift bags were stacked on the mantelpiece; the Swedish sex toy company was a sponsor.

"The au courant way to have traveled to the party was on one's own boat. Chanel bags dangled from Pilates-toned arms."

Drinks, after the first rounds of signature cocktails were served, required paper tickets that cost $10 each, so as the party continued, Gweneth worked the room, selling tickets and rifling her stack of bills to make change. After realizing guests had been mingling in semi-awkward silence for some time, she had a cater-waiter drag an outdoor speaker out to the lawn. Some seriously downbeat ambient electronica soon began to resound through the pool area. "This sounds like the music my masseuse plays," said Carol.

Carol and I wandered as more guests filtered in. Beyond the swimming pool, there was a gazebo and extensive lawns and gardens that looked expensively kept. Several people mentioned what a nice venue the house would be for a wedding. There was a tennis court, so as the afternoon began, we played a friendly game with a couple who'd come, like most of the attendees, from New York City.

I told everyone I interacted with that I was covering the event, and while most had questions, for the most part they weren't unfriendly. (I've changed Carol's name and scrambled the identifying details of anyone mentioned in this piece, with the sole exception of Gweneth, who put our interactions on the record.) Only one person reacted with hostility when I told him I was a writer. "I just don't understand why they even have reporters at these things," he sputtered. I didn't know what to say; in his position I'd probably feel the same way. It was the first sign that the strategic goals of Killing Kittens as an organization — to get press, sell tickets, turn a profit — might not be perfectly aligned with those of their members.

"The bathrooms and most of the house's flat surfaces were stocked with Lifestyles condoms, Summer's Eve baby wipes, and chewing gum."

• • •

Are you wondering who comes to a sex party? Just who comprises "the world's sexual elite"? It's people just like you — only whiter, richer, older, and straighter. Compared to other events that are exclusive on the basis of social and/or economic capital — music, fashion, or film industry parties, say — this crowd was overwhelmingly white. So is Killing Kittens' branding: the company's promotional materials and Web site depict exclusively depict white women. Out of around fifty guests, I could have counted the guests of color on one hand with fingers to spare. "I was expecting a white party, not an all-white party," I murmured to Carol. I also saw no same-sex couples. And Emma Sayle, the founder, has openly said in interviews that she rejects any prospective member "who is a size 14 or 16, and they're massive." The crowd skewed old and, perhaps unsurprisingly, given a ticket for a straight couple cost $400, wealthy. The au courant way to have traveled to the party was on one's own boat. Chanel bags dangled from Pilates-toned arms. "My house is nicer than this," sniffed one man as he walked through the elegant dining room. His bald pate was shinier than the marble floor he was standing on.

And yet, despite most guests' obvious wealth, everyone I met there seemed thoroughly "normal" — whatever that means. They had normal conversations, normal stresses, normal middle-aged spread, normal jobs they did or didn't much like, and normal goals. They were within the normal limits of attractiveness — despite Killing Kittens' promise that it throws parties for "the beautiful, rich, and famous," I didn't see any models or celebrities, but basically everybody was, you know, good-looking. Guests bickered normally with their partners and discussed normal wedding plans for the third weekend in September. Killing Kittens guests are your friends and neighbors, the good burghers of New York City. "I work in fashion and my boyfriend works in finance," one woman explained. "A pretty typical couple, I guess."

The crowd seemed roughly split between older, dedicated swinger couples, single men who had come with much-younger "dates" (unaccompanied men are not permitted), and 20- and 30-something couples, many of whom said they'd never been to a party like this before. The older swingers were more or less transparently scoping out the attendees to "play" with later. One couple from Toronto worked hard, in our brief exchange, to make every conversational banality, every scrap of small talk, a vehicle for innuendo. "You do that," said the husband, after I said I was there to write about the night. "I expect a full report on this party." He grinned at me; he may have actually winked.

