THE LOST WEEKEND

Friday

Importing a cartload of cleaning supplies and other sundries--purchased by the Prince's mother at a Costco in New Jersey--made it necessary for Der Fuhrer to drive in again from the city . . . we missed the 9:30 a.m. boat because it was still raining but this gave us time to explore Sayville, which certainly typifies small town America at its loveliest . . . what better place to kill time than Fritschman's Bakery on Main Street where they give u free coffee and day-old crumbcake when u purchase any of their freshly baked goods? . . . i can't understand why people choose the Starbucks across the street instead of this place i crowed as we were scarfing down muffins and streudel strips in the Jeep, which cost us less than the price of a single latte . . . as if to illustrate this, three very attractive men in their late 30s with good bodies who obviously were making a pitstop on their way to the Pines parked behind us and went right into Starbucks . . . i resisted the impulse to stick my head out the window and baaaaaa like a sheep . . . on to Stop and Shop to pick up as much food as we could carry where we ran into several other cheapskates.

Fortunately, it stopped raining just before we boarded the ferry and the cart was right where the Repeater had said it would be in the cover-his-ass e-mail he sent upon leaving two weeks ago . . . unlike our other housemates, Der Fuhrer and i love our ungainly cart . . . it may not be as cute as the little red wagons that have come to symbolize the Pines, but it's a lot more practical when u live far from the harbor and have a big load . . . in fact, i love the cart so much that i stole it from the Muller Cottage where we spent seven wonderful summers until new owners doubled the rent, forcing us to move from one end of the Pines to the other . . . this particular cart had solid rubber wheels and the letters GWM drilled into the bottom . . . the initials stood for the name of the original owner though they also could be mistaken for a personal ads acronym describing nearly everybody in the Pines . . . one day early last summer i came out of the Pantry and found that somebody had switched another cart--which had inflatable tires--for ours . . . quel disaster! . . . do i need to tell u that fixing flats is now among my many responsibilities? . . . tres butch!

Pushing the cart, however, was no picnic on a wet boardwalk that resembled the Long Island Expressway at rush hour . . . as far as i am concerned, motorized carts are the new menace in paradise . . . a lesbian driving a widebody vehicle also known as the SAGEmobile nearly mowed us down . . . that's just what we need, bigger carts in the Pines i hollered.

We found a handyman building a "banquette" on the ocean deck when we arrived . . . it was supposed to be a roof deck . . . i guess Vinnie Pepe thought we wouldn't notice . . . Der Fuhrer immediately inspected the closets . . . somebody on the other weekend needs to be taught how to fold towels he said . . . ahhh, the other weekend . . . u know the one that leaves your room dirty, drinks your booze and uses up all the olive oil? . . . in our house, we have subcontracted one weekend a month to the Ditz who, after five seasons, is lobbying for a maid . . . we suspect that his request may derive more from the sandbox that the Master Spinner and Baby Huey left behind than a lack of confidence in Der Fuhrer's and my cleaning abilities . . . in any case, the issue has divided the house into two factions: slobs with high incomes and unemployed neat freaks . . . it will be interesting to see how Der Fuhrer handles his first crisis.

When we discovered that there will only be four of us for dinner (the Ingenue had a family commitment and the Curmudgeon had tickets for a play about the A-bomb with lots of nudity), we decided to save the London broil, the centerpiece of my "smart" meal, so named because it's very easy to prepare and everyone loves it, for tomorrow . . . somehow this means i also ended up fixing tonight's bone-dry pasta . . . never substitute turkey bacon for the real thing when making spaghetti al carbonara . . . Testa Grande arrived first and regaled us with the story of a chatroom charity case . . . when u live on Planet Nice, sometimes u just have to fuck fat people when they show up at your door . . . he also couldn't wait to demonstrate his new MP3 jukebox so we listened to Bjork sing old standards in Icelandic . . . gin and tonic, anyone? . . . the Prince caught the 9:30 p.m. boat but we were so ravenous we didn't even give him time to make himself a cocktail . . . over dinner he regales us what he learned from Joan Hamburg on his drive from Rye to Westhampton earlier in the afternoon: the reason Hitler and Mother Teresa were so successful is that they never were embarrassed about anything they wanted to do . . . rather than ponder the relevance of this, i wondered why someone who places a premium on appearances would wear his baseball cap to the dinner table until i saw his hair the next morning . . . sticking straight up, it added a good eight inches to his height . . . very Eraserhead.

