As one of my masked mistresses of the night rubs ice cubes across my naked chest, another mock-spanks my genitals with a feather-tipped riding crop. In the 10,000-square-foot main room of the club, a capacity crowd bellows its approval. Meanwhile, a sweaty mob of dancers and revelers, fueled by Ecstasy, alcohol and God knows what else, is illuminated by glow sticks and laser lights that highlight giant condoms descending from the ceiling. As the festivities reach a fever pitch, my companions and I are cooled down by an explosion of liquid nitrogen from above the dance floor. From atop black cubes located throughout the room, shirtless men with painted washboard stomachs—including Ego Trip photographer and nightlife Adonis, Buster—intermingle with beautiful, scantily-attired women who intermittently flash their breasts or drop to their knees to mimic an oral servicing of their neighbors.

"South Beach is out of control," says leather-clad Victor Malafronte, a prominent photographer from New York who landed in town just six weeks ago. Studded wristlets and anklets hang from his waist. "You'd never see partying like this in New York, you'd never see this much sexual stuff going on in public. New York is just too uptight. South Beach is insane."

In the upstairs, glass-enclosed VIP room, a $2,000-a-night escort in a minimal red dress exposes herself to everyone nearby as she and her co-worker sandwich-dance one of the two lucky male visitors from Las Vegas who have been hooked up as a gift from a friend. An out-of-town party boy lowers the tight pants of a female companion and licks her lower abdomen. From wall to wall, a ferocious sexual energy consumes everyone, even relatively innocent bystanders, though innocence of even the slightest extent is not a characteristic to be associated with this evening of high-profile debauchery.

More than anything else, the 'SEX' event is a testament to the brilliance and bottom-line savvy of Ken Smith and Cal Fortis, the owners of Crobar, one of the two new clubs, along with Level, which set a new standard for partying in South Beach over their recently-ended first seasons. Smith and Fortis, who own 10 clubs and restaurants in Chicago and have been partners for 12 years, understand better than anyone else on the scene that South Beach is driven by carnality, whether it is expressed in actual sex or simply the well-packaged illusion of sex.

In a single season, Crobar has managed to corner a dominant share of the market for debauchery, which in turn generates huge credit card tabs. It also generates memorable photographs and video never to be shared with future grandchildren. And as the dreaded off-season settles in, with club revenues historically dropping by a third or more, the principals of Crobar have created a winning formula for packing in the masses, whether visitors or locals, for hot summer nights of frenetic seduction.

"This is really good for business," says Bea, a rubber-clad VIP hostess with an 18-inch tail extending from her perfect derriere. "We haven't had a Friday night like this since the season ended."

Give credit to these guys. Because sex sells, they are the master salesmen of South Beach. Because 'SEX' was an unbridled success, watch for the next one—and be there. Even if you're only a voyeur.

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