All day, watching these well-groomed people in their white linen outfits mingle, I thought about why it is that people go to sex parties. Aside from the obvious — to "spice up" one's sex life or venture beyond one's typical "comfort zone" — to what needs did this party correspond? And why was I at this sex party? Why had I, who had never gone to anything like this before, jumped at my editor's invitation to write about a sex party in the Hamptons? The older we get, the fewer truly new sexual experiences are available to us, or even possible for us. The sense of discovery that is part of what initially makes sex so exciting fades. With age comes experience, and as experiences accrete, your odds of finding some previously unknown territory of your own sexuality necessarily diminish. The reward is a map of desire much richer and more finely wrought, full of sometimes hard-won knowledge, and a much more deeply anchored sense of one's own identity. But, inevitably, there are fewer and fewer blank spots on that map to explore. Maybe what we are seeking at a party like Killing Kittens is the renewed possibility of having a sexual experience that is truly new.

As I was thinking about all of this, a white-haired man, his shirt hanging unbuttoned over his tanned gut, made a sensational entrance in a limousine, out of which poured about ten young, sleek, well-groomed women (and a couple similarly well-kept men). The young people looked like they had come here to make this a party. Some of them were wearing white hotel bathrobes over swimsuits. Three of the women were named Jennifer. They giggled as their date poured prosecco.

I was similarly transfixed by a trio of young, attractive, but faintly bored-looking Russian-speaking women who, unique among the guests, didn't seem to be there with dates. Rather, they flirted with all kinds of men, when they weren't speaking to each other in their native tongue. I wanted to talk to them to get their story but every time I got near the Russians, they scattered. I overheard a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair ask one where she was from. "I am from Hamptons," she replied, in a heavy accent. Then she smiled and caressed his arm.

"I was similarly transfixed by a trio of young, attractive, but faintly bored-looking Russian-speaking women who, unique among the guests, didn't seem to be there with dates."

• • •

Food was a matter of urgency as the party wore on. The absence of it, how to procure it, whether and when any more would be forthcoming, et cetera, were topics taken extremely seriously by many guests. One reason I was able to mingle so comfortably and drop into so many conversations was because everyone was talking about food. The party had begun at 3:30 and was set to run through the dinner hour to 11 PM. Many guests, including Carol and me, had also skipped lunch in the rush of dressing for and traveling to the party. When I walked through the door, the last sustenance that had passed my lips was a deli egg sandwich purchased and consumed at 9 AM that morning in the basement of Penn Station. I was hungry.

Around 5 PM, one tray of about a dozen oysters was passed. Carol is allergic; I figured that meant I could eat two. The oysters were chewy and extremely large. "I would die for a cheeseburger," moaned a tall blonde, who eyed the oysters warily. Twelve minutes later, a second tray of oysters emerged from the kitchen. I ate a third. Then there were no more oysters.

At 6 PM, two cater-waiters moved a kitchen table out onto the patio. Several guests began to hover, darting glances at the kitchen while attempting to look casual. Then there emerged three trays of sushi from Citarella. The guests descended en masse. White-clad arms scrambled to pick up dinky little plastic plates; chopstick-wielding hands darted for tuna and salmon. Any atmosphere of exclusivity — hell, any whiff of sexy — dispersed in the frenzy for food.

I filled my plate. As I was grabbing a little plastic bladder of soy sauce, a woman across the table from me leaned over to pluck a piece of nigiri. As she did, the neckline of her white caftan gaped, revealing her very full breasts — and, underneath each, a red, fresh-looking surgical scar.

Food-related rumors continued to course through the party. Some people asserted confidently that there would be more food — one woman even claimed to have talked to Gweneth herself, who assured her that dinner would be served — while others said, equally confidently, that the sushi was it. Around 7 PM I saw a cater-waiter carrying a couple meat skewers, and shortly after Gweneth put out two bunches of grapes in a tin foil baking dish, but, as it turned out, the sushi was dinner.

"No sex happened at the sex party for a very long time. And then, very suddenly, a lot of sex happened."

• • •

"I heard," said one man in the Jacuzzi, "that if nothing's happening, at a certain point, Gweneth will get things started." I tried to imagine, for a second, the overwhelming energy with which Gweneth might approach such a task. I pictured her cracking a whip and using it to herd every last hedge fund manager and lawyer and personal trainer away from the pool and into the house to "play."

The evening light was beautiful. There were deer grazing in the meadow outside the house. Everyone in the hot tub agreed it would be nice to have a bottle of prosecco, but the party had run out.

