I tried to find a place to rest, but the girls of World were having none of it. Even when I feigned sleep, they would literally lie down on me to whisper their sordid proposals. They came in waves, singly, in pairs and in trios, until I finally gave up on rest and set out in search of my mystery girl.

She was sitting in the main room at a low table, talking with two friends. She’d been temporarily displaced from her customary cat seat at the end of the bar by a towel-encased walrus so she sat on the table with her long legs stretched casually out in front of her, barefoot, a towel draped over her midriff. Though Nadja seemed not to notice my gaze, her friends did, and the Bulgarian who had earlier approached me with a particularly descriptive offer of ménage enlisted Nadja for another go.

Kissing each other lightly, they asked if I’d ever enjoyed the attention of two women. When I matter-of-factly replied in the affirmative, they seemed genuinely surprised. “Aren’t you interested in two girls?” “No, but I am interested in one.” The Bulgarian took the hint and drifted off.

I asked Nadja if she’d like to talk. She hesitated, as shy as a 14 year old, vaguely waffling that she had to take care of something first. I assured her that it was fine, leaned back against the bar and sipped my soda water. Two other girls engaged me in conversation during the minute or two before Nadja returned.

And then she looked at me with those big brown eyes…

I’m generally not so much attracted to African features, preferring a more European or Asian delicacy. The fruit of an American father and a German mother, Nadja was poster child for cross-pollination. She was tall and slender and firm of breast. Her skin was the color and consistency of milk chocolate. She looked as Halle Berry might have at 19 (and a half) had her mother been Heidi Klum.

Nadja led me downstairs and sat me down in a lounge chair by the pool. She settled in facing me, cross-legged in my lap, our nether regions so close and yet so far away. We talked unhurriedly for perhaps 30 minutes, idly stroking each other. Then she slowly wrapped her arms around my neck, and we found a room.

She moved languidly, contrasting the determined focus of the other FKK girls. When she finally surrendered her towel and almost sleepily stretched out on the bed, I realized that she’d been employing her security blanket to conceal a long vertical scar up her belly. She explained that she had survived a car accident but had lost a kidney.

Her vulnerability rendered her all the more irresistible. I caressed her skin, marveling at its softness. She caressed mine somewhat more deliberately.

I was mesmerized by Nadja’s astonishing physique – and only a few hours earlier I’d posted Linda at the top of the charts! But there was more to the attraction than the empirical, and the closer we got, the more comparison became irrelevant: sensory overload, synesthesia, smell sounds, taste touch, feel colors. I should have kept her all night.

(The admittedly mythical) James Bond was once bluntly asked if he had been intimate with a certain woman. He replied, “That’s the sort of question a gentleman doesn’t answer.” Setting aside for the moment the issue of whether that term could be applied to any of us, it’s not a bad rule to follow in the real world.

But these women are adults, and they’ve freely chosen this path; they are, bottom line, businesswomen, and the best support we can offer is endorsement for services well rendered. We are not in the business of rescuing lost souls nor capturing prizes.

Make no mistake: if ever there were a bird I’d be tempted to rescue or capture, it would be Nadja. But she doesn’t need to be rescued, and you can’t possess a 19 (and a half) year old. Ever.

So my homage to Nadja is my endorsement. Though there is no accounting for taste, I’ve never known a woman more beautiful.


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Nadja lookalike:



(Message edited by tujunga on April 08, 2005)