POSTSCRIPT
C’mon, admit it . . . if U weren’t depicted in this blog and U kept reading, it probably was for the dirty parts . . . so if U ever are in need of a fix try this: Chasing Rapture.
Sunday, October 13, 2002
Friday, October 11, 2002
SURPRISE ENDING
Sometimes even an overnight stay in the Pines is worth it, especially if u don’t realize it’s going to be your last of the season . . . at this time of year, u go out for the dinner and the fire declared an unsentimental Der Fuhrer . . . i met him and the Curmudgeon at Penn Station Saturday morning and we spent most of the ride to Sayville arguing about Bush’s Iraq policy . . . if u knew anything about the history of the Middle East, u would understand that it’s necessary to take Saddam out now replied Der Fuhrer when i insisted that the difficulty of effectively dealing with terrorism, midterm elections and personal vengeance were behind the White House’s warmongering . . . the Curmudgeon tried to referee, but our discussion grew so heated that a young family seated across from us looked as if they thought the raised voices would frighten their three-month old.
Traveling in threes can be a liability at this time of year . . . there weren’t enough vans at the train stations and there wasn’t enough time to walk to the ferry so it looked as if we would be spending a couple of hours at Fritschman’s Bakery drinking free coffee and scarfing down day-old crumb cake . . . fortunately, a gypsy cab pulled up just in time and we made the 11:30 boat . . . the Prince and the Ingenue had arrived the night before and already done the dinner shopping but they certainly didn’t roll out the welcome mat when we showed up at the house . . . both were hunched over their laptops, working, on one of the last glorious days of the season . . . the Prince didn’t even look up when i entered the room complained the Curmudgeon at poolside, the only fly-free environment . . . we were soon joined by Testa Grande and learned he had gotten the same reception.
But relations grew more cordial over the tuna pasta salad that Der Fuhrer prepared for his de rigeur sit-down lunch and by cocktail hour everybody was having a good time . . . enforced gaiety, perhaps, since our options were severely limited with tea over for the season . . . everyone ate from separate bowls of popcorn . . . u would think that some of us had six packs to defend against the evils of melted butter while others added another drenching . . . the Ingenue joined the Curmudgeon and me for a game of Scrabble while the Prince cooked a couple of chickens on a bed of leeks . . . an Elton John sing-along with a fake log burning in the fireplace contributed to our harmonious evening until somebody raised the subject of Iraq . . . the house quickly broke into two evenly divided factions with the Prince and the Ingenue parroting Der Fuhrer’s shrill condemnations of appeasement . . . politics don’t make for strange bedfellows in the Pines, they make for separate houses.
Things calmed down or should i say sobered up after dinner and a clean-up that ended by 10 p.m., the earliest hour we ever sit down during the high season . . . rousing people from their naps wasn’t easy, but the Ingenue and i managed to get the Prince and the Curmudgeon to play a preliminary round of Celebrity . . . note to self: if i ever have a boyfriend 15 years my junior, stay away from group activities that emphasize our age difference . . . how could u not know who that is? demanded the Prince incredulously of the Ingenue more than once in reference to the latter’s ignorance of almost anybody from the world of politics or show business who died before 1970 . . . when Testa Grande and Der Fuhrer joined us for the second round, i was relieved to be on the old folks team . . . we won, handily, no thanks to the Curmudgeon who stumped everyone with Rene Levesque, some Quebecois separatist . . . and then, in the odd couple development of the weekend, the stir crazy Prince asked the Curmudgeon if he wanted to go with him to the Sip ‘n Twirl after the Ingenue and Der Fuhrer both begged off.
The place turned into the Pavilion at 2 a.m. when the barechested boys took over the dance floor and the d.j. stopped playing Cher reported Curmudgeon over pancakes, bacon and cantaloupe Sunday morning . . . late September weekends also entail responsibility for those returning to the house next season so after breakfast i busied myself with activities that would absolve me of any guilt if bad weather disinclined me from showing up closing weekend . . . but once the Curmudgeon helped me store the kayak and the heavy terra cotta pots in the laundry room, there really wasn’t much else that could be done with two more weeks still left . . . the Ditz’s weekend already had dirtied the stove and the refrigerator, both of which probably had been cleaned prematurely . . . i went back to reading a terrific article in Vanity Fair about stewardesses before they became flight attendants--the kind u read aloud in part to anyone who will listen--while the Curmudgeon, in yet another of his masochistic intellectual pursuits, studied German by the pool . . . meanwhile, Der Fuhrer napped underneath a book about World War II . . . no doubt he thought its weight gave him patronizing rights.
Much to my surprise, the ocean temperature remained swimmable so i stroked and kicked my way to the Meatrack where the scene was very last call . . . even the Curmudgeon put in an appearance . . . his haplessness was immediately evident . . . want to see the Pig Pit? i asked . . . tactfully, he allowed me to cut his tour short while i hooked up with some muscular fellow of indeterminate ethnicity who squirted all too quickly.
When i re-encounteed the Curmudgeon, who had gotten lost, i pushed him in the direction of a guy i had road tested earlier in the summer . . . even at the time, i had thought they would be a perfect match: not only was Big Daddy a hairy top, he owned a house in the suburbs! . . . i had high hopes when i left them both near the entrance of the Pig Pit where i also found a tiny purple daisy . . . giddy over the prospect of introducing the Curmudgeon to the pleasures of the Meatrack and my own early success, i plucked it and put it behind my ear . . . half an hour later, Big Daddy approached me on an open dune where i stood surveying the prolonged mating dance of two beautiful young men with too many options . . . that purple flower is the perfect touch with your turquoise bathing suit he teased . . . i just wanted to see the kind of reaction i would get, but it hasn’t been pretty . . . chit chat in the Meatrack is no less out of character for me than wearing a flower behind my ear but we stood in the warm sun talking easily about the sociology of anonymous sex until i learned that my matchmaking attempt had come to naught.
I prefer El Mirage to the Meatrack announced the Curmudgeon when i got back to the house . . . there are more people to choose from and u don’t have to walk around as much . . . Der Fuhrer, the Prince and the Ingenue already had departed, leaving an unceremonial goodbye note . . . we did the same thing to Testa Grande and caught the 4:50 boat not knowing then it was the last time we would be crossing the Great South Bay in 2002.
For it seems that the season will end with a whimper . . . or rather the whimpering of everyone who doesn’t want to take responsibility for closing the house . . . and who can blame us in this cool, wet weather? . . . things sure have changed since the Muller Cottage where everybody showed up closing weekend to clean and eat a final meal using everything that remained in the cupboard and refrigerator . . . but that was before we became the House of Six MEs . . . am i really up for another season of this even with a few new MEs? . . . ask me again on a sunny day in April . . . u know what my answer will be.
Friday, October 04, 2002
JEWISH HOLIDAY
The reviews are in and they ain’t good . . . vicious (Testa Grande); u have alienated everyone in the house who has read it (the Curmudgeon); shouldn’t u be looking for a subject more worthy of your ability? (the Expatriate); u don’t have to worry about remembering what u did in this house because u always can read about it later (the Sun Queen); it’s kind of like picking at your toenails (Soccer Mom); and of course the changes demanded by Der Fuhrer, who would rather censor my depiction of his behavior than tone it down.
Like they say, those who don’t learn from history are condemned to repeat its mistakes . . . i should have learned my lesson way back in high school during junior year when my enriched English teacher required us to keep a PRIVATE journal (how quaint!) . . . my best girlfriend had asked me to take her to a dance only after the guy she really wanted to go with rented a tuxedo and bought a corsage for somebody else . . . as a sensitive young homosexual in touch with his feelings i dutifully recorded my pain (i mean, i wish he’d asked me, too!) . . . but when Fraulein Pattycake stole my journal after the fact and read what i had written, she stopped speaking to me for a month . . . so i say to my critics what i said to her: hey, honey, i took u to the prom didn’t i? judge me by deeds, not by my thoughts.
