Lickety Split Sex Column - John In Miami Heat

Story by John Herman 

| Published Feb 9, 2010

I take my shirt off and walk the main drag. Miami is known for its beaches and the abundance of exotic dream ladies on those beaches. Naturally, I feel at ease here, beside this dangerous ocean of hammerhead sharks and blowfish. I'm perfectly safe here on the sand as I approach what looks to be a group of Cuban women.

"Just over 70 percent of beachgoers spend their time on the beach having not applied an ultra-violet ray protectant," I tell the Cubans, reaching into my trunks to reveal a bottle of SPF 30. "Dangerous, I know. But a solid coating of the white stuff oughta do the job. May I?"

I've been sent to Miami by Dailyer Editor Rincon to cover the Super Bowl. The mission was total coverage, a thorough analysis of Manning vs. Brees. So why do I find myself here, smothering the rear ends of these Guatemalan princesses with soupy oil?

Part of me feels as thought it was only inevitable that I wound up greasing and kneading more than sporting and reporting. Another part of me feels like I lost my ticket and press credentials at the aquarium or the Rainforest Cafe yesterday. But these are things I simply cannot dwell on, as my time remaining in the Sunshine State is dwindling, and the hides of these Chilean beauties need protection, and fast.

"John, I need more on my neck," orders one of the chicas in a sensual Paraguayan accent. "The rays are burning me up!"

I plant another hefty squirt in my palm and get to work.

“So tell me, is it as beautiful in Peru as I imagine?” I ask her.
“Arizona’s great,” she replies. “You should take a visit sometime, if you know what I mean.”
“Mmmmm,” I bellow in agreement. "We should make our way to the shoreline and find a good spot to make sex in the shallow wake, if you know what I mean.”

Over the years, I’ve learned that there’s a lot more to reporting than covering the big game or fact checking. My time in Miami has only helped to reaffirm that lesson. I’ll return to Lincoln with dozens of new stories, stories with more substance and Columbian salt-water sex than any Super Bowl could ever provide me with, though they’ll never taste the sweetness of publication. As I pack away my sun block and head on down that sandy highway of sunshine and broken glass, I know that I’ll need a tetanus booster once I’m back in the Capitol City.