Saturday

I always used to awaken first which meant that by the time everyone else got upstairs i'd be caffeinated and ready for conversation . . . no more in this house of earlybirds . . . do men of a certain age suddenly realize that there's more sand in the bottom of the hourglass than the top? . . . the Prince and Testa Grande were already engaged in shop talk, most of which i'd already heard before . . . having a slightly different cast of characters each of my two weekends has its good and bad points: on the plus side, it's hard to get sick of anyone when u see them only once a month; on the bad, u inevitably have to listen to the regulars tell the same stories twice . . . so while the Prince told Testa Grande how he had managed to achieve the impossible--give some character to a rich kid's apartment in the one of the new riverfront Trump Towers--Der Fuhrer and i decided to play a practical joke on the Curmudgeon, who had squirreled away a full bottle of Absolut in one of his bedroom drawers . . . rather than simply substitute a half-empty bottle, i suggested that we fill an empty Grey Goose bottle with water and see 1) if he would remember which brand he had purchased two weeks earlier and 2) how long it would take him to notice the difference . . . we have to be careful it doesn't freeze, warned Der Fuhrer, one step ahead of me and positively giddy with excitement . . . then he and the Prince headed off to the harbor to buy the Times . . . Testa Grande agreed to pick up the wire we needed for our new outdoor speakers after his run . . . he returned with the wire and a leather necklace that he had scavenged outside the Pavilion while doing his stretches . . . u don't think it's trying too hard, do u? he asked when i complimented him on the look . . . no, but doing your stretches in the harbor IS, i answered . . . soon enough, "Fountain of Youth," my synth pop mix of Monaco, Electronic, Erasure, the Pet Shop Boys and the Trainspotting soundtrack, was giving me the energy boost i needed to work out with my 10 pound dumbbells . . . look, he's still at it observed the Prince a little while later when he brought the Times downstairs and began reading aloud from a think piece that characterized snobbery as a peculiarly middle class American phenomenon . . . i much preferred the social climbing suggestions that i had clipped from the "Home" section and attached to our refrigerator, which stipulated that u never should accept a ride in a Lear jet from anyone u didn't know before u made it.

The Curmudgeon arrived and headed for the beach . . . after reporting that he had not mixed himself the predicted eyeopener, Der Fuhrer and the Prince wandered off in search of a new distraction which they found at Chateau Debris . . . we met this really cute guy, said Der Fuhrer . . . my own snobbery prevented me from paying much attention: tacky is perhaps the kindest word i would use to describe any of the residents of that particular landmark which, if there were any aesthetic justice in the cosmos, would have been washed away by a hurricane several summers ago when all the ocean-front houses of the Pines were severely threatened.

But when i joined the Curmudgeon on the beach with the Scrabble game, he introduced me to Season Hunk #1, the guy Der Fuhrer had been babbling about . . . lo and behold, he WAS attractive! . . . u live in a really infamous house, i said when our chit chat about going to see Liza Minelli at the Beacon started to run out of steam . . . what do u mean? he asked, lifting his slim, tight body off the yellow blanket . . . well for one thing, there's the name . . . u mean the Garage Mahal? or Chateau Debris? he said, clearly on to me . . . and then there's the fact that no one and i mean no one can walk by your house without getting appraised . . . and finally that houses all around can see people getting blow jobs and rimmed in the hot tub on your roof . . . and that's a bad thing? he asked . . . actually, it's not, i was forced to admit . . . no wonder he declined to join us for Scrabble . . . the goings on at Chateau Debris would juice the ratings for a reality TV series on a gay cable network whereas our house would be suited only for the Game Show Network.