I got out of the Jacuzzi and resumed searching for signs that sex might be imminent. In the dining room, the group of well-groomed young women that included three Jennifers were — perhaps rightly fearing that, as with food and booze, there wouldn't be enough to go around — going through the LELO gift bags and pocketing their vibrators. I followed their lead and unboxed a tiny clit vibe in eggplant-emoji purple. From the "play" room downstairs, I heard the plink-tap, plink-tap of ping pong.

The mood was restive. "I'm starving," complained the tall blonde who had earlier yearned for a burger. She turned to me. "Those oysters — I'm sorry, I know you ate some — but they looked disgusting. They looked like bull semen," she continued, in the tone of someone who knows exactly what bull semen looks like and isn't happy to have been reminded.

Other guests criticized the drink tickets system for being micro-manage-y and just frankly kind of weird — "It doesn't feel very luxury," complained a French guy, "especially when you've paid $400 for tickets. " His date added, "I just don't think cash should be seen changing hands at a party like this." One person brought up the lack of security; although the address had only been revealed to guests the day of the party, many guests were still concerned they hadn't encountered a security guard upon arrival or even someone checking names from a list. (It's possible private security came later, after dark, but I didn't see any.) The uninspiring music, the lack of food, the promised transportation from a nearby village that was canceled the day of the party, and the fact that not everyone was informed about this cancellation, were all cited as mood-killers. Several guests talked about how they would do a better job if they were in charge. "Gweneth seems like the person you want to get people to relax and enjoy the party," said one man. "Not the person you want to actually organize the party."

No sex happened at the sex party for a very long time. And then, very suddenly, a lot of sex happened. For a while in the downstairs "play" room, I could turn and watch a game of ping pong on my right, or see bodies writhing on couches on my left. On an air mattress, a swinger gave an energetic blow job to her husband. A young woman in an Agent Provocateur bra and ouvert received oral sex from a gray-haired man, arching her back and rocking her hips performatively. I was a little disappointed — but not surprised — that all of the sex going on seemed to involve men and women or women together, but never men together. I guess guy-on-guy exploration, even for the world's sexual elite, is still taboo.

"A young woman in an Agent Provocateur bra and ouvert received oral sex from a gray-haired man, arching her back and rocking her hips performatively."

The blonde lingered for a while on the edges of the action. Her boyfriend entered the darker part of the room and began to "play. " The blonde didn't seem to appreciate this. As her boyfriend sank into the air mattress and began to kiss another woman, the blonde reached into her drink, fished out an ice cube, and threw it at him. Then she threw another ice cube, and another. Meanwhile, one of the event sponsors — a man who was notionally there to sell cigars outside by the pool — took advantage of the lack of security and wandered the house, repeatedly rattling the handle of a closed "play" room door, and trying to peek through the glass.

At last it was fully dark out. What by day had been Nancy Meyers, by night was fully Kubrick. I was looking for Carol, but I wasn't sure where to go, who wanted to be looked at, or what I myself wanted to see. I was eventually invited into a room where three women — the blonde, one of the Jennifers, and a Pure Barre instructor with giant breasts — were writhing together on a couch. Suddenly, the Jennifer turned to the exercise instructor and said, "So what's the difference between Pure Barre and the Barre Method, anyway?" Without seeming to interrupt her focus, the woman replied, "No offense or anything, but Pure Barre is just like a much more intense workout. " The Jennifer nodded, seemingly satisfied, then resumed kissing the blonde's nipples. They looked perfectly happy.

Later, as Carol and I were leaving, an older swinger asked me if I enjoyed myself at the party. "I had a better time than I could have possibly imagined," I replied. I meant it.

"Did you....participate?" he said, leaning a little closer.

"That's private," I said. And I walked out the door with my friend.

Jenna Sauers

Jenna Sauers is a New York-based writer originally from New Zealand. She completed an M.F.A. in nonfiction writing at the University of Iowa, and her journalism and essays have appeared in GQ, Elle, Marie Claire, Buzzfeed, and the Village Voice.  

