Getting laid in Miami

Getting laid in Miami

23 March, 2007 | 1.59PM

• Section: Music News Topics: Industry Boy Blog
• Written by: Industry Boy

Another unfinished breakfast, another hangover, another Strawberry Daiquiri. The perfect start to the WMC day. Now it’s the time to get rock & roll. Abuse the power and the free booze. Smooze with the superstar DJs, and lay on the British accent for the groupies. Industry Boy wants to get laid. I want to get shit-faced. I want to embrace Lady Desire in my arms and let her abuse and dominate me with forbidden pleasures, and not just tonight, all fucking day.

The pool party is where it’s at, for the sun shines brightly today. German minimal posse Minus are running the show, and they bring with them DJ faces, trendy haircuts, and the crispest, most sublime beats and sub bass in the world.

The day glitches and bleeps, and the backstage vodka flows into my stomach like a cascading tributary after a storm.

“Oh my God, how cute are your shorts?” purrs a glamourous maiden into Industry Boy’s neck sometime around mid-afternoon. She smells of alcohol and cigarettes, and is clearly a party girl in the middle of a marathon.

A pair of huge sunglasses cover her eyes. It’s great that she approves of the 1980s white tight tennis shorts that I’m wearing, because anyone who responds positively to my outlandish dress sense is normally a cool cat.

It’s a way of sorting out the freaks from the ordinary. If you like Industry Boy’s style, it normally means you’re open-minded, a bit weird, or a fashion wolf. If you don’t like my clothes, well, you’re probably boring and can bugger off.

‘Can I hang out with you, you seem like fun,’ she says, introducing herself as Sandy. It turns she’s Canadian, and currently enjoying life in the sun, working on a millionaire’s yacht with her equally sexy friend Claire.

The two of them glitter next to the pool, sharing vodka cokes and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls simulating lesbian sex.

They are the perfect Miami dates. Time to lay on the Brit charm. “You know, I’m a minor celebrity,” I tell her. She laughs, clearly amused by the audacity of such a statement.

I put on my best Queen’s English accent: “Yah, I used to go to school with Prince William. He’s a top bloke.”

She enthusiastically plays along for the rest of the afternoon. I lunge with Brit clichés and industry name drops and a couple of hours later we’re lying in my five-star bed enjoying a post-coital cigarette.

Industry Boy doesn’t smoke usually, but this was a Miami moment to be savoured.

“Darling, why don’t you and your friend hang out with us for the next couple of days,” I say, more of a request than a query.

So Sandy and Claire call up their millionaire yacht-owning boss, tell him to go to hell, and move their seven bags into Industry Boy’s room.

Nothing really matters about the night that follows for I’m walking on a cloud of endorphin-generated bliss.

I splash out on cocktails for anybody I recognise and can’t wipe the fat smile off my face.

It’s funny how a good sex session changes your outlook on life. Everything is just perfect.

My happiness is infectious, and soon the rest of the crew are partying like it’s their last day on Earth.

I cherish the moment and watch the sun rise from my hotel room, whilst a naked Sandy keeps the bed warm.

• (0) Comments
• (818) Views