“In Costa Rica there’s no summer.”

That’s what he liked to say; constantly. Truth is, it’s always summer here and even in July he said it all the same.

Everyone knew him. He was the resident American gigolo who, years before, set out to see America, or the Americas, to put it accurately. He’d started in Costa Rica and had gone no further in his sojourn, passing into his 40’s in the process.

Few knew his name; he was simply Mr. Tangerine Speedo. Everyone knew that name. The typical “man about town,” he frequented local bars and beaches in a daily/nightly quest to bed women foolish enough to be taken in by his “charm” or his eponymous swimwear.

The “Little Latin Lovelies,” as he called them, were wise to his ways but still accepted the gin and Mello Yello’s sent their way.

The past week held many failed attempts to seduce a group of French university girls back to his bungalow.

He’d enter the bars they frequented, causing them to urgently whisper to one another.

“Zut alors!”

No no no, indeed.