My God, Is There A Sexier Place Than New York In The Summer?

I walked from my office to 53rd and Fifth at 6:30, and it was 88 degrees and humid, and everyone was looking just a little moist and slightly crumbly around the edges, like cookies that have gotten a little damp.

The girls are all half-dressed in their summer frocks and strappy sandals, looking impossibly sun-kissed and ripe, and the boys are looking at them with languid lechery. No one minds the slow, appreciative once-up and once-down gaze of a stranger approaching on the street, meeting it instead with a smile that is half "thank you" and half "yes." Strangers blatantly turn and watch each other walk away.

There is so much sensual possibility in the air that you wonder what all these overheated strangers who just pass each other by are thinking as they duck into the supercooled, artificial environments where they live and work.

On an evening like this I'd want nothing more than to do that slow, eyes-locked, breathless peeling off of sweaty clothes that are kicked aside to make room for a languorous, sticky hour in which the only thing we can do is feel each other sweat, and smell each other sweat, and taste each other's sweat, and afterward we feed each other slices of pear with our grubby-with-each-other fingers and the juice runs down our chins to mingle with the sweat and we lap at each other like animals to catch the last of the sweat.

And then we'd do that all again.