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Later in the afternoon, after the hot-bod contest, I walked a few yards to the Marlin Beach, the gay hotel on The Strip and had another beer outside, watching the boys, in pairs, sunbathing on the beach in their little Speedos, all in a group, their own private section of the beach except when some unsuspecting low-rent tourist couple plopped down with their two young children, laid out their blanket and their kids' toys and then, looking around, realizing where they were, quickly scooping up their things and hustling their kids farther up the beach away from the gays.

Meanwhile, on the beach, Susie was lying on her stomach when some college boys came by and stopped, grinning and pointing at her naked ass, one of them aiming his videocam at her ass to film it and bring back to Peoria or wherever to show his friends. Susie heard them giggling, turned and looked over her shoulder, saw what they were doing, and stood up. They looked embarrassed now at this older woman, almost 50, who was older than their mothers, as she began to berate them to the applause of the few other locals on the beach, the boys shamefaced now, skulking off while Susie stomped after them, still berating them.

We never stayed on into the night for the wet t-shirt contests and the banana-eating contests and the whipped-cream-eating contests at the Candy Store and Penrod's and the notorious Button, which are all gone now, closed down, their owners and emcees arrested for obscenity. The only bar left from the '80s still standing is the Elbo Room on the corner of The Strip and Las Olas, a tiny hole-in-the-wall, where the drinkers are mostly red-faced locals with beards and, only occasionally, college kids these days.

options, sometimes taking that offer, but mostly just walking on, feeling good about themselves now. They hung together in furtive groups, boys and girls, eyeballing the vans and cars passing by until they saw a long, black Lincoln moving slowly down The Strip, its closed windows tinted black, the Lincoln slowing at the group of street hustlers, a window coming down revealing a fat, florid-faced man with white hair, eyeballing the hustler chicks until he made eye contact with one of them and nodded. The chick separated herself from the group, followed the Lincoln until it turned the corner onto a side street and stopped. They were mostly young teenagers, maybe 16, but older in the ways of the world than those college kids. The chick went up to his driver's side window. They talked for a few minutes, trying to settle on a price, and when they couldn't the driver buzzed up his window and peeled away from the chick, almost running over her foot. It was easy to spot the college kids, with their pink, inflamed three-day tans, from the street hustlers from Covenant House, with their pool-room pallor and their dirty clothes. She screamed at him, "Asshole!" and ran after his car, stooping to pick up a beer can, throwing it at his car, banging it off his rear window, the guy jamming on his brakes now and the chick running back to the safety of her clutch on The Strip.

After the kids were thrown out of Fort Lauderdale in the late '80s, I missed them for awhile, The Strip now being renovated with four-star hotels and restaurants and European tourists with real cash to spend. I missed the hot-bod contests and the kids' pranks, like the time a group of college wrestlers picked up a Volkswagen Beetle and carried it across the street and hid it in a mom-and-pop motel parking lot and then went back to The Strip and waited for the Beetle's owner to come back and wonder if he was too drunk to remember where he parked his Beetle; or the time some kids caught a baby hammerhead shark in the ocean one night and carried it, gingerly, across the street to a motel pool and dumped it in, and then woke early the next morning, standing on their third-floor balcony looking down at the pool, waiting for that first tourist to take a morning dip, and then, panicking, splashing out of that pool as fast as possible. Sometimes those boys on the balcony got the clever idea of diving off into the pool, and sometimes they missed and landed headfirst on the tile around the pool, and you could hear the shrieking of the EMS sirens, and then the ambulance drivers bending over the prone bodies of those kids, their life bleeding out of them onto the tile, which the motel's owner quickly washed away after the body was removed so that the low-rent tourist families wouldn't be terrified in the morning when they woke up to find the tiles around the pool saturated with congealed blood.

In the late afternoon, I watched the belly-flop contest at the Candy Store pool, the fattest college boys always making the biggest splash, winning the contest, a six-pack of beer, just what they needed to deaden the pain from their sunburned stomachs smacking the water. Then the emcee announced the beginning of the hot-bod contest, his name, he said, was Jack Mehoff, but the kids didn't get it. The co-eds lined up beside him in their two-piece bathing suits from the cruisewear department of Nordstrom's, and their baby-fat bodies that were maybe hot back in the Midwest but here, in the Land of Sleaze and Sun, couldn't hold a candle to the tanned, toned bodies of the local strippers with the rose tattoos on their asses, pre-tramp stamp, and their skimpy g-string bikinis from Lace To Lust that showed off their plump new store-bought titties, the poor co-eds staring crestfallen at the strippers now, knowing they didn't stand a chance, feeling stupid walking around the pool to hoots of derision and splashes of water from the boys, while the strippers walked around that pool in their stiletto heels, with that stripper's swayback walk to accentuate their ass and store-bought tits, and those boys screamed out their approval.

One day, at the Marlin Beach, a waiter brought me a beer. He turned and pointed to a young college kid, who smiled at me, puckered his lips, and blew me a kiss. "But I didn't order one," I said. "It's from him," the waiter said. "He told me to tell you he loves older wrinkle bears."

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