“Are you drawing my PIC-TCHA?”
From my lounge chair, I look up to see an older, slightly stocky gentleman hovering over me. He’s wearing blue shorty-shorts, and spitting his words with a particularly nasal Long Island drawl. He’s also staring at me. Attentively. Waking up to the obvious, I realize his gaze is fixated on my notepad.
“No,” I start, “I’m actually here to write about — ”
He’s not listening. Instead, he starts to pose. He positions his hand to the back of his head like a Roman god, gives me his best Marilyn-Monroe-seducing-the-camera eyes, then breaks at the knee like a schoolgirl about to curtsy. His gaze quickly moves on to the next focus of his (easily diverted) attention: an olive-skinned, firm-chested man whose nipples, he boisterously marvels, are extraordinarily hard and pointy.
Welcome to the Pool at the Raven.