Friday
Fewer ferries signal the arrival of fall just like the quality of the light which, as Andrew Holleran has written, changes in September . . . the abbreviated schedule meant catching an earlier train which made sense as the shortening days infuse everything with a sense of wistfulness, compounded this year by the first anniversary of September 11 . . . another telltale sign that the peak season had passed: simple black and white fliers announcing Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur services at the Community Center were thumbtacked to the telephone poles instead of colorful benefit posters trying to seduce u into emptying your wallet . . . for me, these unchanging fliers are as evocative of the Pines as the mangy deer and little red wagons.
Speaking of mangy deer, they must have had a large dinner party at our house because both gates to our deck were swinging open when i arrived and the plants had been decimated . . . they chowed down on the geraniums and impatiens but left the fresh spices intact . . . but we were not to remain flowerless for long: the Sun Queen snuck a huge bouquet of lilies and roses into my bedroom even before i reminded him that my birthday had passed since we saw each other last.
En route to the Pantry, we ran into the World’s Nicest Boyfriend, who was three sheets to the wind . . . what are u doing here? he asked the Sun Queen, his ex . . . i replaced somebody who got kicked out he said . . . the World’s Nicest Boyfriend looked at me and smiled knowingly . . . i’m on my way to meet my boyfriend. we just moved in together . . . i guess that explains why u saw him chasing that bodybuilder in Wanker’s Way earlier this afternoon said the Sun Queen once we got to the Pantry . . . we finished shopping just as the 6:30 boat arrived, giving the Sun Queen the chance to make his replacement, who had vetoed his participation in the World’s Nicest Boyfriend’s house, feel awkward . . . how would u like to step off a boat not knowing u were going to meet your new boyfriend’s ex for the first time? i asked the Sun Queen, the Curmudgeon and Testa Grande, who helped us carry the groceries back . . . they pooh-poohed my empathy but i felt sorry for the guy.
Even with good weather predicted for Saturday and Yom Kippur on Monday, we had two empty beds . . . the Repeater wouldn’t be making his first appearance since July until Saturday, and with the banishment of the Master Spinner, the Expatriate had lost the opportunity to sell his space to Baby Huey . . . so the Sun Queen prepared pasta tossed with tomato sauce, peas and sausage and we had a nice cozy dinner itemizing the improvements we expected Testa Grande and the Ditz to negotiate for next season . . . don’t forget to have the ceiling fan up here fixed . . . lease holding, like house mothering, are thankless tasks.
Saturday
Autumn days pass quietly in our house . . . the Repeater joined the Curmudgeon and me on the beach and immediately launched into an account of his sexcapades in Berlin . . . i saw two of the kinkiest things i have ever witnessed he began . . . we were all ears, given our fondness for the city and familiarity with its darker side . . . i went to this club in some huge industrial space. u know how garages have spaces cut out of the floors so mechanics can get underneath your car to work on it? well, this place had those where dozens of guys were gathered to get pissed on by men standing above them. then i walk passed this pool table where some beautiful guy lay naked with votive candles burning all over his body. he asked anyone who passed by to drip the hot wax on him . . . the Repeater also brought home a souvenir for Stuy Guy: an inflatable dildo . . . we already . . . it was time for a dip in the ocean.
Later, as we poured our first appletinis, Testa Grande returned from Wanker’s Way with White Teeth, Black Breath, a humpy French man . . . were u part of the invitational orgy? i asked . . . an hour earlier i had taken a walk on the beach and noticed that some very cute young guy was deliberately approaching all the nude sunbathers and engaging them in conversation while he boldly checked out their equipment . . . some burly guy with a friendly dog passed muster and the two of them got up and joined another group some distance away where the flesh inspector already had spent quite a lot of time . . . sex ensued, occasionally interrupted by the dog demanding that all the guys pay some attention to his stick, too . . . we WERE the invitational orgy! laughed Testa Grande . . . White Teeth, Black Breath took this exposure in stride.
The Curmudgeon, who was preparing his famous roast lamb meal which required $10 worth of rosemary even tho it hadn’t been on the deer’s menu . . . he didn’t waste any time establishing his French connection with White Teeth, Black Breath while the Sun Queen and i peppered him with questions . . . a banker, he had lived all over the United States and once sat next to Sharon Stone in West Hollywood . . . she’s not as glamourous as u would think he insisted . . . White Teeth, Black Breath held court for more than hour, unabashed to be day tripping in the Pines while his boyfriend, with whom he had a share in the Grove, was in Hong Kong . . . so unabashed that he missed the last ferry and ended up spending the night after dancing with us at low tea and discussing world politics over a dinner so rich that i couldn’t make it out of bed at 2 a.m. to go dancing with the Curmudgeon.
Sunday
White Teeth, Black Breath nearly missed the 10 a.m. boat, too tho he didn’t have time to enjoy my coconut bread and fruit salad . . . he did, however, demonstrate his good breeding by thanking me for giving up my bed and moving into the Sun Queen’s room . . . i wouldn’t do it for just anybody, u know . . . no, he wouldn’t agreed Testa Grande . . . i guess i felt bad for bringing up Vichy France when he started making some typically Gallic claims about American cultural imperialism during our wine-soaked meal . . . this from a guy whose favorite television show is Married With Children, by the way, because it’s so true to life in this country . . . not that the two are related, but it pains me when a European, particularly one enjoying American hospitality, gets on his high horse about the responsibility the U.S. must bear for incurring the wrath of Al Queda . . . hey, if the French were the most powerful country in the world, they probably would have flown those planes right into the Eiffel Tower, mon ami.
Still, to have a dinner conversation about something important, instead of what would surely have been another recitation of the Repeater’s kinky sex tales, was deeply satisfying . . . White Teeth, Black Breath had sung for his supper, so to speak . . . i guess i shouldn’t have been surprised when the Curmudgeon and Testa Grande speculated that he probably was Jewish, because we really hadn’t had such a stimulating discussion since Master Spinner left the house.
The Repeater caught the noon boat leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves in the on-again, off-again rain . . . Testa Grande searched for some more home entertainment; the Curmudgeon went shopping and bought a Maine needlepoint pillow at Overtures; the Sun Queen painstakingly fried three eggplants for parmigiana; and i catnapped while reading about Paul Cadmus in Outlaw Representation: Censorship and Homosexuality in Twentieth-Century American Art until it was time to get looped on appletinis again and make our way to low tea for the last time . . . we shouldn’t have bothered: a diehard evening, both crowd- and music-wise . . . plus, the Sun Queen, who normally works with tulle and sequins, was forced to fashion raincoats for him and the Curmudgeon using smelly plastic bags that he scavenged from garbage cans . . . u wouldn’t catch me dead in one of those i said removing my shirt and letting the drizzle cool my still sweaty chest . . . too bad Testa Grande had departed: he could have picked up all twelve people at the Pavilion, where we took temporary refuge when the skies reopened, and brought them home for eggplant parmigiania.
The Week
A rainy departure day produces laundry room gridlock in the morning but both the Sun Queen and the Curmudgeon were gone by 2 p.m. leaving me alone for the longest stretch this summer with so many leftovers that i never even had to go to the Pantry . . . cleaning the house occupied me until the skies cleared . . . the weather improved each day and by the time i left Thursday to join the Curmudgeon for a Marianne Faithfull concert in the city, i couldn’t understand why more people don’t vacation in September . . . warm and sunny days, cool and starry nights, and an ocean temperature as comforting as amniotic fluid.