A shift in the breeze sent the Curmudgeon and me back to the pool where he poured his first vodka and cranberry . . . i suddenly realized that our practical joke would make him a more competitive player but i managed to beat him anyway, my only victory of the weekend . . . Der Fuhrer, laughing hysterically, came downstairs to report that the water in the Grey Goose bottle had finally frozen and that the Curmudgeon had cut his finger trying to chip the ice to use in a second cocktail, foreshadowing more serious injuries to come . . . i think the other weekend did something really low, accused the Curmudgeon when he returned . . . they must have watered down my vodka! . . . once he had jumped to the appropriate conclusion--blaming the other weekend is almost a Pavlovian response in the Pines--we confessed.

The Curmudgeon was not amused and quickly began a game of catch up which culminated in a pre-dinner black out after a Planter's Punch he later claimed had been spiked with something else . . . how old r u anyway? i demanded the next morning, deliberately adding to the misery of his dreadful hangover and throbbing thumb, which he got caught in our heavy sliding door not long after falling down in front of the Pavilion . . . i didn't give a shit, still annoyed that my smart meal had been spoiled by him and Der Fuhrer, who managed to remain upright though he did break a hurricane lamp . . . his tolerance must be even higher than i thought . . . when everyone went off to a party that featured patriotic performances by a bevy of drag queens (u would have cried when the crowd all started singing along to ""America the Beautiful") i had stayed home to dice the potatoes, slice the onions, stuff the mushrooms, make the salad, bake the pineapple upside down cake, set the table and light the candles . . . solitude and keeping busy around the house appeals to me more than drunken small talk but i do require a little appreciation for my efforts . . . instead an inebriated crew returned an hour early, even before the coals had been lit, demanding to be fed immediately . . . when the Prince started shoveling down Friday night's bone dry pasta right from the plastic container i announced i'm never cooking again on Saturday night, a threat i've made almost as often as i say i'm never returning to the Pines . . . but WE'RE sober and hungry enough to eat, pleaded the Prince and Testa Grande like a pair of giggly, goody two-shoes . . . even Der Fuhrer insisted that his blood alcohol content hasn't affected his appetite which he demonstrated by helping himself to at least three portions of home fries . . . u wouldn't care if it was dog food i snapped with slightly bemused indignation . . . i can't decide if i feel more like Doris Day or Hazel until i took over the clean-up, too.

SUNDAY

Der Fuhrer arises first to prove that he is not hungover but spends much of the morning silently on the couch while the Prince explains that the shame that neither Hitler nor Mother Teresa felt and his refusal to be pigeonholed as a decorator with a particular style has prevented his work from being featured in the shelter mags . . . between cellphone bulletins from the Ingenue about his whereabouts, he also decides to psychoanalyze me with a little help from Testa Grande . . . with a career on hold at the moment, my sex life is the only thing that gives me an identity aside from housemother, a label i despise especially since Testa Grande has claimed the houseslut cockring . . . when they conclude i fear rejection, i suggest Freud had better watch out.

The Curmudgeon recovers sufficiently by noon to beat me at Scrabble on the beach . . . all is well by the time that the Prince and Testa Grande, who has spent the day in pursuit of a formerly heavy Grove boy, leave . . . Der Fuhrer, the Curmudgeon and i head to low where the crowd is thinner and older except on the dance floor where there seems to be a circuit party in progress . . . we work up a drug-free appetite and return home to a civilized dinner . . . a little too civilized, in fact, when the Curmudgeon puts on a new CD, "Songs of Paris," and Edith Piaf starts warbling . . . bon soir.

