"Are you into vulgar?"

"When I need to be. Vulgar can be good."

"So you call your pussy a yoni."

"No, I just refuse to call my yoni a pussy."

"Sounds like Noni juice."

"Better than Noni juice."

"What do you call a penis?"

"A dick."

"Why no intellectual word for dick?"

"There is. Lingam. One of the Kama Sutra words is lingam."

"Why don't you use the intellectual word lingam?"

"Because dicks aren't intellectual."

"Are you in the castration business?"

"Sure am. Be nice and I'll show you my collection."

He laughed. "You're cool."

"Glad you noticed."

"I've noticed everything about you."

"Have you?"

"Every mole, every freckle."

"I don't have moles or freckles."

"That's what I noticed."

"Is that right?"

"Not many women can inspire a man to hike a mountain to get her number."

"You didn't get my number."

"Night's still young. Your fine ass."

"Okay, change the subject before my head swells up and explodes."

"What shall we discuss?"

"Colonization of our countries."

"Oh, God. We'd be here all night talking about colonization."

Our homelands were paradises for tourists. Violence had grown, guns in places that didn't manufacture guns, killings on islands that never had killings. We chatted about how we had to buy land to keep the English from coming in and taking over, the weight of the British pound crushing the value of the local currency. The English were buying the better parts of our lands one condo at a time, buying land that the hardworking people who lived there couldn't afford to own but were hired to keep clean.

I said, "Trinidad should be owned by Trinidadians. Others who wish to stay there long-term should be able to lease the land, should be able to improve the land and build on the land, but never own the land, because if they do, in the end we will end up leasing our country, our own land, from foreigners."

"I want to see Barbados become more in de pen dent. Not so dependent on tourism."

"Well, most of the islands depend heavily on tourism."

"But what's jacked up is, in an effort to keep up with other countries, mainly America, the islands are losing their own culture. The islands import outsiders' culture but outside of rum, sugar, fruit, and a few other things, outsiders don't have to import ours, not to survive. Am I making any sense?"

I smiled and tried to help him make his point. I said, "Cocacolonization."

"What is that?"

"Where a country's indigenous culture is eroded by a corporate mass culture."

"Same as cultural imperialism."

"Only with cocacolonization the people don't have to relocate to the colonized country. But you see the cultural signals, symbols, food, entertainment, and values taking over the colonized country."

"Cocacolonization."

"Yep. Outsiders modify your culture, change you into them, and they never have to leave home."

We became frustrated islanders, talked about how America was an arrogant bitch. How she took football, a game that was played with feet only, called it soccer, then invented a game that used hands and called it football. Now America wanted to modify the rules of soccer to fit her needs and give it four quarters so they could get more commercials into a game it had shown no real love for since its inception.

Karl said, "You see how they have David Beckham calling football soccer."

"Now that is blasphemous."

"I just hope they keep away from cricket."

"Leave my cricket alone. And don't rename it something as stupid as soccer."

Before I knew it I was two apple martinis deep. Conversation flowing, becoming lighter, less political and more personal, personal because now we were comfortable with each other. Inhibitions coming down with every sip. Staring at Karl, unable to stop smiling. While we sipped our mood enhancers, he wouldn't stop telling me how pretty I looked. The heat of July lived between my thighs.

I told him, "Love your tats."

"Used to mess around with this wild-ass girl who loved to get inked."

"This wild-ass girl have a name?"

"Kenya."

"Kenya. The name tattooed on your arm."

"Yeah."

"Is that her picture on your body too?"

He paused. "Yeah."

I asked, "Are you still involved with her?"

Another pause. "Haven't heard from her in a while. Years, actually."

I asked, "Why did you let her go?"

He gave me a damaged smile. "Mind if we change the subject?"

"Sorry. Was just asking."

He turned me on, his vagueness aroused me, made me want to demystify him the way men longed to demystify me. But I didn't want to question him in a way I didn't want to be questioned. I wanted this to remain zipless. Zipless wouldn't drive six hours in a thunderstorm. Zipless wouldn't send six-page letters or text messages. Zipless wouldn't leave anyone with a broken heart.

Yes. Zipless was safe.

I finished my drink, saw an open spot away from the bar, took Karl's hand, led him to the lounge area where we sat on the plush sofa, cuddled up next to each other, in a crowded room, but still alone. My body was tingling, every vein felt electrical, his words, no matter how insignificant, stirred me.

He had seduced me and didn't know it.

I was seduced and didn't let it show.

I asked, "Why did you hike up to the top of the mountain?"

"Had to meet you."

"Did you? And why did you want to find me?"

"You looked so good when I passed you."

"Such a liar. I was sweaty, smelly, skin was dry, wearing mosquito repellant and no makeup."

"Well, what I saw looked good to me."

"Bet you say that to all the sweaty women with chapped lips and dry skin."

"You stand out. Even like that, you looked better than any woman in this lobby."

The tone of his voice. His aroma. The way he looked. I leaned closer to him.

After seeing him, hearing his baritone voice, inhaling his aroma, the touching began.

Four of the five senses had been completed.

The only sense that hadn't been completed was the sense of taste.

He was barely touching my lips. Barely. It was so sensual. I was enchanted. Totally enthralled. His eyes made me believe he was just as spellbound by my gentle touch.

"You look good." He grinned. "Didn't realize your hair was that long. Or that wavy."

"Why, thank you."

"Nice hair. Like it wavy. Au naturel. Feels good between my fingers."

"You are on a roll. More, more, more."

"You smell wonderful."

"Envy Me."

"Envy you?"

"My perfume...it's called Envy Me."

"I'd rather eat you than envy you."

"You are so nasty."

"I can stop."

People were near us; talking, drinking, seductive music playing over transpicuous stares.

I said, "I'm trying to stay a good girl."

"Nothing wrong with that."

He leaned in to kiss me.

I didn't stop him. Didn't encourage him. Didn't stop him either.

Tongues danced a slow, unhurried dance. We kissed endlessly.

His hand moved to my breasts, touched the right one, then his finger circled the nipple on the right. I shifted into his naughtiness. His hand moved down my body. Settled between my legs. Massaged my heat. I pulled my bottom lip in, bit down, tried to ignore the fire down below.

He whispered, "Wish I could kiss these lips...and...taste...those lips...at the same time."

"Say what you mean. And mean what you say."

"Wish I could eat your yoni..."

"Eat my yoni."