But even tho i love the solitude, it’s also nice to see people on the beach and the boardwalks . . . so few houses at the east end were inhabited that i actually got a little lonely, especially at night, in front of a blazing fire, with only Linda Ronstadt singing standards arranged by Nelson Riddle to keep me company . . . of course, this also meant less competition (if fewer choices) on Wanker’s Way and in the Meatrack, but i managed to leave my mark in both places . . . cruising, writing, reading, swimming, kayaking, eating, sleeping: could the passage of time be any sweeter for a gay old maid about to re-enter the work force?
Wednesday, September 25, 2002
SEARCHING FOR KEVIN SPACEY
Sometimes a house in the Pines just isn’t ready to die . . . the Ditz and Testa Grande stepped up to the plate, jointly signing the lease and each agreeing to organize two groups for the 2003 season . . . that means the Curmudgeon, the Expatriate, the Sun Queen and i will be spending at least one weekend a month with Testa Grande next summer . . . the knowledge that we have been rescued from Limbo makes our remaining time together at the beach less precious and changes the dynamics of the house politics . . . regime change indeed!
Friday
Der Fuhrer decided to spend the holiday weekend with his family at the Jersey Shore and then go directly to the Allegria party with the Curmudgeon on Sunday night . . . a lousy weather forecast and the death of the Ingenue’s stepfather kept him and the Prince away, too . . . even this diehard was going to stay in the city until the Curmudgeon said he had packed his bag and would leave from work Friday afternoon . . . i took a later train than usual and spotted Lois Smith hiding behind her copy of the Times on the ferry . . . i wanted to tell her she was the best thing in Minority Report (if u don’t count the spyders) but u could tell by her refusal to make eye contact that she valued her privacy.
Testa Grande called to say a “drawing emergency” would delay his arrival until Saturday . . . well, this is the weekend to invite a guest i informed him . . . and one u won’t have to pay for. it looks like only three of us will be in residence . . . i met the Curmudgeon at the harbor who called his brother from the Pantry to invite him and his boyfriend . . . when i sent him to Peter’s Marina Market to purchase fresh clams, he returned with a dozen in shells . . . that’s not what i asked for . . . the owner gave him a hard time when he tried to exchange them for chopped clams, pointing to a sign that said no refunds . . . he finally relented but then instructed the kid behind the counter throw away the clams he wants to return. think about it he said guilt tripping the Curmudgeon into paying for his mistake but forever alienating a customer who only two weeks earlier had purchased more than $250 worth of lobsters.
While i made linguine with clam sauce and turkey bacon, garlic bread and a fresh salad, we played Scrabble and listened to the terrific new Marianne Faithfull CD and the original cast recording of Hairspray . . . the last holiday weekend of the season and we went to sleep with four empty beds.
Saturday
The current carried me well into Cherry Grove when i went for my late morning swim just beyond the crashing surf . . . by the time i returned, Struggling Artist and the Renaissance Man had driven in from Williamsburg bearing several bags of groceries and beer . . . i asked the Struggling Artist how his show in Provincetown was doing . . . i can’t believe they’re asking $900 for one of my small drawings he said . . . i tried to tell the gallery owner i should do a souvenir print of the dunes or something to sell for $25 but she doesn’t do things like that . . . when the Renaissance Man showed me some digital photos he had taken during their visit to Cape Cod earlier in the summer, i asked if i could look at the rest of his beautifully composed images . . . he recently had been given access to a loft in the building where he works as a framer and discovered the workshop of an Orthodox Jew who made false teeth . . . dental x-rays and pin-up girls hung above a table cluttered with weird tools . . . it was easy to imagine hipsters clad in black staring at these photos in some Chelsea gallery . . . not a bad way to spend a gray afternoon.
The Curmudgeon and i ran into Testa Grande with his hunky, last-minute guest on our way to the Pantry to pick up ingredients for a fajita dinner . . . OZzy, who had taken the train up from Philadelphia, seemed a little nervous during the introductions . . . he also looked a little like an ex con with his buzz cut and tattoos . . . this is going to turn out to be one very interesting weekend, i thought, rain or no rain . . . we found ourselves food shopping alongside a fashionably bespectacled and grizzled John Bartlett . . . does he ever wear anything other than his gray Harvard t-shirt in the Pines? . . . we know, John, we know.
Back at the house i started quizzing OZzy while i prepared guacamole and everybody began swilling Rolling Rock . . . he turned out to be a nurse and the reluctant boyfriend of the Tender Young Morsel . . . yeah, the little shit had such a good time, i figured i might as well come up for a visit too when Testa Grande instant messaged me last night with an invitation. i didn’t tell him where i was going until i rolled over and turned off the alarm this morning . . . the tit-for-tat approach to budding relationships . . . Testa Grande obviously had begun his effort to recruit a Philadelphia crew to share the house . . . and what could be more effective than separate visits for two potentially partnered housemates? . . . the Pines is so much more enjoyable without a boyfriend, reluctant or otherwise, to cramp your style.
OZzy even agreed to sit down to a game of Scrabble with the Curmudgeon, the Struggling Artist and me . . . he played slightly better than the Tender Young Morsel but we all were distracted by an unannounced, if welcome, visit from Testa Grande’s ex, the Mess, and several adorable members of the house where he was staying . . . the bevy of much younger, attitude-free beauties included Newfie, a banking attorney and his boyfriend, an economist who once struck up a conversation with me one Halloween by asking do u hang out at the Lure? not the kind of question i normally get though i was wearing a Pendleton shirt, jeans and black boots at the time . . . the Mess had come over to get Testa Grande’s input on some professional black and white photos of the two of them . . . they’re going to be hung in an exhibition about tension in relationships he explained . . . remarkably, the Mess’s new boyfriend, a dewy-eyed, baby-faced fellow with a short blond beard, didn’t seem to mind in the least . . . too bad they all couldn’t stay to play a round of Celebrity with us tho Newfie did do a spot-on impression of Britney Spears at the MTV Video Music Awards . . . he could have done Axl Rose just as easily and made me a LOT happier altho i suppose i wouldn’t have gotten a glimpse of his navel.
Maybe it was a good thing we didn’t play Celebrity . . . i ran into Newfie and his boyfriend at low tea where i think i referred to Anna Nicole Smith as a second-rate Jayne Mansfield . . . who’s that? he asked . . . stunned, i replied read Hollywood Babylon. it dishes the dirt on her and a lot of other dead stars during a time when scandal meant more than walking out of a concert because it rained . . . i left tea feeling very old . . . how does Testa Grande do it?
Renaissance Man, a vegetarian, and i were in charge of dinner . . . i stir fried the chicken and beef with onions and peppers while he prepared the rice and beans . . . the prefect summer meal, but a premature autumnal chill prevented us from eating it out of doors . . . everyone ate heartily, piling their fajitas high with a variety of toppings . . . it’s a hit said the Curmudgeon . . . too bad about his dessert: sliced pears and apples arranged with crackers around a wedge of melted Camembert . . . Martha Stewart meets Taco Bell: not a good thing.
Sunday
When u break out the beer at 11 a.m., not long after serving the banana bread and a fruit salad that could have foregone the cinnamon or the spearmint, u know it’s going to be a long day spent indoors . . . and without the distraction of a television or even the newspaper, u have to rely on the company to provide your sole diversion . . . we were lucky in this regard because OZzy, Struggling Artist and Renaissance Man all had fresh biographies, each with their own coming out story, interesting profession and varied drug history . . . despite a little bit of tension over musical tastes (circuit seniors vs. emocore devotees) the rainy day wasn’t nearly as miserable as it might have been and this busybody was sorry to see the Curmudgeon, the Struggling Artist and Renaissance Man catch a late afternoon boat.
