It was a nice hotel. Nice? I guess that’s not the word. Picture the Taj Mahal with palm trees and inside plumbing and you’ve got it. The fancy, gold-embossed guest-register book put me on my best penmanship.
“Steve Victor.” I signed with a careful flourish that took me back to my days in the fourth grade. The next column was headed “Permanent Residence.” I didn’t have any. I thought a moment and wrote in “Tokyo.” I etched it in slowly, taking a lot of trouble with the Oriental curlicues decorating each letter. Last came “Business affiliation.” I printed “O.R.G.Y.” in bold block letters.
The desk clerk, a white-carnation type with Pepsodent teeth, a Chamber of Commerce suntan, and an air that can only be described as “snotty,” did a double-take. I’d expected he would. “Beg pardon, sir,” he asked with insulting politeness, “but just what company does O.R.—do these letters stand for?”
I drew myself up to my full six feet and looked down my nose at his five-seven. “Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth,” I told him frostily. “You’ve heard of it, of course?”
“Oh, of course,” he said hastily. “They do such fine work.” The way he said it made it obvious he was guessing.
“Yes, we do,” I agreed, letting him swallow his own guess. But I grinned inside myself, wondering how he’d react if he knew that O.R.G.Y. was really a one-man operation for the purpose of Obtaining Research Grants for Yours truly, Steve Victor. Still, I couldn’t really blame him for being gullible. He was no more so than the various foundations which from time to time had given me funds for the purpose of conducting sex investigations.
An hour later, the sight of the redhead on the diving board had me chop-licking over the possibilities of such an investigation. It made me think to myself once again, as I had many times in the past, how lucky I am that my business is pleasure. And this redhead was strictly my business.
She didn’t know it—or did she?-— but she was the reason I’d come to Miami, the reason I’d registered at this particular San Simeon of a hotel. I’d come here expressly to meet her. All I’d had was a name: Ophelia Tietz. It was nice that the face that went with the name was even more intriguing. It was nicer that the goodies half in and half out of the bikini seemed an exclamation point turning “Ophelia Tietz” from a mere name into an idea a man could spend many a pleasant hour just mulling over.
But I didn’t have the time for mulling. I’d had a bellhop point out Ophelia to me when I came down to the pool. Now, as that lush body of hers knifed into the water, I went into action. I dived from the side of the pool, judging it so we’d be sure to collide beneath the surface.
I judged right. The top of my head slammed into her plump derriére, sinking in slightly with a little squish, and providing the momentum to send her shooting toward the surface. Not that she’d been in any danger of drowning. Not with those natural Mae Wests to make her float. I bobbed up alongside her, all apologies.
“Let me buy you a drink to make it up to you,” I insisted.
“Well, all right.” Her smile was teasing, her blue eyes amused, as if she guessed that I’d arranged our meeting on purpose. But she didn’t seem to mind. And the way she crinkled her straight little nose, so that the sprinkle of freckles over the bridge became more noticeable, was friendly.
I had the cabana boy bring us a couple of collinses. We sat at one of the patio tables, under a beach umbrella, and sipped at the long cool drinks. “I’m Steve Victor.” I introduced myself.
“I’m Ophelia Tietz.”
“I won’t make any puns,” I promised her. “I’m sure you’ve heard them all.”
“Thanks. I have. It’s not my real name. It’s my professional name. I’m in show business. But I’ve used it so long I can’t remember any more what my name used to be. Or maybe I don’t want to.”
“In show business, hey? Well, with your looks, that figures. What do you do?” I knew the answer. I had a complete dossier on Ophelia. I’d been handed it when I got on the plane in Tokyo. But she didn’t know that, and I was trying to keep my responses natural.
“I’m a stripper,” she told me frankly.
“That’s a good name for a stripper. Did you think it up yourself?”
“Yes. I thought it was pretty good, too. And the fans seem to dig it.”
“Do you work around here?”
“Yes. At the Naked Grotto. Have you ever been there?”
“No. I just got into Miami. This is my first time here.”
“Well, drop by and see the show. You’ll enjoy yourself. And there’s always a lot of pretty girls around to keep a man company.”
“I’ll drop by tonight. I’d like to see your act.”
“You won’t see it tonight. I’m not on. It’s my night off.”
“Really?” I made like an eager-beaver wolf on the scent. “Then if you’re free, how about having dinner with me? Maybe you can show me around the town afterwards. We could make a night of it. What do you say?”
“That sounds like fun.” Ophelia didn’t hesitate. “Shall I meet you in the hotel bar? In an hour, say?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Then I’d better go pretty up the torso.”, She drained her drink and stood up.
“That would be gilding the lily.” I rose with her, gentleman-like.
“Thanks.” The freckles peeped out again as she smiled. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Right. See you later.”
And she was something to see. She’d looked pretty yummy in the bikini, but when she undulated into the bar to meet me, it was as if every male head in the place was operating oil the same central switch.
Ophelia was wearing one of these simple little cocktail dresses that raise some complex questions like what holds the strapless top up? Or how does she ever manage to walk with that skirt as tight around her hips and legs as a peel on a banana? Or, particularly, is there really any room under such a skin-tight garment for such items as slips, or bras, or panties? I put the last question to her, as delicately as I could phrase it, over the first drink.
“I never wear underwear,” she told me candidly. “The way I’m built, there’s no need to. I guess I’m lucky.”
“I’m the one who’s lucky.” I eyed the mounds of flesh pushing up so provocatively from the top of the yellow silk and thought up one more question: didn’t that long tendril of red hair nestling in the cleft of her bosom tickle? I decided not to ask it. After all, I had to come on with a certain amount of smoothness, even if I did feel like jumping all over her.
But Ophelia was the kind of aware girly-girl who really wasn’t too concerned about a man’s having a sophisticated facade. I dropped mine when I found this out during dinner. She’d suggested a steak house, expensive, but very quiet, very intimate, very dimly lit. We were chatting, and her hand had poised with the fork halfway to her lips when the piece of steak on it dropped from the prong. It fell straight into the deep cleft of her bosom and lodged around her midriff where it made a visible lump.
“Oh, dear!” She put down the fork and reached down the front of her dress, trying to pull it out. “Damn!” The angle was wrong and she couldn’t get her elbow up high enough so that her groping hand could grab it.
“Careful!” I cautioned her. “You’ll rip the dress.”
“I can’t get it.” She removed her hand. “Maybe you could—?”
“I’d love to,” I said, “if you’re sure the management won’t object.
“Why should they? It’s my body. And you paid for the steak. I certainly can’t walk around with it sticking out like this all night.”
“My pleasure.” I leaned around her so that anybody passing wouldn’t be able to see what we were doing. I reached down and my hand was enveloped in soft, fleshy warmth. “I think I’ve got it,” I murmured after a few seconds of investigation.