THE WEEK

On Monday, i get out my electric clippers and buzz Der Fuhrer's hair . . . he's so happy with his new military brush cut that he suggests i open a poolside salon and offer hunk discounts . . . not a bad idea, but after i ask him to return the favor, i end up looking like Glenda Jackson in the Music Lovers when she's writhing around in the insane asylum . . . he mows my entire skull as close as possible so now i sport the "gulag" look . . . by the time we finish our ablutions and workout and the Curmudgeon returns from the harbor with the Times, Wanker's Way, our name for the nude cruising beach at the eastern end of the Pines, has filled sufficiently for each of us to check it out on our own . . . the Curmudgeon comes closest to success, but wastes his only opportunity for a quickie when he introduces himself to some hunky guy who joins him in the water . . . u need to take anonymous sex 101 i criticize when he tells me the story . . . what was i suppose to do, reach for his dick? he asks . . . HEL-LO! i answer . . . save the small talk for after u have gotten your rocks off . . . to make matters worse, he returns to the beach after hearing this advice, only to witness the guy avoid him . . . i walk him and Der Fuhrer to the harbor to catch the 6 p.m. boat and then head off to the Meatrack . . . half an hour later i'm in the Pantry asking the manager where do u keep the dried prunes? . . . your priorities do shift as u get older . . . Tuesday and Wednesday pass lazily, as i subsist on leftovers, listen to rock 'n roll while cleaning house and read At Swim, Two Boys with the dictionary at my side . . . at first i think it's going to be too difficult for my limited attention span and ignorance of Latin but once the story--a kind of pretentious, Irish, gay Gone With the Wind--grabs me, i decide it's kind of like fucking a hyperarticulate virgin: a little hard to get into but totally worth it! . . . it doesn't, however, stop me from thinking about cock . . . i return to the Meatrack on Wednesday where midday pickens are pretty slim so early in the season, and end up with an HIV positive, tattooed muscle guy who sucks me and another guy off . . . hardly the stuff of literature.

HEADSTART

Work your advantage, that's what u do when u share a house with five other "me"s in the Pines . . . Der Fuhrer, the new leaseholder, has a two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off schedule, which means that even tho we're both unemployed, we're only together once a month . . . so when he called a couple of times after his other housemates departed to keep him company, i grabbed the chance to get a head start on the Memorial Day holiday even tho my second week didn't begin until Friday and tongues would wag all summer long about my "unscheduled visit" . . . i caught a late afternoon boat on a sunny but chilly Wednesday afternoon bearing cookbooks, lightbulbs, binoculars and a telephone, hula girl candles and whatever else i could fit into two large shopping bags, one of which broke on the train ride out . . . fortunately Sayville Ferry is so considerate of its customers that they provided me with a large black garbage bag, free of charge.

When i arrived, Der Fuhrer was in the Meatrack and his friend the Cook was on the ocean deck with a cigarette and a cocktail, chatting on a cell phone . . . Der Fuhrer already had planted the overpriced and less than robust flowers he had purchased at the harbor, a move certain to put Testa Grande's nose out of joint . . . he also had scrubbed the common bathroom floor white with Ajax and folded every towel in the house so precisely that the closets resembled retail store shelves stocked with frayed and mismatched merchandise . . . and they better look that way the next time i'm out here, bellowed a rosy cheeked and dirt smeared Der Fuhrer, when he returned, eager to share his sexcapade and to show me the signs that the Fourth Reich had begun in earnest . . . still, i suspect the towels will get less attention as the Meatrack gets more populated later in the season . . . the Cook, who learned his trade in Ireland (apparently i am not the first person to have asked him if an Irish culinary institute is an oxymoron), prepared a delicious meal of chicken breasts though the couscous seemed to puzzle him and Der Fuhrer introduced me to Cherry Garcia, a flavor i never would have tried on my own because it mixes too many ingredients . . . we spent most of an early evening silently in front of the blazing fire.

More sun when we awoke as well as the prospect of having the house to myself by sunset put me in a very good mood indeed . . . after going for a run on the boardwalk, i buzzed Der Fuhrer's hair and we spent the rest of the afternoon chatting by the pool . . . the Cook returned from a walk on the beach with news: there's a hunky blond parading on the beach in a red jock strap . . . la dolce vita, Pines style . . . as soon as they left, i cranked up the stereo with the Eels' Souljacker and straightened up the house exactly i like it, moving a pair of candlesticks, separating the Gourmet magazines which nobody ever bothers to use but which pile up, pretentiously, until i try to throw them out (as soon as i do somebody stops me on the grounds that they are planning to use one of the recipes, but in the five years that i've been in the house, i can recall only one or two Gourmet dishes ever being served) . . . in other words, i pretend the house is mine which makes up for the hassles of sharing . . . after a dinner of leftovers, my favorite kind, i build another blazing fire and listen to the new Dreamgirls recording, investing "One Night Only" with a new meaning.