So when Testa Grande and OZzy returned from the harbor with snack food, chicken soup ingredients and a $50 bottle of Tanqueray, i started sucking down gin and white grape juice to help get me through what was turning into a pretty intense group therapy session . . . earlier in the day i had remarked to OZzy your matter of factness about your dysfunctional family background is refreshing . . . the floodgates, shall we say, opened and for the next several hours i listened in astonishment to a more detailed account of his horrible childhood (never meeting his biological father even tho they now live in the same city and being dragged to a dozen different schools before he turned 16 by a mother he referred to as a “tart”) and the long-term relationship where he found refuge if not sexual satisfaction . . . no wonder he’s studying to be an anesthetist.
Testa Grande probably already had heard much of this story . . . we asked OZzy lots of sympathetic questions but we also spent some time discussing what makes gay men of such vastly different backgrounds as the three of us more alike than not in many respects . . . it’s a yearning that comes with our freedom and utter lack of responsibility i posited and i think it’s hard wired. because most of us will never have kids and the opportunity to see our genes reassembled in the flesh of another human being, we’re all searching for something, never to be satisfied: the perfect lover, the best job, an adopted child, a bigger house. and no matter what we do find, it’s always more this or more that, something else just beyond our reach . . . razor blades anyone?
Of course my horniness quickly trumped this fundamentally pessimistic view of homosexuality . . . i wanted to jump OZzy’s bones, starting with the spider and ant tattoos on his muscular calves, particularly when he lay stretched out on his stomach on an easy chair and ottoman with his butt up in the air in front of the fire . . . playing an American Henry Higgins to a white trash male version of Eliza Dolittle has always been my favorite romantic fantasy, but OZzy’s ex boyfriend already got there first . . . fortunately, before i drank enough gin to make a foolish pass, he and Testa Grande decided to brave the rain and head for the house where the Mess was staying . . . that group must have exhausted all their conversational options because one of them pulled out a guitar and they ended up singing folk songs for an hour before heading off to Sip ‘n Twirl . . . rainy days do have a way of bringing out the best and the worst in the Pines.
Labor Day
Enough is enough, already . . . no matter how enjoyable the company or how expensive the gin, u catch cabin fever after 48 hours indoors . . . OZzy couldn’t stop cleaning . . . even most of my house mates have never scrubbed the stove top . . . anything to avoid that anesthesiology textbook which i opened more than he did . . . who knew ketamine had legitimate pediatric uses? . . . a not-quite-rolling Curmudgeon called with a breathless circuit party update . . . a lot of guys must have come back to New York because of the weather. we saw a lot of familiar faces but there weren’t as many out-of-town beauties as Pride weekend and the music seemed a little off.
Testa Grande and OZzy didn’t stick around much past lunch, leaving me to leftovers and my own devices . . . but Testa Grande couldn’t resist calling me later that night with his favorite kind of u- won’t-believe-what-just-happened-to-me story . . . i went on-line when i got home. some guy IMd me and said we could hook up later at my place or i could come to his office now. so i went. he worked at a fetish magazine in some Chelsea loft. when he came downstairs to let me in he told me not to worry. so we had sex in what turned out to be their photo studio. i did ask him to turn down the lights. it was really funny. i looked up at one point and saw plastic containers marked “dildos” and “masks” . . . Testa Grande forwarded me his picture . . . did someone say jackpot? . . . it sent me right on-line looking for a M4M Fire Island Pines chat room and within an hour, BigAdvntr IMd me . . . tea was great in spite of the weather . . . yeah, right . . . never underestimate a gay man who has been stuck inside all day he typed after we swapped photos . . . he agreed to make the wet walk from the harbor to my end but never showed up, later explaining in an e-mail that he hadn’t been able to find the place . . . he must not have looked very hard, if he looked at all.
The Week
The bad weather did give me some uncommon solitude . . . i awoke to bright skies on Tuesday and hit pay dirt on Wanker’s Way with a couple of guys who were as horny as i was . . . OZzy sent me a funny thank-u e-mail referring to himself as “nastypiggyscrubtop” and saying that i reminded him of Blanche Deveraux . . . not the first time someone has made that comparison but now that i’m approaching Golden Girl age myself, it stings.
Der Fuhrer finally showed up on Wednesday with the Cook and plans to drive on to Martha’s Vineyard for a solo visit with Beau Monotone. . . it sounded like Siberia to me . . . as soon as they got to the house, we had a long talk about his decision to move on with the Prince and the Ingenue . . . don’t take it personally he repeated . . . i didn’t but i wondered how the Prince would play it when he arrived on Thursday since he was surprised that
Der Fuhrer already had informed everyone.
At tea one of Der Fuhrer’s acquaintances identified him by this pseudonym and inquired after Beau Monotone . . . why don’t u ask the author? he’s sitting right over there he said, shooting me a dirty look . . . i don’t know who was more shocked, i or Der Fuhrer, who had no idea that this blog had a readership beyond our house . . . apparently Beau Monotone’s description gave away the whole game: he and Der Fuhrer’s acquaintance were house mates last season . . . i declined to meet him even tho he told Der Fuhrer that he and his house mates had been looking for a guy who wore goggles on the beach but when he walked past me and said fabulous i nearly peed my pants!
Thursday morning, well before the 9:30 a.m. boat when most early birds arrive, i heard the screen door open and someone wearing hard sole shoes step into the house . . . when Der Fuhrer joined me upstairs for coffee, i asked him if the Prince arrived or if we had an intruder . . . i don’t think so . . . but sure enough, he had caught the construction worker boat and emerged a few moments later from his room with the news the “Intelligentsia” section of New York magazine had reported that Kevin Spacey had rented a house here somewhere along the bay . . . no dear, there is no intelligentsia section in that magazine or among its readership and yes, we already know . . . it suddenly struck me why the Prince was moving on: he and the Ingenue read New York religiously while most of the rest of us are longtime New Yorker subscribers . . . two different crowds entirely.
It kind of just happened he explained over half an egg salad sandwich . . . even tho he and the Cook had stopped for a bite at the harbor, i think he took a helping so i wouldn’t be offended . . . God and everyone else knows i’m sensitive about my egg salad . . . but the rationale behind his defection struck me as lame . . . u want “just happened” when it comes to moving? . . . then how about the scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy’s house falls right on top of the Wicked Witch of the East? . . . still, he did make an effort to be as diplomatic as possible . . . we were looking at houses to buy and the real estate agent said she had a half-share rental we might like. it’s right on the beach and has just been renovated with slate walls in the bathroom. the bedrooms face the ocean and it’s got a pool, a hot tub, Direct TV and a high speed computer connection . . . i nodded politely at his catalog of the amenities, all the time thinking that for me, enjoyment of the Pines is less about the real estate, which in this case was going to cost a cool $30,000, than the people with whom u are sharing . . . of course, it’s entirely possible he gets this too: he and the Ingenue will take one bedroom for themselves, fill another with guests and rent the third to Der Fuhrer . . . and no Pines Party weekend, thank u very much.
It’s time to go look for Kevin Spacey in the kayak i announced, eager to end the conversation now that we had successfully negotiated the awkwardness hump . . . i cut through the choppy waters of the bay listening to the new Coldplay and Aimee Mann recordings, peeping into each of the most spectacular houses on my way to the Meatrack, looking for signs of a closeted actor and his much younger blond companion . . . word has it on the street that pedophilia is as big a problem on some Hollywood sets as in the Catholic church . . . no luck, altho i learned that somebody had redecorated the Pig Pit with a pair of folding nylon chairs, plus i scored with a pair of Biker Dudes who looked as if they should have been campaigning against each other for mayor of Hollister, CA . . . when the Cook and i spotted them at tea the night before, we guessed they were day trippers from the Grove . . . the one with the Jack Daniels headband politely put out his cigar before the three of us had surprisingly tender sex . . . even more surprisingly, the taller and more attractive of the two waved at me from a palatial bayfront home in the Pines when i kayaked back . . . so much for stereotypes.
