The Dindori Shiraz Suite.

…”make no sudden movement and no one will get hurt”.

Merlot, Sauvignon Blanc, Santé and the earthy smells of the vineyard, crystal and pewter wine goblets, men and women swirling wines like their lives depended on it. A private tasting, vanilla in a cup, a red spoon and scallops in wasabi; My sixth glass of Merlot and fourth glass of a 1999 Cabernet Sauvignon. I’m laughing as are my hosts and random people. The photographer touches my elbow, I take twelve seconds to respond, he clasps my elbow, and I turn. My resplendent smile, his nervous banter, I excuse myself.

He pulls out a long filter cigarette. We find a solitary ashtray by the deck chairs. Promises made those which we shall keep. A rendezvous decided, a destination picked, purple scarves, vintage eye wear, smart black Marc Jacob shoes. That night after dinner; after conversations on real estate, golf, fashion weeks and philanthropy, I march to the Dindori Shiraz Suite. Hips swaying, eyes alert, chin up. Posture matters. As does the Pinot in my glass, we barely get through the third sip, he glides his hands dexterously into mine, I pull away, and modesty is damned. I need water. Pellegrino from the mini bar the end of my smoke between my perfect desirable lips; don’t talk too much. Don’t tell him your secrets. Lead. Pause. Smile. Then leave gracefully. He slams me against the suites vinyl door, one leg he wraps smartly around his hip, while his tongue swoops through the unknown spaces in my mouth. We peel of the excuses, we kick of the expensive shoes, and we inhale the perfume and the smell of the wine. He caresses, he taunts, he hurts and I reciprocate. We heave, we hold on and we consume. The frenzy I blame on the wine, the passion on the wine, the good fuck that followed I blame solely on that suave photographer who raided my personality for six hours.

I’ve fucked in candlelit bars, in swish apartments, in cabs and cathedrals. The photographer showed me dimensions, positions and challenged my anxiety levels all in those six hours. The sex wasn’t frivolous; it was a dialogue, a discourse, a duel and perhaps even a concert.

The four of cups, the fiend and the moon, this weekend your senses shall be tortured, said the tarot reader, before I drove to the private tasting.