Friday

I've never really been able to enjoy Fridays in the Pines because when i was working it always meant worrying about who would take care of dinner and now that i'm not working (again) it almost always means that i have to . . . this is as it should be, since my rule always has been that it is the responsibility of the first person to arrive on Friday . . . that's why i learned early on in my tenure to take off Mondays, rather than Fridays, and why many of my housemates try to arrive as late as possible, hoping that they won't get stuck with the shopping and the cooking and usually delaying the meal until after the 9:30 boat . . . the Curmudgeon said that he and the Repeater, a new housemate, would be arriving on the 11:30 a.m. ferry, so i met them at the harbor with our oversize cart, which embarasses everybody but me . . . their luggage nearly filled it but we did the shopping anyway and soon the Curmudgeon was pouring his first Absolut cocktail . . . we played hard Scrabble after lunch (once u put down a word on the board, u cannot remove it, and a challenge means that one person will lose his turn) . . . the Repeater joined us, thinking it would cute to play gay freighted words (stud, butt, etc.), not realizing how fiercely competitive we are . . . he still managed to beat the Curmudgeon who later claimed that alcohol had impaired his judgement . . . Testa Grande, who none of us had seen since his birthday in November, arrived mid-game . . . predictably, he noticed the flowers immediately but pretended not to mind that he had lost his one of his two defining roles in the End House: gardener and cocksman . . . while the Curmudgeon tried to build high scoring words with a tray full of vowels, we caught up on his new job at an architecture firm in the Puck Building and his love life which, like mine and to a lesser extent's the Curmudgeon's, remained promiscuosly single.

Only six more hours to dinner i said when the game ended, time filled with more catching up, canapes, cocktails, and catty remarks while i prepared dinner and played dj . . . fortunately Testa Grande, who manages to keep plugged in to downtown scene better than any of us, entertained us with tales of hot nude yoga in Chelsea and a (clothed) demonstration of several intimate positions . . . do people get erections? we wanted to know . . . all the time . . . don't your big balls get in the way? someone demanded, alluding to his nickname . . . as intrigued as both the Curmudgeon and i were, we decided our flatulence would be more inhibiting than the possibility of erections . . . the Curmudgeon and the Repeater headed to tea, expecting to find the Master Spinner and his boyfriend Baby Huey shirking any Friday night dinner responsibilities . . . they returned after a single Planter's Punch and way more meaningless conversations than usual given the House Elder's etensive circle of acquaintance among the benefit set (how was your summer? . . . where is your house? . . . is this your first weekend out?, etc).

Master Spinner and Baby Huey, who broke up last October on the beach, but who now have each sold their apartments and rented a one-bedroom together, stomped up the stairs just as i was about to serve linguini with clam sauce, garlic bread and a salad . . . the usual group dynamic ensued: Testa Grande and the Master Spinner dominated the conversation while the Curmudgeon stewed; it took two beats for Baby Huey to figure out the topic; the Repeater, as the new guy, surveyed the lay of the land; and i despaired the lack of a competent table clearing housemate in the bunch . . . the thought of yet another summer of cooking, fire building, AND cleaning up sent the defacto housemother to bed without bothering to saying goodnight.

Saturday

The Master Spinner and Baby Huey established a new and disruptive pattern based on their last pilgrimage to Canyon Ranch: early to bed, early to rise and a healthy diet which will have a ripple effect on everyone in the house until they return to their normal slothful state . . . it sounds like the fuckin Serengeti Plain up here, i snarled upon arising a little after 8 a.m. and trying to enter the kitchen, which was blocked by the cable connecting Master Spinner's computer to the telephone jack . . . Testa Grande, always one for de-escalating face-to-face tensions, blamed the noise on the fact that our bedroom is directly below the kitchen, but that didn't excuse the Master Spinner's early use of the blender to prepare a soy shake or whatever weight-control fad he has embraced . . . they ignored my complaint, no doubt recalling the season when, at 11 a.m., i had swept the floor and disturbed THEIR slumber (Pines grudges typically last longer than Pines romances) . . . already well-caffeinated, the Master Spinner wasted no time sharing with Testa Grande the life-changing decision he had made to start his own consulting business . . . having heard it all before i busied myself with making my Saturday oatmeal and making snide comments such as how many times can u get away with invoking a Clinton Administration official as your mentor when announcing a job change? while Baby Huey lay on the couch reading the pile of European design magazines that he thinks will help him sell fancy furniture . . . the Curmudgeon took his breakfast out on the deck in a clear move to separate himself from their discussion, leaving the Repeater with a tricky decision when he finally came upstairs: choosing whom to join, the sulking guy who brought him into the house or the rest of the group . . . successful management consultant that he is, he navigated expertly between the two . . . the Curmudgeon quickly picked up on the reason for MY sullenness and re-entered the house to plan his Martha Stewart dinner with the Repeater . . . when he suggested beef tenderloin, i requested that he try to stay within the $50 per person food budget for the weekend but that didn't prevent the Master Spinner from asking him to pick up ingredients for one or two of the five "small" meals that he alone would be eating that day, in addition to dinner.