9 Must-Haves for Your Next Hamptons Sex Party

Brave soul Jenna Sauers has gone where no writer has ever gone before: an East Hampton sex party. On the whole, having a reporter at a sex party is nothing new. (Sex parties are like celebrity cruises—90 percent media, 10 percent elderly Paula Deen disciples.) But Sauers trod new territory, attending the inaugural Hamptons sex party of London-based company Killing Kittens, a.k.a. the most boring sex party since the first sex parties (which, if HBO is to be believed, were in ancient Rome and were hahhhhht).

“Hamptons sex party for the elite” sounds like a great setting for an episode of SVU and also like hell—and not a sexy, sweaty hell full of writhing bodies. Sauers spent most of the day watching “well-groomed people in their white linen outfits mingle.” It was many hours before people started doing any sex.

So, should you end up invited to a Hamptons sex party, shove aside some of the hunnids in your money satchel (tickets to the sex party are $400 per couple, and drinks are not free) and pack these must-haves. Or risk hours of sexless boredom.

Twister
Twister is both a lovely way to pass a rainy afternoon at summer camp and a shortcut to intimacy. Probably the kind of people who would pay $400 to be part of “the world’s sexual elite” will be really competitive at Twister and extra aroused by winning.

Snacks
Sauers reports that there is very little food at a Hamptons sex party. Beyond some sushi from a nearby grocery store and some token oysters, there was nothing. Wait until everyone is desperate, and then reveal your stash of Trader Joe’s “Just a Handful” trail mix packs. Sell them at $90 a pop.

A Sunny Disposition
Nobody wants to be here, but we're all stuck here because we paid $400 and we want to be the world's sexual elite, so we might as well make the best of it.

Résumés
Maybe someone from the world's sexual elite will hire you.

Buckets of Lube
For lubing up a Slip'N Slide made out of trash bags.

Clipboard
I find that at really awkward parties—sexy or otherwise—it's helpful to hold something official-looking in your hands. Bring extra crayons and invite new sex friends to make an erotic doodle or several.

iPhone Charger
When your phone is out of juice, it's a lot harder to convincingly sit alone "handling a work crisis" on your phone.

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
You’ll be really happy you brought a book to this sex party. Plus, everyone in the Hamptons has read A Little Life, and they all “really identify with Jude,” so it’s a great tool for sparking an existential conversation with a major tool.

Getaway Yacht
"The au courant way to have traveled to the party was on one's own boat," Sauers tells us. If the sex party reaches its sixth hour and nobody has had any sex yet and the sex-party hostess is about to jump in and "get things started" (Cha Cha Slide, anyone?), trust us: You're going to want your fastest getaway yacht at the ready.

12. Sex and the City

12

The Scepter and the Handsome Man Seeking Hot Sex in the South Hamptons

Maybe this is just confirmation of the undeniable fact that most people want a tan. Or maybe proof that sex drive is stronger than ambition, even for New Yorkers. Be that as it may, there is something in the Hamptons that invites fleeting relationships, those shameful, hasty copulations that make you blush in the morning.

Probably, it's all about the combination of skin color (half-naked girls on the Media Beach), geography (it's very far to drag from end to end, especially at four in the morning!) And topography (completely hedges - what is not a love paradise).

Only now, learning how to competently manage these components and turn them to your advantage, especially if you are a man, will require considerable skill from you. You need to know exactly which strings to pull and how to pull it in time, moreover, gracefully disappear from sight. Otherwise, you will not avoid side effects. nine0003

Here's a cautionary tale about three Fourth of July adventurers in the Hamptons.

But first, let me introduce our participants.

Bachelor #1: Skipper Johnson, twenty-five. A typical representative of golden youth. Lawyer in the field of show business. Wunderkind. He dreams of eventually acquiring a giant film studio, and in New York. Beach toys: sports Mercedes, Brooks brothers clothes (how sewn on me!), A mobile phone from which he does not come off. Recently, his friends told how he spent two hours at the beach car park, making a deal on the phone. nine0003

“The beach is a waste of time,” Skipper explains. “Only sand is everywhere afterwards.” Worried about a temporary stagnation in his personal life. “Maybe they take me for a blue one?” He genuinely wonders.

