Buy a bikini @ Sieloh.com
Wordz by Femmebot
Photo by Julian Sula
Setting: The Gansevoort Hotel rooftop pool. It is packed with bronze bikini girlz and buff B-O-Yz dancing to house beats mixed with hip hop.
Camera weaves in and out of the different scenes contained within each cabana. Everyone is taking fabulous group pictures and uploading them instantly to Facebook so that their friends in places less fabulous can virtually join in on the fun.
Camera stops at one cabana where five girlz in bikinis and Afros are dancing and smiling and posing for camera phone after digital-point-and-shoot-camera.
All they can see are bodies. Boobs. Butts. Skin.
They don’t realize that inside the heads, underneath the afros, are big BRAINz.
While passersby watch me, I watch them. To them I am an object; to me they are market research.
To them, we are hot Latina and Asian and Jewish girlz wearing strappy high heelz.
To ourselves, we are power girlz. Smart. Ambitious. In other places like San Francisco, New York, LA, those qualities aren’t weird.
Here on Planet MyAmi, these qualities are unrecognized, evidenced by the fat guy who refuses to believe that the cabana and promotion were procured by a female who looks like Leticia, the designer of Sieloh swimwear. Her high heels are grounded while her aura is all indigo. She can sew an arm band with one hand while putting her mascara on with the other as she balances her Paypal accounts over iPhone. The classic four-armed Lakshmi goddess of beauty and wealth. I recognize a sister when I see one.
Jenise Collado is an MBA graduate doing marketing for a voice over IP company. Mirasol Perez manages real estate. Cat Leslie manages media for a new Internet start-up.
“What do you do?” asks a red-faced B-O-Y standing too close to me.
“I’m a writer,” I say.
“What kind of writing?”
“Science fiction,” I say.
“How do you make money?” he asks.
“I build web sites,” I say.
We pose for foto after foto and when I am tired, I sit and I meditate on the scene, trying to remain removed, a spider fairy on the wall just observing and not becoming.
When I stand, a Sieloh business card is sticking to my ass and Leticia tells me I am a marketing genius as the photographer shoots our booties.
As the day wears on, I look at the azul ocean beyond the plastic barbie and ken scene in front of our noses.
As the day wears on, and sweaty B-O-Yz try to holla, my invisible wall of protection grows thicker.
I am in character. I am safe inside my little secret world no one else can penetrate.
Flashback: Nov. 11, 2003
Modeling bikinis at the Sagamore Hotel in South Beach – what was that like? The atmosphere – frat B-O-Y types as excited as they were at age 11 at the mention of baseball cards with chewing gum. But now grown up, all they want to chew on is some Playboy ASS. At the mention of Playboy, men lose their sh-t, they are at the mercy of their balls, and trigger happy fingers carrying 18 cameras to capture the moment, for the ultimate bragging rights.
“You’ll never believe where I was yesterday. Nevermind, don’t guess, I can’t wait to blurt it out – f-ing Playboy party, man!! Tits painted in blue – I’ve got the picutres to prove it! Aw, no, I didn’t get to touch anything, but man, I brushed by with an elbow – wow – a piece like that!”
Who designed the bikinis? Dinia Demu.
Men proudly displayed their VIP badges but sneaking peeks in the dressing room window where naked girls bounce into their assigned bikinis. Only one blonde in the bunch. Odd, the rest of us darker beauties are from Colombia, Puerto Rico and other Latin countries. Beautiful women.
Do we rule the world because men will never cease to fall under our spells? No matter our advances in technology and years of mental evolution, biology rules; sex rules and the players with the biggest fake tits and the best pick-up lines win?
The funny thing about South Beach is its inherent comedy, its hysterical theatrics of the mating script, yet, the characters all think they are auditioning for a serious drama. They take themselves so seriously! Men drooling over scantily clad women – after centuries of this, can we just step back and laugh at its absurdity? How silly it all is to showcase our sexual power? Damn, I find it funny and I enjoyed making money from it today.
I wore a bikini and someone pays me.
“Are you nervous?”" Someone asks me.
“Why should I be?” I say. “Is this brain surgery? Am I a politician making decisions that will affect millions of people? Showing some skin doesn’t make me nervous. Besides, we all have the same stuff – boobs, butts, hair, face, feet – what’s the drooling all about? How many times can you look at the same stuff and keep the drooling going? Shouldn’t the effect be like a gynocologist? Looking at it day in, day out, the novelty fades, desensitization kicks in.
