CAT GOT MY TONGUE!
Please don't meow during fellatio! There are plenty of other strays on South Beach and besides, I'm not down there checking your furry testicles for fleas!
WILLIAM BUTLER YEAST WAS A ROMANTIC BLOW-IT
And speaking of blow jobs, if on a third date we have a picnic on the beach and you beg for sex after I witness your personal bacchanalia, which involves you drinking a twelve-pack of lukewarm beer, eating a large pizza and a bag of twinkies, please don't eat me. My vagina is diabetic and you are a walking yeast infection.
SWEET NOTHINGS MEANS BIG SOMETHING
If a girlfriend of mine pimps drinks without my express permission at The Delano, and I suddenly find myself holding a gin and tonic in my hand surrounded by two former football players, and am forced by courtesy to imbibe the unsolicited beverage, and you happen to be one of the hunks who let my shameless hussy of a girlfriend pimp a drink out of you, and we chat for a spell, and you behave like a gentleman, escorting me to the valet, but then stand behind me and start breathing down my neck as I wait for the car, please don't whisper the following sentence, quoted verbatim, into my ear: "I'd love to stick my big black dick up your big white ass."
DON'T PRACTICE WHAT YOU PRICK
I don't care if you had a threesome with two lesbians at The Roney Plaza in 1985. Stop reminding me every time we drive by that former sperm-infested den of iniquity you called home or I'm going to have to prick you to see if you're dreaming and now I'm losing sleep wondering if you can prick a prick back into reality.
SORRY, MY BANGS OCCLUDED THE NEON SIGN ON MY FOREHEAD THAT BLINKS "I AM A CHEAP SLUT. STOP. HAVE VAGINA. STOP. WILL DO A GIRL-ON-GIRL THREESOME WITH YOU. STOP. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ASK. FULL STOP."
And speaking of threesomes, while at Tapas y Tintos, please don't wrap your arm around my other girlfriend who never pimped a drink in her life, and then, think that you can get away with caressing my ass simultaneously because she's too tanked to see the forest from the sleeze, forcing me to write NO on a napkin in red lipstick and slipping it under her martini when -- after only just making your acquaintance -- you ask if we'd like a night cap at your bachelor pad.
ALWAYS CARRY EMERGENCY FLIP FLOPS IN YOUR TINY CLUTCH BAG
After a pleasant New Year's Eve dinner at Talula's with mutual friends, followed by cocktails at your apartment on Collins Avenue, please don't make unexpected and unprovoked sexual advances at me while your wife turns her back, forcing me to flee the scene in my four-inch heels and having to walk from 5th to 16th street before finding an empty cab.
THE COLD SHOULDER AND THE HOT HAND
While I enjoy a draft of Guinness at The Playwright, please don't offer to give me a massage or sell me a Rolex for fifty bucks after you've come from work reeking of eau de garlic only to boast that you have three children with three different women.
YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS, A KISS IS NOT A FRISK
In search of the hoped-for prince or princess, many frogs have kissed each other at South Pointe, decidedly the most romantic spot on South Beach to stroll hand in hand during the sunset; however, please refrain from kissing and frisking like two slimy humping toads within plain view of Smith and Wollensky. Join the diners if it's meat your craving, otherwise go to the Everglades for frog legs!
COITUS OBSTRUCTUS VS. INTERRUPTUS
And speaking of sex in public, if you can't get a room, at least make it to the door. Tripping over a crack on Euclid Avenue's sidewalk won't break an ankle, but walking into a couple having sex on the sidewalk could break the spell from whatever drug they took that prevented them from being polite enough to use the swale.
SHH! PORK THE ONE YOU LOVE, QUIETLY
And woman, if you make it past the door and insist on squealing like a stuck pig during intercourse, please scoot down a bit on your bed so that your wrists don't accidently rasp the wall, reminding me -- your neighbor -- that only one foot of paper-thin concrete separates my bed from your sexual slaughterhouse antics and that our overpriced South Beach condo is really just a tricked-out crackwhore Biscayne Boulevard motel with nicer amenities.
MY ASS IS NOT YOUR LAST RESORT
And speaking of getting a room, call first to make a reservation chez Manola, buddy. After you befriend me and wax eloquently for months on end about your obsessive admiration of excessively thin, tall blonde model types who live on South Beach and how you could NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS have sex with someone who does not meet your criteria for arousal [read: Brunette, petite and proudly sporting a big ass, Manola is not your type, but rather a cow you'd like to milk], and then one fine day we attend a party in North Beach and you get so sloshed that you forget to activate that bimbo-divining rod in your pants, which in the absence of any light-haired ectomorphs inspires you to grab and lift me to the counter top, stick your tongue in my mouth and unclasp my bra -- something I kindly ask you to please not do, even if a million years have in fact gone by. As I reach for air and ask "but I thought ... " and you gasp "but you're a beautiful woman!" note how I manage to slither my corpulent behind out from under your hypocritical claws!
Steve Klotz -- a witty man who keeps his wife in a cage -- coined the term "nation's dicktip" to describe the Sunshine State's peninsular shape.