Bachelor #2: Mr. Charm, sixty-five years old, says sixty. Square jaw, noble gray hair, lively blue eyes, in good shape - all members work according to the requirements of the moment. Married (and divorced) five times. twelve children. Wives number two, three and four are good friends. Friends just shrug. Beach toys are missing. He likes to talk about his penthouse on Park Avenue, his house in Bedford, his apartment in Palm Beach. Stayed with friends on Feather Lane in East Hampton for the weekend. Thinking of buying a house there. nine0003

Bachelor #3: Stanford Blatch, thirty-seven. Screenwriter. Second Joe Estherha. Blue, but prefers naturals. Long dark curls; categorically refuses to cut or collect them in a ponytail. Looks like he'll end up getting married and having kids. Stayed with my grandmother in Halsey Neck Lane in South Hampton. Grandma lives in Palm Beach. Beach toys: He doesn't drive himself, so he takes the family chauffeur on weekends. The best beach toy: since childhood, he has known everyone who is worth knowing at all, so he does not have to prove it to anyone. nine0003

Bummer

Friday evening. Skipper Johnson travels to South Hampton, where four Ralph Lauren girls, seemingly indistinguishable from each other, are waiting for him at the Basilica Club. Their sheer beauty has a reassuring effect on Skipper, as does the fact that they stick together. This means that he will not have to strain, entertaining one of them all evening.

They drink Pine Hamptons at the bar. Skipper pays. At eleven they go to M-80. There's a crowd at the entrance, but Skipper has connections. They drink cocktails from plastic cups. Skipper meets acquaintances - model admirers George and Charlie. nine0003

“I have a dozen models visiting right now,” George boasts to Skipper.

George knows full well that Skipper is dying to join them, and out of spite he doesn't invite him. Two models start splashing each other with the contents of the cups, bursting into cheerful laughter.

By two o'clock in the morning one of them turns out in the bushes. Skipper offers to take them home to a ranch on the outskirts of the upscale South Hampton area. The fridge is empty except for a case of beer. Skipper heads to the bedroom, sits down on one of the girls' bed, sipping on a beer. Then he lays down and closes his eyes, hugging the girl by the waist. nine0003

— Well, where can I go home like this?! he says in a puppy voice.

“I am sleeping,” she replies.

- Please, can I stay? We'll just sleep. Honestly, Skipper pleads.

- Okay. Just sleep on top of the blanket. And in clothes.

Skipper agrees. Falls asleep and starts to snore. From time to time, in the middle of the night, the girl pushes him out of bed.

Saturday morning. Skipper drives home to East Hampton and decides to stop by Bridgehampton to see his friends Carrie and Mr. Man of Her Dreams. The Man of Her Dreams walks around the yard bare-chested, smoking a cigar and watering the plants around the pool. nine0003

“I'm on vacation,” he says.

- What got into you? Don't you have a gardener? Skipper asks.

Carrie smokes and reads The New York Post.

— And he is the gardener. He also knows how to wash cars.

Skipper strips down to his underpants and dives into the water like some cartoon character - with a crouch, knees in different directions. When he emerges, the Man of Her Dreams says:

— Now I understand why you can't sleep with anyone! nine0003

— So what should I do? Skipper asks plaintively.

"Smoke a cigar," suggests the Man of Her Dreams.

Mr Blatch falls in love

Saturday, Halsey-Necklein. Stanford Blatch sits by the pool chatting on the phone, watching with grim glee as his brother's girlfriend, whom he can't stand, tries to read the paper. He deliberately raises his voice in the hope that she will not stand it and leave.

“You definitely need to come,” he says into the phone. - This is absurd! Are you going to sit all weekend in this stuffiness up to your ears at work?! Take the hydroplane. I'm crying. nine0003

- Well, take your scripts with you! Oh, those agents! You can't work that hard. Yes, there is plenty of room! I have one whole second floor.

Stanford hangs up. Approaches the girl of the brother.

- Do you know Robert Morriskin? - In response to her puzzled look, he venomously remarks: - I thought so. The most promising literary agent in New York. Just beautiful.

— So what is he, a writer? she asks.

