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Ultra-reality is out there somewhere, like Ultrasuede. It resists stains, never ages. The sulky beauty and the scowling young lord will meet, frown gravely and mate with easy grace on designer sheets. The pretty lady swirls and smiles at her handsome tousle-haired divorce lawyer, who tells her that her ex-husband has been jailed for non-support and is being gnawed nightly by rats. Four ultra-people—two trim, tanned, shaggy-chested men and two radiant, perfect women—dash laughing, arm in arm, ou of the surf, up the beach and past us, never noticing that we are there. The observer is cracked and bent at the corners, like his old snapshots. He yells to his wife to bring him, as long as she is up, a stiff shot of ultra-booze. —By John Skow. Reported by Gear gia Harbison and Janice C. Simpson/New York