I had just gotten my new car and gotten rid of my girlfriend. At least, that is the way she described the chain of events. I’m not convinced that the two events came so hard upon each other, but in my ex-‘s mind, they did. As far as she was concerned, as soon as that $86,000. white with black interior convertible Carrera 4 had settled into my garage, she had been dispatched on her way. She wasn’t the only one who thought that the new car changed things. Anything can happen on a night out in a Porsche. This is what one of my best friends had said to me after I bought the car.

Tonight, we were out testing that theory. My friend and I were cruising down Prospect Street, the main drag in La Jolla, California, with the top down. It was about nine P.M. It was dark. But beneath the lights of the shops and restaurants we could see people everywhere.

I was in a silver colored double breasted pin-striped silk sharkskin suit – straight early 90s haberdashery. My friend was dressed in his own height of fashion, khakis, top siders and a dark blue polo shirt. We both looked good, and the car didn’t hurt our presence one bit.

The entire outing reminded me of high school – which was really just a few years behind me at that point – and what another good friend of mine had called “boulevard cruising.” As teenagers, we used to get into our preppie clothes and “hit the streets” looking for – what? In those days I don’t think we were even sure what we were trying to find, although of course the general principle had been to try to pick up chicks off the streets, to paraphrase John Belushi’s line about free wheeling activity on the streets of Amsterdam. But, back then, either because we just weren’t any good at it, or because we were cruising the wrong streets, we always ended up having a good time, but no girls seemed to come our way. At least not as a result of any boulevard cruising.

“What are you guys doing?” one of our friends would say to us when we stopped to phone him.

“Oh, just cruising,” was the usual response. Inane yes, but – we thought we were actually doing something.

This night however, the cruising was in fact bona fide. We hadn’t traveled down the boulevard even two blocks before we spotted two girls on the sidewalk, right opposite us. Two girls I say, but really – one. The one being tall, slim, blonde and beautiful. The other, to use a 1950s phrase I picked up from Catcher in the Rye, was strictly from hunger.

We stopped. We looked. And it was evident they looked at us. It was like gridlock between the blonde’s green eyes and mine. The conversation was almost automatic. It was as if we had pulled up just to collect them, and that they had come to La Jolla and been strolling along just waiting for us to pile them into our car. And load them in we did. It just seemed so natural. We roared off to my house, which was less than ten minutes away.

“I’m so impressed.” This ended up being the buzz phrase for the evening – the chorus. No matter what I myself said or offered up to the evening, the blonde, whose name I quickly learned was Danielle, would come back with those three words. And before she said those words she would dramatically gasp, draw her hand up and cover her mouth with the tips of her fingers.

Of course, I had to admit, to someone meeting us for the first time, the whole scene was impressive. We picked up the girls in an expensive car, wearing expensive clothes, looking polished, handsome, and to use a cliché, debonair. We were young. We drove them to probably the most exclusive street in all of La Jolla (a girl I knew described it as a street she used to walk up and down in high school, daydreaming about someday living there). Once at my house, we whisked through not one but two sets of electronically operated gates onto a home – really, more of a compound, on six acres set above the ocean.

We parked in the circle driveway inside the second set of gates, and walked the girls down a long green slate walkway which consisted of dozens of hand set stones. The whole path was indirectly lit through recessed oxidized green copper light fixtures. It was a dramatic entrance to a spectacular residence. At the bottom of the path, there was a massive ornate oak door, at least seven feet tall. I directed Bruce towards the left, through a small gate and into the poolside area. I punched a code into the alarm panel and slipped into the house itself.

My friend and I knew the routine. This was the main house on the estate, and we didn’t want to wake my parents. I ran through the house and down the long hallways that my parents called gallerias, while the three of them walked by the pool outside of the galleries and to the poolside two story cabana addition my parents had recently built. I opened the door from the inside. The lock always seemed to freeze up when I tried it any other way. Into the cabana, and upstairs, to a solid rosewood bar that cost as much as some condominiums. We planted the girls on a couch opposite the bar and sat down to talk to them.

Or rather, I did. I spent my time talking to Danielle. It was obvious that she and I were quite taken with each other. My friend on the other hand really wasn’t interested in the other girl, and was simply being polite for my sake.

