The Billionaire’s Hampton Beach Party

In the Hamptons party scene, having the right “bikini wax” matters …

“Max likes his vaginas a certain way.”

“What?”

I turn to look at my beautiful new friend. Thinking I’ve heard her wrong.

We’re sitting in the luxurious back seat of a shiny white limousine.

On my right is miles of white sand beachfront. Though it’s hard to see the sand or the water because of all the enormous billionaire mansions blocking the view.

“Why are you even telling me this?”

Not for the first time, I have misgivings about saying “yes” to this summer Hampton Beach party.

Even back in LA, I’ve heard about beach parties in the Hamptons. A hallowed summer resort for rich people.

And I’ve read gossipy stories about girls my age who scrimp and save all year just to buy a “share” in a house.

But what this all had to do with how a vagina “looked” is beyond me….

Everything in New York seems to have a weird double meaning.

Take the word “share” for example.

You’d think it just meant you’d put up some money and then got to “share” a summer house with a group of people.

But it’s more than that.

It’s about sharing the “right” house with the “right” crowd. Because only the “right” crowd get invited to all the fun, fashionable parties.

The kind where sexy, well-connected girls can meet rich men.

I mean billionaire rich.

The type of guys who can afford all those mansions you see on Netflix real estate shows.

The ones with the heliport pad included in the listing price.

And to even get invited to the right house, you had to look a certain way.

For girls, of course, it means beautiful.

Though I’ve heard stories of some “plain jane” rich girls who got invited.

The reason was usually because they had this fantastic shoe collection the same size as other girls in the house. And volunteered to share.

Not just their shoes, but their Chanel bag stash and designer clothes too.

From the whispers in powder rooms of hot Manhattan clubs, getting into the ‘right house’ is a blood sport.

A few minutes later our limo pulls up in front of a security booth. I can’t see anything beyond it.

Our chauffeur tells the guard Samantha’s name. We’re waved right in. The mansion soon comes into view.

“Man, this is incredible!” I can’t believe the house. I’ve seen mansions back and LA, but never anything like this. The word “enormous” can’t even describe it.

It’s like a castle!

And now I can finally see the Atlantic Ocean shimmering behind it!

“Thank you so much for inviting me!”

Samantha pats my bare thigh. “Of course, darling. Max always welcomes fresh youthful faces.”

I’m not really liking Samantha’s vaguely condescending tone. Or the familiar way she touches my thigh.

“Does this Max guy have these parties every weekend?”

“Starting in spring, if it’s pleasant weather.”

“But why? They must be super expensive to host.”

“Max can afford it.”

The car finally comes to a stop after ascending a circular driveway.

The chauffeur opens the door for us.

“How do I look?”

I don’t really need to ask that question, since Samantha dressed me herself.

Last week she invited me for drinks at her all-white, modern looking luxury high rise.

Then after taking me onto her deck to admire the expansive Manhattan view, she showed me her closet.

It looked more like a department store than a closet I’ve ever seen.

First, you walk into it.

And then you visit the “sections,” one by one.

First is the handbag section. Chanel, all vintages, all facing out. Then the same with Gucci and other designers.

Shoes had their own room. Each pair artfully arranged on what Samantha called an acrylic “riser.”

The rest of the closet had small niche rooms for short dresses, long dresses, skirts, tops and more. Even belts and scarves had their own special room.

“Wow. What a collection.”

Ever since I met Samantha, I thought she must have come from a wealthy family. Just the way she exuded confidence and always dressed like a fashion model.

“Here. Let’s find a dress for you to wear to Max’s party on Saturday.”

I must have tried on dozens of dresses from that closet. Finally Samantha decided on a short red summer dress. Given Samantha’s height, it was a “long” summer dress on me.

So she sent it to her tailor to shorten it..

“It matches the auburn color of your hair. Almost.”

Samantha stands there in the strong Hamptons sunlight, looking at me in that strange way of hers.

“Well, let’s join the party!”

I take a deep breath. Wondering what I’ll see as soon as we enter the house.

At first, everything seems fairly normal. I’m surprised by the attractive uniformed maid holding out a tray of Champagne as we enter the house.

I knew it would be gorgeous. But Samantha called it a “summer house.” Her description did not prepare me for all the deeply burnished, expensive-looking wood furniture.

And all those sofas! The living room had as many sofas as you’d find in the lobby of a luxury hotel.

“Stop gawking.” Samantha takes a firm grip on my arm. “The party’s outside.”

Together we step into the sunlight.

Samantha stops short, though, so we’re framed under the door for a few moments. I guess so everyone can see we’ve arrived.

And together, we must present quite a picture. Samantha, the tall blond Amazonian.

And me. A grown-up “hot looking” Orphan Annie with curves. That is, to quote from more than a few men I overheard describe me.

I look out at the crowd, the so called “beautiful people.”