Himself to blame

Saturday evening. Skipper goes to a barbecue with his friends the Rappaports, a young couple on the brink of divorce. He gets drunk again and decides to try his beer and bedrolling trick again, this time with a certain Cindy. Everything is going well until he foolishly remarks that he thinks Jim Carrey is a genius. nine0003

“Actually, I have a boyfriend,” she says.

Sunday. Mr. Charming calls his friends and states that he is already sick of Bedford and he is going to them in his Ferrari.

Stanford Blatch sits by the pool in an Armani beach suit with a short-sleeve paisley shirt and tight-fitting shorts. He is on the phone again with Robert Morriskin.

— Would you like to come over tonight? There will be a great party here. Cool hangouts are a rarity these days. If you want, take someone with you. You can even bring a girl. I do not care. nine0003

Something amazing

Sunday evening. A party at Ted Fields' villa in honor of the release of Korte Felske's next book. Skipper is not invited, which makes him wildly furious. Nevertheless, he finds a way out by offering a ride to the party, hardly known Stanford Blatch, who is well-known in any circles.

The party is held in the open air. Skipper notices that a certain young lady named Margaret is clearly not indifferent to him. She is short, dark hair, big breasts, cute - but not his type. Engaged in public relations. Skipper and Margaret head to the restroom, where a torch-lit path leads. Imperceptibly removed into the bushes. They kiss. And then something amazing happens. nine0003

“That's all I've been thinking about all evening,” Margaret says, kneeling down and unbuttoning his fly.

Skipper is shocked. All this takes no more than two minutes.

— You'll give me a ride home, right? Margaret asks playfully, nudging him in the side with her elbow.

“I can’t,” he answers. “I already promised to give Stanford a lift, and this is in a completely different direction.

Oh Mr Charm!

Feather Lane. Mr. Charm arrives just in time for dinner. He is staying with his friend Charlie, who has been divorced for five years now. Charlie invited his friends of both sexes from thirty to forty to dinner. Mr Charm sits next to a woman named Sabrina - thirty-two years old, magnificent breasts peeking out enticingly from a black top from Donna Karan. At eleven, Sabrina announces that she needs to go to Amagansett to get to Stephen's Talkhouse, where she has arranged to meet friends. Mr Charm offers her a ride - she shouldn't drive. At three o'clock in the morning they are at her house.

In the house they are met by her friend, who declares right from the doorway:

— No frills! nine0003

She lays down on the sofa and turns off the light.

At 5 o'clock in the morning, Mr Charming gets claustrophobic. Sabrina's house - with a matchbox. You can hear her friend snoring on the couch in the next room. You can go crazy, he thinks.

Monday. Mr. Charming calls Sabrina, whom he left an hour ago. She has an answering machine.

— Would you like to go to the beach?

He goes to Media Beach and meets Carrie with the Man of Her Dreams. He catches the eye of an attractive blonde with a cocker spaniel. He comes closer and starts playing with the dog. Then he starts a conversation with the hostess. Everything goes like clockwork, when her companion suddenly appears. Hefty fellow with pumped chest and short legs. Mr. Charm returns to his towel. Next to Carrie and the Man of Her Dreams is Samantha Jones. nine0003

A blonde woman and her short-legged companion are walking along the beach. Passing by, the blonde turns around and waves to Mr. Charming.

- You see? I told you she pecked. I’ve swallowed it completely,” says Mr. Charming.

— Your worm?! Samantha asks with a sardonic laugh.

Telephone interference

Skipper plays tennis. Phone call.

— Hello honey! — Margaret. “I just wanted to know what you do. nine0003

"Playing tennis," Skipper replies.

- Maybe you will come later? I would cook dinner.

- Mmm... I can't.

— Why?

— I still don't know what my plans are. I already sort of promised some people to have dinner with them.

— So maybe you can take me with you? Skipper lowers his voice:

- I can't. You see, this is a kind of business dinner...

— You are my magnet! Margaret laughs. Finally, Robert Morriskin arrives in a seaplane. Stanford cannot forgive him for arriving a day late, and sends for him not a Mercedes, but an old Ford P-Cap. Handsome man returns from the beach. nine0003

Sabrina called. He immediately calls her back, but she already has an answering machine.

"Is that Elle?"

