For adult readers only.
Two months before my 30th birthday, I decided to spend time in my favorite city to be a beautiful woman: Miami.
Badd bitches love Miami.
Why? Because in Miami, being beautiful isn’t just praised, it’s prized.
The city is a candy land of wealthy men who want to spend it on you—and I’m not talking about old, wrinkled men clinging to money. The young ones are rich, fit, and generous too. And the women? Stunning, diverse, polished, and clearly being taken care of.
I was staying at the Four Seasons Residences in Brickell. I know—very fancy. But an old friend needed a house sitter, and I happily volunteered in exchange for a two-week vacation. I invited my best friend Zeta to stay with me.
And as soon as we landed, we were on the move.
Albert—a thirty-nine-year-old financial advisor—who had been desperately trying to earn Zeta’s affection for months, just so happened to be in town and invited us to dinner at Sexy Fish.
Badd bitches love Sexy Fish.
It’s not just an upscale Japanese restaurant; it’s an opulent, underwater-themed nightclub where showgirls dance on tables while you eat tartare and caviar. The bathrooms—floor-to-ceiling iridescent pink tile, mirrors everywhere—were an influencer’s dream, with girls snapping and posing in every corner. The restroom line stretched out the door. As we waited, we met Sam, a young, energetic guy who spoke like the night was already his. He invited us to join him at Story after dinner.
“What are you, some sort of promoter?” I asked. I have avoided promoters ever since I developed a taste for better quality liquor—and men.
“No, nothing like that, I’m just having a night out and want to show some New York Girls a good time.” It was that simple; we were in.
We ditched Albert and met Sam in front of the restaurant. He was with a friend and asked if we were comfortable riding in separate cars with them. We were confused by his question until two valets pulled up, one in a light blue Lamborghini and the other in a lime green. I had to laugh.
I could already imagine what my male friends would say when I posted it to the group chat later:
He rented it.
And they were probably right, but I enjoyed the ride anyway. Sam was sweet, but like most men here, he was flashy. When we got to the club, he ordered top-shelf bottle service. There were girls swarming his section, hoping to get invited in. He let Zeta and me choose who could join us, which was kinda hot. The night was like a movie, and when we were ready for it to end, Sam called us in an SUV to take us home, no questions asked.
The next morning, I googled him over breakfast and found out that he’s a crypto founder who made a shit ton of money on early Bitcoin investments and a trading platform he sold before the age of twenty-five.
“Damn, maybe you should’ve got his number,” Zeta said, handing me my phone back.
“Nah, it wouldn’t have gone anywhere.”
I’d probably never see Sam again, but that’s how Miami works: every night feels like a lucid dream. Then, when you wake up, you realize just how surreal the city can be.
No one here is looking for anything real.
Just a good time—a fantasy—and someone to play it out with.
Miami is fun—as long as you don’t forget what it really is:
A city of fleeting connections.
I forgot that once, a few years ago.
With Guy.
Yes. The silver fox with the British accent. That Guy. When we first met, he was splitting his time between London and Miami. Now he’s based here full-time.
I hadn’t seen or slept with him since 2019.
Our last encounter ended badly. He had tried to orchestrate a threesome between a girl he was dating at the time and me. I was crushed and blocked him shortly after. For years, I kept my distance even when I was in his city.
But this trip...I gave in.
When I texted him, he responded almost instantly, like no time had passed at all. He offered to take me and Zeta out to dinner at Soho House.
That night, I dressed with intention. I was about to see the man I once adored. I wore a brown bandeau top and a tiger-striped maxi skirt that accentuated my best features.
Before we went downstairs, I turned to Zeta.
“Do not let me go home with him tonight. I’m not fucking him.”
She looked at me, already unconvinced.
“Uhhh… okay, girl.”
“For real,” I said. “I’m not.”
And before I saw him again, I truly meant that.
Guy was waiting for us downstairs. As we approached him, my heart started racing.
Fuck.
He was still as handsome as ever. Salt-and-pepper hair, sun-kissed skin, a lean build that suggested he still went on his morning runs.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, pulling me into a tight hug and kissing me on the cheek.
Be strong.
I introduced him to Zeta, and we headed to Soho House.
Dinner was easy—familiar. We hadn’t spoken in years, but being with him felt no different. He and Zeta got along well, carrying on about music, which they both loved. When he went to the bathroom, Zeta leaned in.
“I get it,” she said.
Of course she does, everyone gets it. Guy could charm the pants off a straight man, and I hated that about him.
