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At that, as though waiting for his signal, a silver-haired George Plimpton-looking motherfucker rose from the pool, his dick peeking out from between his legs like a curious albino bat. Perhaps the weirdest thing about the whole scene was how few guests took notice of such a spectacle.

Sure, I'd prepared myself to see some amorous behavior, but I'd imagined it'd be fleeting and discreet.

The DJ, who told me his name was Lorenzo, seemed to have been directed to play the lamest string of global hits imaginable—which spoke more, I think, to the tastes of the resort's guests than to any deficit of Lorenzo's. I only frequent parties [organized] by those who prioritize the safety of everyone involved, [which means] having clear consent standards, agreements, and boundaries and [hiring] guardians for attendees to reach out to as a way to reduce harm.