Altho i would have been perfectly happy to eat fajita leftovers when i returned, the Prince insisted that i eat the meal (penne tossed with sausage, tomatoes and broccoli rabe) that he, Der Fuhrer and the Cook had shopped for . . . by agreeing to do so any residual tension completely evaporated . . . in a sense, i sang for my supper by updating them on my “search” for Kevin Spacey . . . how did u clean up afterward? asked the Prince, betraying his utter cluelessness about what i call vertical sex where gravity often takes care of the messiness . . . i don’t think there are any showers in the Meatrack said the Cook . . . that would never work for me he said . . . Der Fuhrer and i ended the evening companionably laying on couches in front of a tame fire, listening to Paulina Rubio without saying a word . . . a first in my experience and sadly, perhaps the last.
The flies are as fierce as the retirees i reported early Friday afternoon when i returned from Wanker’s Way with what would be my worst facial sunburn of the summer . . . with the Prince and the Cook both gone, i had just enough leftovers to make a fajita lunch for Der Fuhrer before leaving myself . . . i also assured him i would expurgate my blog as he requested even tho this might entail changing his pseudonym to Stalin . . . i never did manage to spot Kevin Spacey altho as the 4 p.m. boat pulled away from the harbor on the kind of late summer afternoon whose beautiful light can bring tears to your eyes, i did see Michael Cumpsty, a face, like Lois Smith’s, that not just anyone would recognize . . . so there!
Sunday, September 08, 2002
SUMMER CAMP
The future moves like a storm cloud across the blue skies of August in the Pines, particularly when the current leaseholder declines to renew . . . what should be the most perfect days of summer are spoiled by endless jockeying over next season . . . Der Fuhrer informed us he would be taking a room in an ocean-front house rented by the Prince and the Ingenue at considerably higher cost . . . no surprise there . . . but would anybody else step up to the plate and rent the End House for $40,500, an increase of $500 in 2003?
Friday
En route to the ferry, laden with grocery bags and candles from Ikea, a woman pulled up next to me in a car . . . hi, i’m Candy. i’m the host at Marco’s and u look like u could use a ride . . . business must be really bad . . . when her cell phone rang, she told the caller i’m running a little late because i stopped to give a young man a lift.
How strange to have to purchase my round-trip ferry passage each time instead of using one of the 20-trip cards i’ve purchased since i first took a full-share in 1989 . . . my last one ran out a couple of weeks ago so now there really isn’t a compelling financial reason to return next year . . . yeah, like unused ferry rides have been the only thing that have kept me coming back!
What a relief to find the house empty and relatively clean . . . while i was futzing around in the kitchen, i heard a fey voice call out anybody home? and turned the corner to find Ski Boy coming up the stairs . . . he didn’t remember my name of course but was wondering if the Curmudgeon and i would be “Scrabbling” on the beach later . . . i’m just making my rounds to find out who’s here he said.
The Expatriate arrived in mid afternoon, straight from the Barney's sale, for his second trip of the season from Moscow . . . i just had a pedicure in Chelsea, too. some leg amputee came in, unscrewed his prosthesis and asked that the girl paint his toenails on that foot. only in New York . . . he brought me three pirated CDs, only $3 a pop in Moscow: the original cast recording of Closer To Heaven, the Pet Shop Boys West End musical; a collection of Pet Shop Boys rarities; and a live recording of Right Said Fred . . . u just know Testa Grande is going to tell us AGAIN he slept with one of them during his London years.
Ten minutes after the Curmudgeon walked in we began a game of Scrabble knowing that it would be hours before dinner . . . Testa Grande had phoned to say that he and his guest would be on the 10:30 p.m. boat . . . how long do u hold dinner on a Friday night? . . . if it had been just one of our house mates, we probably would have gone ahead and eaten without him but when a Pines virgin is in tow, u want the first impression of your house to be a good one.
Now a pause for some back story . . . Testa Grande met his guest through his ex-boyfriend, the Mess, who moved to Philadelphia not long after they broke up . . . the ex had been a house mate briefly last season, the kind of guy u would think was very cute if he passed u on his Razor
scooter three years ago in the East Village . . . but after spending a single weekend with the Mess, i longed for a mute button . . . while he could be entertaining (he served “benedictine,” a white trash dip from his native Kentucky that involved cream cheese, cucumbers and green food coloring, and he taught us to play “black magic” a parlor game that has subsequently gotten me through plenty of dull spots with relatives), he belonged in a younger and less sedate house, one with a pharmacy that played trance music at full volume 24 hours a day.
Testa Grande’s social scene moved to Philadelphia along with his ex and we knew the guest he would be bringing belonged to his new Scooby-Doo
crew . . . i had my doubts but i have to admit, it didn’t take long for his Tender Young Morsel to charm us . . . anybody that takes a second helping of my chili scores big points plus i liked his taste in music (Coldplay, Morcheeba, Bjork) AND, unlike any other guest we had this summer, he brought a bottle of wine to show his appreciation for our hospitality . . . u were a teenager just four years ago i observed before vowing not to mention his age again though not before discovering that everybody seated at the table was older than his mother, who stopped keeping kosher after she divorced his father and moved to Maine from Cincinnati.
Saturday
Testa Grande played daddy all weekend . . . actually we all did since none of us were having a sexual relationship with the Tender Young Morsel though u just knew he lusted after the Sun Queen from the moment he arrived Saturday morning bearing his usual assortment of muffins, El Pico and half and half . . . u had to give the kid credit: he even agreed to play Scrabble on the beach, which gave Testa Grande his only opportunity to slip away to Wanker’s Way . . . here u are, in the Pines for the first time, playing a word game with a couple of circuit seniors under an umbrella, i teased . . . i’ll bet u don’t tell this part to your friends back in Philly . . . the Tender Young Morsel lost, of course, but he also taught us a new word when he asked were u rolling? during some inevitable Pavilion nostalgia . . . “rolling” now has formally entered our vocabulary as a generation-appropriate description for dancing on ecstasy.
One good turn deserves another . . . it’s time for your gay pop quiz i announced when Testa Grande returned to the blanket, visibly relieved that he wasn’t missing much on Wanker’s Way . . . name the movie in which these lines are spoken:
1) u wouldn’t treat me this way if i weren’t in a wheel chair. but u are, Blanche, u are;
2) fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night;
3) oh, Jerry. don’t let’s ask for the moon. we have the stars;
4) what a dump!
5) Broadway doesn’t go for booze or dope;
6) don’t fuck with me, fellas! and
7) a dingo ate my baby (the Expatriate insisted this had passed into the camp canon, tho i disagreed)
Not only did the Tender Young Morsel fail miserably, but he couldn’t come up with a contemporary set of gay cultural references . . . instead he cited some rather forgettable scenes from gay movies . . . is this the price of assimilation?
Gotta dance, however, bridged the generation gap . . . the Tender Young Morsel couldn’t wait to put on his dancing shoes and camouflage tank top which i told him he wouldn’t be needing . . . we knew from experience that Testa Grande would decline to join us for the nocturnal leg of the Pines Grand Tour . . . he also refused to budge on the dinner schedule when i asked if we could eat a little earlier than usual which would give the Curmudgeon, the Sun Queen and me time for a nap . . . i should have reminded him how we accommodated him the night before but offered instead to start the fire for his budget-busting meal ($65 for butterfly rack of lamb, no leftovers!) before he returned from tea.
A failed first attempt at apple martinis (a Google search set us straight; we added apple juice to the shopping list), dinner and clean-up lasted until nearly 11 p.m. . . . is it time to go? is it time to go? asked the Tender Young Morsel as soon as Testa Grande went to bed . . . he sounded exactly like a child on a road trip demanding to know are we there yet? . . . no, son, your three daddies need to recharge their batteries first . . . the Expatriate, who was hooked by the narrative drive of Two Boys, At Swim, agreed to babysit him upstairs while the rest of us went to our rooms for some shuteye . . . u should have seen him, reported the Expatriate the next morning . . . he couldn’t sit still. first, he went for a walk on the beach. then, he cleaned up some more in the kitchen. finally at 1:45 a.m. he asked if u ever were going to get up. it was cute.
