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So if Saturday afternoon’s Pool Party at the Surfcomber was our
version of a day at the Playboy Mansion, then Hilton Wolman’s
Saturday night party at Karu&Y was not unlike a summer white party
at P. Diddy’s Hampton manse. There were klieg lights, for example,
whirling around the Miami sky, providing a bit of old style glamour.
And there were Rolls and Bentleys handed off to valets, and one boy
saying to his girl, “Don’t worry, it’s couture.” And if that didn’t
alleviate any doubt, there was Hilton’s son, Myron, wearing a shirt
embroidered across the chest with the words CIRCUIT ROYALTY, which
would make Hilton the Circuit Queen—er, King.
For anyone who has yet to make an entrance at Karu&Y, it’s a little
like Mar-A-Lago amidst the crack dens. Beautifully fortressed by
privet and waterfalls, as well as ubiquitous security, there’s a
feeling of entering a sanctum sanctorum once you’re off the street.
The gardens, called Tottem Gardens, are a warren of visual excess,
with waterfalls, stone pathways, wooden bridges, and cabanas
complementing the abundantly verdant foliage rising high into the
tropical sky. There’s a kind of frisson at being there: as if you’re
in Escobar’s private enclave.
And given that this was Hilton Wolman’s affair, the boyz were out in
force—not only the locals, but a good portion of Manhattan as well.
Local boy Fernando, for example, who this summer forsook the Beach
for Chelsea, was back in the house, as was the rest of that Miami
mob, all the usual sexy suspects. And there were the glossy magazine
cover boyz, such as PASSPORT’s swimsuit cover model, Gil Dominach,
and the Winter Party Festival cover boy, Rafael Yapur (such a
sweetheart!!) and— Well, suffice it to say, as everyone knows,
Hilton gets the hotties.
There were so many people—coming and going. Sisters greeting each
other with those squeals of joyful recognition: “Where you been?
Haven’t seen you forever. When’d you get here?” All the ubiquitous
personalities—Joe Caro, Michael Circuit Dancer, Andrei, JC Curry,
Alex and Luis, Carlos, Christian and Eric, Jake and Jesse, Alex, and
Chris—gathered together for the night. “We thought it was you,”
someone said, “But we weren’t sure.” “That’s because you’re used to
seeing me without clothes,” came the smug reply.
Meanwhile, inside, Rosabel had a packed floor, werking “Take Me
Higher.” Tottem is something of a black box—and on Saturday night,
it was also something of a slippery, sliding dance floor, somewhat
closer to a skating rink, giving new meaning to the phrase, “See you
on da flo.” Of course, no one was complaining about the abundance of
skin. And when Abel tossed down “Besito,” his little kiss to his
crowd, the floor gave it up—for each other, for La Lupe, whose sexy
presence is a guiding force each time that song gets werked over.
Basically, the night was a voluptuary’s sybaritic dream. It was
everything you wanted and everything you needed—all pleasures
satisfied. There were boyz canoodling in the cabanas and getting
nasty in the xanadu. The couches were covered with boyz in an
orgiastic state, something like a woodcut out of an opium-eater’s
journal. It was Hieronymus Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” and
we weren’t at all surprised when one of the more randy cover boyz
suddenly started riding our neighbor on the next couch—much to his
surprise (and delight) as well. Such a rakish young colt, that sexy
bucking’ bronco—
We heard stories, lots of stories—too many we can’t repeat.
Photographs were taken—some for private collection only. Maybe there
was something in the—punch. The entire Brazilian contingent, for
example, don’t they ever get tired—of being sexy? What’s up with
that? They had crowds outside their cabana all night long.
And meanwhile, above us, the crescent Miami moon hung crookedly
askew in the sky. Oh, Miami nights— Oh, Winter Party Festival— Oh,
nasty boyz and Rosabel and Hilton—and those randy Task Force
volunteers— We’re so grateful for them all.
Best always,
Mark and Robert
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