Night 1:  SoHo Lounge
The Electroclash party. I choose a red strapless dress and white heels ensemble before my tan lines get too out of control with a week at the beach. I joke with my gay partner-in-crime, Adam, “Ooh, I feel so hard-core” leaving the edgy hip of South Beach for the grit of downtown Miami. I note the DJ’s appreciation for Prince’s Erotic City, but judging by the number of men I don’t meet, I assume my red fashion statement isn’t quite hard-core enough. Bummer.

Night 2:  Shore Club and Lounge 16
Short sixties-esque white satin dress with big green earrings. Adam and I are joined by his girlfriend-before-he-was-gay, Joleen, who has four piercings on her face and wears black leg warmers despite the heat. Again, I find myself feeling fashionably mild in a sea of chic.

Night 3:  Opium Garden
I’m hit with a maddening desire to forsake all the rules fashion I once obeyed and go with a green skirt topped with a brown and orange tank that exposes my leopard-print bra and serious cleavage. Accessorized with a gold antique brass belt (one that had seemed too impractical when packing, but now made so much sense) and gold hoops. Adam and I are on the dance floor until 5 a.m.—we have a great time, I feel alive and for once, not at all under-dressed.

Night 4:  The Sagamore and the Delano
Black slip dress over black capris. I love the way high heels give me an extra few inches of eye contact with bartenders, but, after three nights of extravagant dancing my feet are ready for the intensive care unit, so I settle for flat leather sandals. Adam has been replaced by my friend Anna for the rest of the trip, and as much as I love him, this turns out to be a great strategic move for two reasons: 1.) Anna is a jewelry designer and has supplied me with a fabulous pair of Swarovski crystal earrings with matching bracelet, and… 2.) She’s so hot that my chances of meeting a South Beach hunk are twelve times better running with her than with a gay man. It’s just too confusing with all the metros lolling about. We’re out all night and have a wonderfully scandalous time (what’s not to like about those little cabanas at the Delano?).

Night 5:  Shore Club and Privé
Purple nightie edged with hot pink lace over my leopard bra. Black and white patterned skirt. Brass belt with newly acquired black and gold pumps. Crystal earrings and bracelet. It sounds horrible I know, but it works for my last night in South Beach. Before leaving the hotel room I strike a tragically hip pose for Anna and we laugh in amazement at the amount of fashion fearlessness I’ve acquired in a mere five nights. Out into the night we go. The eyelashes bat, the business cards fly, and the martinis go down like Kool-Aid.

Day 6: Wretchedly Hungover and Dreading the Drive to Orlando.
Water…must have water. My throbbing headache is apparently affecting my ability to parallel park a car and I become the asshole who leaves it hanging-out too far from the curb while I run in to the quickie mart for some hydration. “That’s how you park a car? You make women look bad,” a woman bellows from a nearby cafe Now, I might have bags under my eyes, but at least I’m wearing Gucci sunglasses and lip-gloss, so I retort, “I make women look bad? Pah-leez…”

Praying the horrid she-beast doesn’t follow me, I slam the door and make my way toward 95-North. Apparently, my attitude has increased along with my desire to walk the streets wearing underwear and high heels. All in the name of fashion, of course…

Epilogue
Miami is a tropical playground for people who live for the moment—a moment that often occurs at 3 a.m. in some ritzy club overlooking the ocean. And while speed boats and botox have a way of making the beautiful people appear ever-more alluring—even if there is sometimes little virtue behind the facade—visitors who simply want to take a walk on the wild side of fashion will soon find their inhibitions floating away with the ocean breeze.

I think I’ll move to Miami…

I thought of my college roommate—a theatre major—who always used the most dramatic adjectives when describing any given situation. “It’s just, just, or-gas-mic!” she once squealed when describing a lobster bisque. Oh brother, Orgasmic soup? The memory reminded me that “sexy food” might include just about anything depending on who you’re talking to, so I decided to find out exactly what foods really do turn people on.

“It’s all about what feels good on your tongue,” my current roommate told me when I asked for his views on the subject, “…Flan, Filet Mignon.” He thought a minute further. “And some of the sweet stuff, sorbet, Creme Brulee.”

His cousin pitched in with, “…sushi, definitely Sushi.” Now, while sashimi may be chic, describing raw salmon and seaweed as sexy is a little much. I wrinkled my nose at the suggestion. “But, it’s not the fish itself, it’s what it does. Fresh, tender fish has a lot of hormones that trigger happiness in your body, it’s an aphrodisiac,” he explained.

Everyone seems to have an opinion on sexy food?

“…Fondue. It’s just so drippy and oozey.”

“…Spaghetti, with big meatballs, but of course both people have to eat it because of the garlic.”

“…the whipped cream bikini from that football movie.”

“…Baby backs oozing with barbeque sauce.”

A friend soon showed up for drinks wearing a t-shirt with the expression ‘dip me in chocolate and feed me to the lesbians.? For him, the shirt said it all. Apparently what’s sexy depends not so much on what’s consumed, but how it’s consumed. “Tequila body shots and grapes, fed to me on a chaise lounge by a beautiful woman.”

“It’s really hot when guys eat a lot,” a girlfriend of mine tells me. “I mean, it’s important to have good manners, but sometimes when guys are really chowing-down they take on this whole animalistic aura that’s somehow appealing.”

For another one of my friends, it’s all about sharing. “Finger foods, or anything that you can feed to each other.”

On the flip side were the obvious male-to-female attractions and of course the phallic-shaped foods. “Popsciles—big pickles … or if I see a girl eating a banana—sometimes, it makes me crazy.” I politely left the conversation before we got to Italian sausage.

Overall, I found that the definition of sexy food can truly vary, with a few universal factors. Texture is very important—smooth, not too sticky. Aphrodisiacs are always a perk; spreadables, sauces, syrups can all go creative places; desserts and alcohol always make dinner sexier. And then beyond that comes the secret desires—you just never know what the person at the next table is thinking while they watch you lick your fingers …