Let’s roll i said around 2 to the Curmudgeon and the Tender Young Morsel, whose eager-beaverness revived us like a jolt of caffeine . . . the Sun Queen said he would join us later, much to the Tender Young Morsel’s disappointment . . . which lasted all of a minute once we got to the Pavilion and his dance card instantly filled with an aggressive short guy who might as well have had attorney tattooed on his forehead . . . the oppressive heat inside made the hot, muggy air outside seem like air conditioning when the Curmudgeon and i took a break almost immediately . . . but just as the drug really began kicking in, the Curmudgeon got a bad case of the birthday blues and we had an extremely intense conversation that would not have been out of place in a therapist’s office . . . thankfully, the moment passed and we headed back to the dance floor where we found the Tender Young Morsel among a group of guys who shared the Sun Queen’s highly manicured sense of sartorial style.
Are u rolling? he asked . . . an hour later he said i love u when he came up for air in between deep kisses with several of his dancing partners . . . not a phrase i hear much, particularly at 3 a.m. in the Pavilion . . . u had to marvel: 23 and taking to the Pines like a duck to water . . . who could be jealous? . . . the Sun Queen, that’s who! . . . did he recall Eve Harrington when he spotted the Tender Young Morsel being devoured by a group of guys, like Sebastian in Suddenly Last Summer . . . the Sun Queen tried exercising his considerable allure from the sidelines but the tactic failed and Margo Channing left with me and the Curmudgeon around 6:30 while the Tender Young Morsel stayed for his curtain call . . . good morning, boys said some cute fella on the boardwalk . . . the grins we returned were brighter than the rising sun.
Sunday
Can’t sleep like the drug-free Sun Queen who hit the sack immediately? . . . then make French toast for your house mates before they wake up . . . Testa Grande rose looking more sleep deprived than we did just as the Curmudgeon finished frying the bacon and slicing the melon . . . the Tender Young Morsel returned when we were wiping the syrup from our plates and hoping that his prescription for loading up on carbs would help us crash . . . the flies in the Meatrack are fierce he said, before helping himself to breakfast with no apparent loss of energy or appetite. . . ah, youth.
We reconvened shortly after noon on the beach . . . the sight of a 30something man with golden hair and perhaps the buffest body we have beheld all summer reinvigorated us as he emerged from the surf carrying a pair of flippers and wearing a nose plug and goggles . . . too many accessories for my taste but we must have looked like prairie dogs popping up from their holes as we alerted everyone in our sprawling colony to the wasp waisted Season Hunk #4 walking past us, breathing heavily and gazing straight ahead.
A perfect afternoon for dozing in the sun but the Tender Young Morsel, who had turned into an umbrella hog, had the oddest sunburn on his pale skin . . . someone needs to invent a suntan lotion that changes the color of your skin when u first apply it so that u can see where u might have missed said Testa Grande . . . yeah, and some kind of insect repellent strips that u can affix to your ankles to keep the flies off agreed the Curmudgeon . . . our impromptu focus group continued during a round of margaritas in plastic glasses that nicely complemented the colors of our umbrella . . . we left the beach pleasantly buzzed.
Just as one wine-bearing Pines Virgin was about to get on the boat, another stepped off . . . the Expatriate had gone to the harbor to meet a colleague from Moscow who was making a stop at our house after spending a week with friends in San Francisco . . . Quief, a 37-year-old frat boy who had just dumped his live-in Russian boyfriend, arrived with seven bottles of wine from the Napa Valley while we were pouring our second or third round of apple tinis on the ocean deck and enjoying the kind of alcohol-fueled camaraderie that would drench the rest of the week . . . if u can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!
For perhaps the first time this season, the entire house headed or, more accurately, staggered to tea en masse chatting as merrily as a group of 20somethings about the Times decision to publish gay wedding announcements . . . virginity IS infectious . . . it reminded me of my early years in the Pines and reaffirmed my conviction that your enjoyment of tea is in direct proportion to the degree of your inebriation . . . let’s just say that i can’t remember a thing about it except that we were eating our dinner less than half an hour after returning . . . how did u manage this? asked Quief of the Curmudgeon who had served steamed hot dogs with baked beans and cole slaw that i prepared earlier in the day . . . it’s his presto meal, i growled, rolling my eyes and sensing another guest crush in the making.
Monday
When it comes to guest crushes, i must admit my already thin skin is close to bleeding . . . u see, my first summer in the Pines, i foolishly made the mistake of sharing a room with an ex-boyfriend, the only true love of my life . . . wouldn’t u know he lived happily ever after (if not much longer) with a house guest he met late in the season . . . not that i’ve ever been particularly attracted to any of our house guests, or at least not any who have hooked up with the residents of the End House but still, it would be nice to be appreciated for something other than my role as housemother-by-default . . . think Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County, if u will, minus the impeccable Italian accent and narrower hips.
The Tender Young Morsel’s crush on the Sun Queen didn’t affect me much because i knew it had no chance of consummation but the mutual attraction between the Curmudgeon and Quief became painfully obvious when i went to the beach for my swim and found them in the water together . . . i didn’t stick around long enough to determine if they had “dropped trou” to use the Curmudgeon’s favorite phrase . . . ninety minutes later they still were deep in conversation but it would have been rude to avoid them a second time so i couldn’t help but notice the book that Quief wasn’t reading, Goin' Down: The Instinct Guide to Oral Sex . . . subtle, huh? . . . the contrast between his choice of reading material and the Curmudgeon’s, a French translation of Lord of the Rings, spoke volumes . . . autodidacts of different stripes, to say the least . . . i raced back to the house with a mating dance update . . . even tho the Expatriate had introduced Quief to the Curmudgeon in Moscow, he hadn’t had a clue . . . but they both want the same thing, he averred.
The thought of playing Scrabble with a pair of about-to-be-hatched lovebirds sent me straight to Wanker’s Way where a couple of muscle men were providing a delightful afternoon of exhibitionism . . . an hour or two later i was headed back to Bad Penny’s house, vastly relieved that i could still manage to pick up SOMEBODY (who knew it would be a guy who kept turning up everywhere over the next few days!) . . . he took me back to his house where we had pleasant, if unfocused, sex under his outdoor shower . . . no doubt he channel surfs a lot and loves water sports . . . he invited me to stay and then sat down not in the chaise next to me, but a second one over, an early warning sign.
Before eventually bringing him to a second orgasm, i learned he was an anesthesiologist who didn’t like being alone in the Pines after he returned from Sip ‘n Twirl late one night and found a threatening voice mail Message . . . it turned out to be a prank call from Chicago but i haven’t felt safe since he said . . . when i raised the subject of his easy access to drugs, he told me it would be dangerous professionally for him to do them personally but that hadn’t stopped him from providing a friend of his with some ketamine for his birthday or telling me about a prescription drug for treating heart disease that could be used like ecstasy.
Was it the prospect of marrying a sweet Jewish doctor who could keep me dancing all night, any night i wanted that impelled me to bring him back to the house or his own forwardness? . . . when i decided it was time to leave, Bad Penny said he had to take his dog for a walk . . . would u mind if i walked u to your house? he asked . . . the next thing i know, we’re drinking margaritas and feeding the Sun Queen’s famous focaccia to his cocker spaniel on the ocean deck with my house mates, each of whom can barely conceal his shock that i actually have brought someone back . . . this kind of thing happens about once every three years, the Expatriate later informed Quief . . . but as soon as Bad Penny left, shortly after we made a tentative date to go kayaking sometime during the week, the Sun Queen asked why did he keep saying `we’ when he was telling us about the house he just bought in the Pines? . . . i guess it takes one partnered man to know another.
