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It’s like romance is in the air — not sex, although that’s there too, but romance.

Marge says she thinks I’m “kinda sweet and maybe not a Wally at all but maybe a Sam” (more on that later), and all four members of my new naked posse offer to explain to me “how things work at Desire.” “You absolutely need to lose the swimsuit,” says Mica. But this spot is where everyone congregates for happy hour, in more ways than one, before heading off to shower and then dinner.

“It’s all up to the girls,” he says, totally resigned.

This is a refrain I hear from every man I talk to at Desire Pearl: The women are in charge.

The couples in my naked posse seem more engaged and attentive than the couples I know at home.

The conversations seem more intense and — how do I say it? The men lean forward and stare directly into their partners’ eyes.

Moving in close to me, she puts a hand on my submerged thigh and says in a magnolia-scented whisper, “You can’t call me Marge until I’ve shown you my fanny.” “Which she soon will,” says her beefy husband, laughing.

And sure enough, not a minute later, she pulls herself up onto the side of the pool like a seal performing at Sea World, batting her eyes as she looks at me demurely over her slightly sunburned shoulder.

So when there was a banging on the door recently while Mica was in the shower, she answered with a towel wrapped around her waist and a compact gun in her hand.