After dinner, we went to the rooftop of the 1 Hotel, where he lived. The night air was warm, and you could hear the ocean humming beneath the music. There were only two available stools at the bar, and he offered them to us, but I waved him over to share mine instead.
I was practically sitting on his lap when a man nearby approached us. From his outfit, accent, and the two curls falling from his temples, I gathered he was Hasidic.
He looked me up and down and, without breaking concentration, asked, “How do you two know each other?”
“We’ve known each other for several years,” Guy answered.
“Several years?” he repeats skeptically, “What was she like, twelve?”
We all laughed at the absurdity of the question. “No, she was well into her twenties when we met.”
Twenty-three to be exact.
Guy was playing it cool even though Avi from Brooklyn was being wildly inappropriate. Before he left, he had the nerve to ask me for my number as if my position on Guy’s lap meant nothing. I started to wonder if Avi might know something I didn’t. Maybe he had seen Guy before and knew I was just one of many.
After about an hour of drinking, we started feeling tipsy, so I called a meeting with Zeta in the bathroom.
“I’m going to stay with him,” I blurted. She stopped putting on her lip liner and turned to me.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Because remember what you said earlier?”
“I know what I said,” I sighed. “But I just need to get it out of my system one more time… a last hurrah with the best lover of my twenties.”
She looked at me like I was crazy.
“Alright, don’t say I didn’t try to stop you.”
“I won’t.”
Guy sent Zeta home in a car, and we went upstairs to his place.
His apartment was exactly as expected—sleek, masculine, built for seduction. But what caught me off guard were the details.
A giant Valentine’s Day card was displayed above his television. A bathroom drawer filled with condoms. Not casually stocked. Stocked.
It wasn’t subtle. He had friends.
I’d always known Guy was a player. But something about seeing it so plainly, so unapologetically, jarred me. One moment, he was passionate, loving, and gentle with me—then there were moments, like the threesome, that made me wonder if he was purposely hurting me so I wouldn’t get attached. Or maybe he was just oblivious to how deeply I felt.
I sat on his balcony quietly, smoking and letting my mind wander to places I knew would only irritate me—like imagining how many women had been in this exact spot before me.
On the same outdoor bed.
Listening to the ocean.
Music playing softly in the background.
Waiting for him.
A moment later, he joined me with drinks.
“What’s on your mind, gorgeous?”
“Nothing,” I lied. “It’s just been a while… I guess I missed you a little.”
That part was true.
He sat beside me and pulled me onto his lap, his hand settling at the back of my neck. He kissed me like he knew exactly how to quiet my thoughts.
“Only a little?” he asked, still holding me there.
And before I could answer, he began touching me in a familiar rhythm. His hand made its way up my skirt, his fingers slid between my thighs. His touch alone made me more obedient than I’d like to admit. But when I nearly came on his fingers, and he leaned in, low against my ear and growled, ‘good girl.’
The next thing I knew, I was naked, riding him beneath the night sky, no longer thinking about anything at all—not even who might be watching.
Silly Girl, you always fall for his tricks.
The next morning, he drove me back to Brickell. The sun was warm on my face, Pitbull was playing on the radio, and Guy’s hand was resting on my thigh while I ran my fingers through the back of his head. Earlier, while I was half asleep, I felt him kiss me before his morning run, and later, when he returned. After his shower, he joined me in bed again, cozying up behind me, and my body naturally moved closer to his. He kissed me beneath my ear, then whispered, “I missed you,” before falling back to sleep.
It was the sweet little moments like that which made me feel like Guy thought of me more than just a temporary fantasy, and maybe as someone he could’ve built a life with—if the timing hadn’t been all wrong. I remembered a conversation with his friend Anders from a couple of years ago, while we were sitting poolside at the Delano. Guy took a call, leaving us unattended.
“So tell me,” he said, “what’s a twenty-three-year-old doing with a fifty-three-year-old?”
“What do you mean? He’s my boyfriend.”
Anders laughed.
“Guy, is not your boyfriend.”
The look of confusion on my face must’ve been obvious, because he softened his delivery slightly.
“Don’t worry,” he added. “He’s not anyone’s boyfriend.”
Back then, I thought Anders was just jealous, but I soon realized he was absolutely right.
Guy had already lived a life before me. The marriage, the kids, the structure. Now he wanted something easy. Fun. Uncomplicated.
And I was perfect for that.
Miami was built for that.
Badd bitches love Miami because in Magic City, everyone gets what they came for.
The men get beauty. The women get access.
The nights are unforgettable. The energy is addictive.
Miami is fun—as long as you don’t forget what it is:
A city of fleeting connections.
Editor’s note: Names and identifying details have been changed for privacy.