Running out of gas for the grill for the second time this summer didn’t prevent the Sun Queen from preparing a simple Italian meal (pasta tossed with basil, tomato and garlic, chicken cutlets and a mesclun salad) that was delicious enough to justify Quief’s effusive praise without setting off my guest crush detector . . . nothing like getting laid and a second bottle of wine to restore your good humor and devilish impulses . . . we ask every guest in our house a couple of questions i said . . . first, who was your female role model growing up? and second, would u be more likely to wear tit clamps, a butt plug or a cock ring?
For a guy who came out three years ago, only after moving halfway around the world, Quief handled our own version of Get The Guest pretty well . . . Judy Garland he replied to the first question, without having to think nearly as hard as the Tender Young Morsel, who had chosen Madonna . . . the Expatriate had predicted he wouldn’t get it at all . . . i must have asked two dozen people this same question over the years and no one EVER uttered Judy’s name, tho oddly enough i heard someone whistling “If I Only Had A Brain” outside of my bedroom window the next morning . . . no wonder he had stayed in the closet so long! . . . i couldn’t even bring myself to buy Judy at Carnegie Hall until my early 40s because i didn’t want to be pigeonholed as one of those gay men who reveled in pathos . . . when everyone expressed their surprise that a guy as “straight acting” as he, the only one of us who ever had had sexual relationships with women, idolized Judy, Quief succumbed to the spell of the Pines, where the Expatriate says u can tell people things u don’t even tell your therapist, and confessed that he had been repressing his homosexuality ever since early childhood . . . i remember going to Cape Cod with my parents and three brothers one summer. i must have been three or four. and when i came out of the surf with my arm raised above my head, my mother told me to stop because only girls did that . . . given this history, it wasn’t hard at all to predict that Quief would say he preferred a cock ring to tit clamps or a butt plug but give him a year or two more out of the closet and then let’s see.
Tuesday
As soon as i heard the Curmudgeon get up, i rushed upstairs to wish him happy birthday even tho it was the kind of morning better spent in bed with somebody, especially if the opportunity had been staring at u in the face for the past 36 hours . . . but the Curmudgeon and Quief were still tap dancing around each other . . . the tension was less erotic than irritating for the rest of the house . . . c’mon guys, u wanna do it, what the hell’s wrong?
The Sun Queen had planned to take everyone to Top of the Bay in the Grove to celebrate but when he called to make a reservation, we discovered that it was closed . . . then i’ll buy lobsters for everyone announced the Curmudgeon . . . groan . . . u can take the boy out of Maine but u can’t take Maine out of the boy, who also couldn’t understand why the Meat Market doesn’t sell clams by the peck . . . but we don’t have the right utensils i whined, thoroughly unenthusiastic about all the work required to extract a little bit of pricey meat . . . i’ll buy the crackers offered the Expatriate . . . and i’ll make u a banana cream pie, i added, getting with the birthday boy’s program . . . of course the Curmudgeon had another idea . . . if we’re going to have a lobster feast we should end it with something blueberry . . . how about a cobbler? . . . perfect! i’ve got a recipe in my room . . . the world’s most complicated blueberry cobbler recipe i might add . . . it covered two pages in some gourmet newsletter and kept me cursing in the kitchen much of the afternoon . . . i followed it to the letter until the end when i didn’t hear the timer ring . . . something’s burning giggled the Curmudgeon.
The “pound and a half” lobster boat wouldn’t be docking at the Pantry until 1 p.m. which gave us plenty of time to kill . . . the Sun Queen barked at his “girls” back in the world of evening wear and took a walk to the Sunken Forest while the rest of us played Scrabble . . . when Quief put the letters Q U I E F on the board toward the end of the game, i challenged . . . it’s a vaginal fart, he insisted as i reached for the Official Scrabble Players’ Dictionary . . . u are the only person in the room who would know that i teased . . . he lost his turn but acquired a nickname.
A hazy sun had come out by the time i finished my exercises by the pool and the Curmudgeon, the Expatriate and Quief returned from the Pantry . . . are we straight? asked the Expatriate, who couldn’t wait to get back to At Swim, Two Boys . . . straight as a rush chorused the Curmudgeon and i, completing one of the book’s two unforgettable phrases . . . at least until i saw the $4.95 price tag on each of the three bags of frozen organic blueberries . . . if Testa Grande had been here, he would have picked fresh ones from the bushes on Tarpon.
The Expatriate brought a pitcher of apple tinis to the beach just as Season Hunk #4 emerged from the surf . . . we’ll drink to that . . . look at that guy, i said to Quief . . . u won’t find a better, steroid-free body in the Pines . . . fortunately, he didn’t take a good enough look because when we went to tea he tried to tell us that the guy was sitting at a nearby table . . . no, no Season Hunk #4 is over there, smoking a cigarette argued the Sun Queen who never forgets an eight pack . . . Quief pulled a $20 bill out of his pocket . . . wanna lay some money on it? he demanded . . . simmer down, fella, this is the Pines, not Fight Club.
The Sun Queen rose to the challenge, if not the bet . . . just as his guy was walking past us to leave, he stopped him and asked if he had been swimming in the ocean earlier . . . yes, said Le Flipper, in a French accent that had the Curmudgeon panting to test his linguistic skills . . . he obviously relished the attention of five fawning men . . . i swim a mile in the ocean every other day i’m out here, i said, but i sure don’t look like u. maybe i should take up smoking . . . he laughed, showing horrible teeth (his tragic flaw?) and a couple of minutes later we had a date to go swimming the next day . . . pinch me quick somebody . . . thank god for apple tinis and house mates, even ones like the Curmudgeon who groused he’s arrogant because Le Flipper refused to speak French to him . . . more like polite, argued the Expatriate just because u spoke his language doesn’t mean the rest of us did . . . touche!
As soon as we got back to the house i announced i broke up with Bad Penny at tea . . . what do u mean? asked Quief . . . he told me he has been in a relationship for the 12 years, i explained huffily and i don’t feel like being anybody’s sexual outlet . . . not even for the prescriptions? asked the Sun Queen . . . it takes forever for the water to boil at our house so the Curmudgeon decided to serve his lobster feast in courses (potato salad and corn) with lots of wine in between . . . perhaps that explains what ranked as one of the best nights i ever have had in the Pines . . . good food (who knew lobsters could be so meaty!), better company and the memory of the Curmudgeon and the Expatriate, neither of whom is known for their spontaneity, tossin their plates off the deck . . . i didn’t throw mine on purpose! laughed the Curmudgeon when the Expatriate followed his lead . . . i just wanted to get rid of the lobster shells . . . or perhaps the prospect of swimming alongside Le Flipper had me jazzed . . . the Expatriate and the Sun Queen decided i needed to be put to bed after i spent half an hour babbling about how the Pines enables us to create families of our own choosing . . . here take this said the Expatriate, handing me three Advil in an attempt to cap the gush of sentimentality that was spewing from my mouth . . . i refused until he went back upstairs and brought me a glass of seltzer and then swallowed two before donning what the Sun Queen calls my Wonder Bread shorts (Tommy Hilfiger outlet boxers with huge blue, chartreuse and turquoise polka dots) and passing out on my matching mint sheets.
Wednesday
Remarkably, none of us were hung over the next morning . . . as soon as the Curmudgeon joined me for coffee, he revealed that the dirty deed had been done on the couch after everybody went to bed . . . never underestimate the power of alcohol as a sexual disinhibitor, or excuse for making the first move in case it is rejected . . . uh, why didn’t u sleep together in his room? . . . inquiring minds want to know . . . he said only one of the beds was made so we fell asleep upstairs . . . both the Expatriate (the Curmudgeon didn’t climb into his bed until nearly dawn) and the Sun Queen (i was prevented from getting a drink of water in the middle of the night by a tangle of naked bodies with all the lights on) independently verified the coupling . . . there are no secrets in our house.
