Walter led Beatrice by the hand while I guided Sonja behind them, my hand resting in the soft curve of her waist. We moved around the chairs of envious men to the bar where a barely post-college chocolate-brown cutie awaited us. Her name was Robinette, and she was dressed in ’70s retro style—plain hip-hugger slacks, a beige turtleneck, a brown leather jacket, black platform shoes, and yellow-tinted shades. A woolly natural silhouetted her baby face.

“Walter,” she whined, “I’m supposed to be meeting some friends.”

He took her by the hand like a father would his child. “No, Robinette, that’s dead. You’re coming with us.” She didn’t resist, but wore a petulant scowl as we headed for the door. A bouncer looked at me and joked, “Y’all planning your own personal Super Bowl party, huh?” I nodded like it was my game plan and headed out the door.

Outside we commandeered two taxis. Walter got into the first one with Robinette. “Let me get her head straight,” he whispered, and then instructed me to jump in the second cab with the other two women. As we drove west across the Village to Moomba, Beatrice nestled in between Sonja and me, turned and began kissing her friend. As their tongues tied I at first watched like an intruder until, timidly, I started rubbing the insides of Beatrice’s legs. I then progressed to kissing her neck. She opened her gams wider in encouragement. By the time we reached Moomba my fingers had traced some delightful geometric patterns inside her panties.

Up on Moomba’s second floor we dined on seafood, artfully arranged vegetables, and a medley of alcoholic beverages. The seating was strategic. Sonja and Beatrice sat next to each other, nuzzling like deer. Walter sat at the head of the table, beaming and pouring Moët like water; Robinette and I sat to his right. Robinette stared, mesmerized by Beatrice and Sonja, while Walter and I soothed, cajoled, and whispered to her about the joys of being sexually open. Robinette’s eyes looked a bit glazed, and it hit me that “getting her head right” probably involved drugs. Walter was an old hand at this game, so I just noted it and said nothing.

Initially I’d just followed Walter’s lead in seducing Robinette. But as the evening’s possibilities became apparent, I grew more animated. I softly rubbed her legs, gazed deep into her brown eyes, and listened empathetically to her frustrations with the fashion game. “Yes, I worked at Condé Nast two years before I got to go on a shoot,” she complained. As I nodded that I understood her frustration, mentally I was licking my lips.