Danielle and I drifted away from them and went downstairs. We walked past the sauna in the lower level and stepped out the back door, to one of the gardens nestled on the property. She asked me where I had gone to high school. I told her.

“I’m so impressed!” The words, spoken softly, the hand raised dramatically to the mouth, I was used to it all by now, but each time she did it, it gave me a sort of rise.

She wondered what kind of grades I had gotten in high school. All A’s, I told her. I had a 4.0, which, of course, happened to be true.

Once again: “I’m so impressed!” The chorus was in full swing.

Finally I changed the focus. I pulled her face close to mine, and kissed her.

“I’ve never felt such soft lips!” she declared after we had locked tongues gently.

I directed her back upstairs. I was in charge. Everything seemed to be progressing as it should. It was if from the moment we had met, we had both entered some kind of trance that seemed to draw us ever closer to each other. Everything was progressing spontaneously, and yet beautifully. I told my friend that we were going to take a drive down to the beach. He just nodded, and waved us off, smiling.

I guided Danielle back up the long step path and into the car. The access to the beach – a private road reserved for residents of this street – was less than a half a mile from our own front gate. Once there, I unlocked the beach gate and started down the winding road.

Now this path led to that was known as the only nudist beach in southern California. The beach was at least unofficially nudist. Officially, nudity had been banned there some years ago. But its reputation remained. I remember not long after we had first moved here, that two young French girls had pulled up by our driveway while I happened to be outside, and asked where “La Plage Naturaliste” was. I had simply pointed, and given them directions. I understood French. I knew that they planned to sunbath nude down there. But, at the time, somehow, either due to my young age or shyness, I didn’t jump in the car to give them a guided tour.

But by tonight, at this age, I had grown into someone who was anything but shy. And this evening, I led Danielle right out of the car and down to the beach, where the surf was crashing, practically pounding onto the sand. It was low tide, and close to a full moon, so that all along the shore the waves seemed electrically charged in the moonlight. The white peaks of the water dissolved into foam under the luminescence.

The entire beach was deserted. By now, it was about two A.M., maybe later. No one was in sight. Not that this particularly beach, being isolated and accessible only by private road, was ever particularly crowded, especially at night, but as far as I could see up or down the shore, there was no one around at all.

What happened next unfolded so instinctually that it might as well have been rehearsed. There on the desolate beach, with the summer wind blowing around us, I simply grabbed Danielle and pulled her down towards the sand. I took off my coat, and flung it on the ground underneath her. She made some kind of audible protest, but it was all happening too quickly, too naturally.

Before either of us could say another word, I had pulled off her panties, my shoes, my pants, lifted up her summer dress, and I was inside her, thrusting. I just slipped into her so easily, as if my entering her was the proper culmination of the whole night. She gasped as I pounded. I came quickly, but just kept going. I’ve always been blessed with some supernatural ability to maintain my erection no matter how many times I have come, stopping only when I’ve decided that I’ve had enough, and not simply because I’ve climaxed.

And that night I just kept going and going. At one point, I am quite certain, someone jogged by, almost right by us. I didn’t stop, and it seemed to me, neither did he. After I had come the second time, and it was clear that I had exploded with a loud cry of pleasure, I stopped. Almost instantly, Danielle burst into tears.

“Now you won’t respect me.” she cried.

I held her and assured her that I would. I wiped away her tears. What a reaction!

I meant what I said too – in my life, it never really has seemed to matter whether a woman has given herself to me immediately, or not until much later, as far as their being any correlation to the length of time the relationship has lasted. I’ve been with girls who held out for months, where we’re stopped seeing each other within weeks of first having sex, and then I’ve kept up relationships for years with girls who slept with me on the first night.

Danielle was one of those whom I stayed with, on and off, for nearly a decade. Finally, I lost track of her and today have no idea where she is. We ended up dating seriously for a while – as seriously as someone like me could have been after having just ended a long term relationship. Even after we separated, we would spend time together and travel, even if we hadn’t seen each other for months.

Years later, just to see what she would say, I mentioned that evening to her and asked if she remembered it.

She looked at me deadpan and said, “I’ll be dying and I will remember that night.” I think the memory of her saying that, is as strong as the event itself. And there is no denying the fact – that was proven that night perhaps more than any other – that anything can happen on a night out in a Porsche.