Nor much public display of affection . . . in fact, the Curmudgeon and Quief kept their distance in front of us, although the Curmudgeon later revealed that they had enjoyed a little post-coital hanky panky in the ocean . . . Quief had a 2 p.m. ferry to catch . . . so far as i know, he walked to the harbor by himself, but not before i had a chance to ask him what he thought of the Pines . . . i really enjoyed my visit and you guys but i thought it would be kinder . . . since i’ve never depended on the kindness of strangers, i just shrugged, recalling with some embarrassment how i had gone on and on the night before about how much the place had meant to me now that it looked as if this really was the end.
But Quief wasn’t entirely wrong, as i was to learn yet again . . . my date with Le Flipper had me in such a tizzy that i spent most of the morning thoroughly cleaning the common spaces in the house and listening to a terrific custom CD that had been burned by Quief’s friends in San Francisco . . . it included Norah Jones, Jack Johnson, Dirty Vegas, Doves, Gorillaz, Beth Orton and “Turn My Way,” a song by New Order with my favorite refrain of the moment (i don’t want to be/like other people are/don’t want to own a key/don’t want to wash my car/i don’t want to have to work/like other people do/i want it to be free/i want it to be true).
What time is your date? asked the Expatriate, observing my frenzy . . . 3:30 p.m. u know me too well . . . tick tock, tick tock . . . i couldn’t eat, i couldn’t read, basically i was as nervous as Sally Field just before she won her second Oscar . . . i mean, what if he doesn’t even remember the invitation? u know how casual everything is at tea i agonized aloud . . . calm down, advised the Sun Queen, who has seen me in this situation before . . . just don’t have any expectations and u will be fine . . . easy for him to say with a boyfriend waiting back home.
I finally made my way to the African Village house where Le Flipper had been staying for a little more than a week . . . when no one responded to my call at the front door, i nearly retreated but some inner strength brought me to the back gate where i could see Le Flipper in the pool up to his wasp waist, chatting with his much older host . . . he didn’t invite me in but kissed me in the French way on both cheeks and told me to wait for him on the beach . . . another guy will be joining us, he added . . . my heart sank . . . if i wanted to swim in a school i would have gone to Pepperdine.
The third guy turned out to be around my age . . . and i recalled the odd remark Le Flipper had made at tea, the one that had given me such hope . . . i’m looking for a daddy, NOT a sugar daddy . . . perhaps we were the finalists in Daddy Search and the fastest swimmer would catch him! . . . he suggested we walk back to my end of the beach so we could catch the current, spoiling what was to be my carefully planned Kodak moment . . . i had asked the Curmudgeon to be waiting there at 4:30, near the spot where Le Flipper had emerged previously, with my camera set for the proper light exposure . . . now there would be no photographic evidence of what the Curmudgeon later described as the opportunity to walk along the beach with two of the handsomest men in the Pines . . . of course that particular satisfaction eluded me entirely as i pondered the kind of existential question any honest 40something gay man in my situation would ask: is it better to be invisible when u are walking by yourself on the beach or next to somebody with the best body in the Pines?
Le Flipper may indeed have had the best body in the Pines but he sure couldn’t go the distance . . . neither he nor his friend ever had swum the length of the Pines before and within half an hour i had lost both of them but gained a new companion: a pilot fish who mistook me for a shark, darting under and in front of me halfway to the Grove . . . i felt more like an idiot than a loser in Daddy Search but nevertheless made a quick stop in the Meatrack for what Morrissey calls a little “self validation” (if u are looking for some self validation, meet me in the back of the railway station).
So how was it? asked my house mates when i approached our spot on the beach with as much nonchalance as i could muster . . . there were several cute guys in the Meatrack, i responded . . . the Meatrack? i imagined u drinking Cosmos by the pool at the African Village house all this time, said the Expatriate who knows exactly which buttons to push . . . oh, no my date ended almost before it started. the only thing that can keep up with me in the ocean are the fish who think i’m going to help them find their dinner. i think Le Flipper knew exactly what he was doing. he ditched me in the politest way possible. . . well, if it’s any consolation consoled the Sun Queen i think that body is all about a little dick.
His assertion didn’t console me but an apple tini did . . . we made the Sun Queen pick the couture designer whose clothes most suited each of us: he dressed the Expatriate in Prada, the Curmudgeon in LaCroix and me in Chanel before declaring i would wear only Valentino . . . we ended the afternoon taking pictures of each other in the buttery August light . . . friendship is the new intimacy.
We were meeting Soccer Mom, the woman the Curmudgeon might have married if his pituitary gland had been a little larger, in the Grove for his delayed birthday dinner at Top of the Bay . . . she had taken the car ferry from Bridgeport to Port Jefferson after the Curmudgeon had extended a last minute invitation for a day or two at the beach . . . Soccer Mom awaited us at the dock looking very Jackie Kennedy in a hot pink sack dress and a simple strand of pearls.
Going to the Grove is always a slightly hallucinogenic experience for me . . . in fact, the visit i enjoyed the most was one summer afternoon when an old friend and i ate chocolate Ding Dongs stuffed with magic mushrooms . . . the place, from the names on the houses to the Belvedere (heterosexual remark overheard on the ferry: that’s their church, dear) to the oddballs wandering the boardwalks, scream charm (or horror, depending on your perspective) in comparison with the drab restraint of the Pines . . . we had an hour to kill before our 9 p.m. reservation so we sat at the bar at Cherry’s where we listened to compellingly awful karaoke . . . i had had sex with the bartender in the Meatrack last season . . . he couldn’t make a margarita or an apple tini worth a damn, but we all marveled at his muscle definition and tipped him in spite of his attitude . . . and the wink he gave me when we left did enable me to bank some self-validation.
At least enough to get me through a pretty decent dinner served by a waiter so efficient i had to tell him so . . . afterward, while Soccer Mom, the Curmudgeon and the Expatriate waited for a water taxi on the dock to take them back to the Sip ‘n Twirl, we watched a bingo game hosted by a drag queen in progress at Cherry’s . . . did someone say surreal? . . . not so surreal as the nearly empty disco that the Sun Queen and i went for a pre-Meatrack cocktail . . . while the Sun Queen sucked his Cointreau through a straw and deposited it into his Poland Spring water bottle, the cute baby-faced bartender with a Britney midriff chatted me up . . . i used to be a paramedic until i got sued by some bitch who said i hadn’t performed the Heimlich maneuver correctly . . . he was sorry to see us go . . . i was glad the joint didn’t serve food.
The Sun Queen and i split up near the entrance to the Meatrack . . . self-validation eluded me with the attractive fellow who had smiled at me several times in the disco . . . he ended up with Stroke4Show, whose dick is as big as his teensy dog . . . but as i was leaving i hooked up again with the Fashion Savior who paints and splits his time between New York and Miami . . . he was standing outside the entrance to his house and we reenacted the same sexual scenario we had earlier in the summer . . . he came and i didn’t except this time we did spend enough time in his hot tub for him to tell me the story of his early retirement: all the demands from my private clients got to be too much. i finally told Leonore Annenberg to get the hell out of my loft when i refused to cut the armholes of her dress as high as she wanted them. she said `look, honey, i never raise my arms when i go out. i don’t open doors or hail a cab or any of those things. all i need arms for is to carry my purse at my side’ but i just couldn’t do it. it was wrong . . . just what i like: a man who stands on principle and who sits on my dick screaming u can fuck me anytime! . . . yawn.