Monday evening. Carrie, the Man of Her Dreams and Mr. Charming are on their way to the buffet. Mr Charming drives his huge Mercedes leisurely down Mecox Lane past the horse farms. The sun begins to set, and some special calm emanates from the green grass. The car climbs the hill, and our eyes is a girl awkwardly balancing on roller skates. She's wearing a tight white T-shirt and tiny black shorts. She has long hair tied in a ponytail, but the main thing is her legs. For such legs, you can give everything in the world. nine0003

- I'm in love! Mr Charm says. As she turns off the road, he drives forward a little, stops and puts his hands on the steering wheel. - I'm coming back!

Carrie looks meaningfully at the Man of Her Dreams, but he pretends not to notice. He laughs, teasing Mr. Charming. Mr. Charm is racing down the road, catching up with the girl.

- No, just look. And she really doesn't know how to ride! Definitely fall and break!

They pass a girl and the Man of Her Dreams asks:

— Isn't this Elle by any chance? Very similar. Carrie sits in the back seat and smokes.

“Elle seems to be older,” she replies. The Man of Her Dreams opens the window and addresses the girl:

— Hello!

The girl rolls up to the car.

— Hello! she replies with a smile, glancing at the Man of Her Dreams with some embarrassment. - Do I know you?

“Quite possibly,” Mister Charming replies, leaning over the seat next to him. - I'm Mr. Charm.

“Audrey,” the girl replies and looks at the Man of Her Dreams. - You have a familiar face ... Mr. Charm jumps out of the car.

— Do you even know how to slow down? Without this, there is no way. Rollers are, you know, how dangerous.

The girl laughs.

“Let me show you,” says Mr. Charming and squats on one leg, putting the other forward, arms outstretched.

“Thank you,” the girl replies, walking away.

— Are you by any chance a model? Mr. Charming calls after her. nine0003

“No,” she says over her shoulder. — Student.

Mr. Charm gets into the car.

“A ring on her finger… And what is her husband thinking about?! Releases one on roller skates! I would marry her. Honestly. No, have you seen her? What was her name there? Audrey. Audrey... A little old-fashioned, don't you think?

Boy in blue calico

Stanford booked a table at Dela Femina in honor of Robert's arrival. After dinner, they return home to Halsey Neck and smoke weed. At two o'clock in the morning, Robert declares that he wants to sleep, because he has to get up early - he still has to read a bunch of scripts. Stanford escorts him to a bedroom upholstered in the same South Hampton chintz. nine0003

“I loved this room since childhood,” says Stanford. “They don't make chintz like this anymore. I hope you don't get too hot. In my opinion, in this heat it is better to sleep without a cover at all. This is how we slept when we were kids. Until my grandmother discovered air conditioning.

Stanford sits down in a chair, watching Robert undress. Robert doesn't seem to mind, and Stanford continues to babble. Robert gets into bed and closes his eyes.

- Tired? Stanford asks. He walks over to the bed and looks at Robert, who is lying with his eyes closed. Are you sleeping? nine0003

Independence Day

Tuesday 4th of July. The mobile is ringing. — Margaret.

— Hello honey! My friends decided to leave early, and I would have been delayed. When you leave? Won't you take me for company?

“Not until tomorrow morning,” Skipper replies.

— Hmm... Maybe tomorrow... You just need to call work.

“Agreed,” Skipper replies with displeasure.

— I love it when everyone leaves and you stay... Shall we have dinner tonight? nine0003

— I can't, I promised my friends…

— Okay, Margaret agrees easily. Anyway, see you next weekend. We'll agree on the way.

Tuesday evening. Mr. Charming turns onto the path where he met Audrey. He gets out of the car, opens the trunk, digs in there and pulls the rollers on himself with some difficulty. Takes a couple of trial steps. Then he leans on his car and waits.

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Scarlett joined the new gym because she already fucked everyone in the old one

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Mom returned at the wrong time (although from which side you look) and took part in a threesome with her son and his chick

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They hired a nanny, and she turned out to be a whore (who would have thought)

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Mom, daughter and son spend the weekend on the couch

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Parents have gone to the dacha - brother and sister are having fun as best they can!

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