Now that everyone was in the room together, i raised the subject of the Pines Phone Book. . . it's always a surefire way to determine just how far "out" your housemates really are . . . the Expatriate has refused to be listed for as long as we've shared because he works for the federal government but i was surprised when three of our most recent housemates declined . . . one explained i'm only here once a month . . . say what u want about living in the golden age of homosexuality but some professions other than the priesthood and the military refuse to let us out of the closet . . . i stubbornly used to leave my name off for another reason: anybody i want to hear from already has my phone number.

Upon returning from the Pantry, the Curmudgeon announced i made an executive decision: if we can't afford $60 for three pounds of beef tenderloin then i can't justify buying $15 worth of frozen fruit for the Master Spinner . . . i could see that the battle lines for the summer already were being drawn with alliances shifting as fluidly as they do on Survivor but for much smaller stakes and among friends who know exactly which hot buttons to push . . . shortly after a change in the wind direction ended the out-of-sight tete-a-tete the Curmudgeon and i were having on the beach, we were distracted from house politics by the delivery of two new couches, an easy chair and an ottoman, all upholstered in cream ultrasuede and none of which was nearly as attractive as the pretty white trash from Coastal freight service who struggled to get them up the stairs.

But the tension that had been simmering all day finally bubbled over me when Baby Huey, who had parked himself on the couch all morning, made a crack about the lunch that i had prepared . . . oh, egg salad, i don't recall ever having that before! . . . yeah and it's remarks like that made me refuse to let u back in the house this year, i shot back . . . in fact, the Master Spinner had asked if i would mind if he bought the weekend for Baby Huey from the absent Expatriate, so when he ambled down to the pool to assess the damage from the grenade his off-and-on-again boyfriend had lobbed from the bay deck, i gave it to him, too . . . tell that asshole he's a guest in this house and if u two don't like the lunch i made to make your own fuckin' lunch or go somewhere else . . . the Master Spinner muttered u need to get a life but 15 minutes later, Baby Huey delivered a smirky apology that echoed Testa Grande's interpretation that perhaps he had just been teasing . . . go back to Planet Nice, i had said at the time and i wasn't much more receptive to Baby Huey . . . still, if there was going to be a tribal council that evening, i wasn't sure i wouldn't be the first person voted off the island, so i immediately began more than carrying my weight, unwrapping the new furniture, gathering firewood, trying to fix the gas grill and generally making myself useful, a strategy that didn't work very well for Hunter on Marquesas but one that has kept me an integral housemate for 15 seasons.

By the time Testa Grande, the Curmudgeon, and the Repeater had returned from what the Curmudgeon insisted was the most enjoyable low tea he had ever experienced, the storm clouds had disappeared and i was looking at the Master Spinner's digital pictures of Azerbaijan with him and Baby Huey on the couch . . . we ate our pork tenderloin with gusto . . . the Master Spinner and Baby Huey went to bed before midnight finally leaving the couch available . . . Testa Grande, the Curmudgeon, the Repeater and i got into what i might call a post-prandial sexual pissing contest, each contributing an outrageous story or two about our recent sex lives . . . yes, the Curmudgeon, who remained celibate for a number of years, did give somebody a blow job in a taxi one night and which of course reminded Testa Grande of the time . . . is this the gay equivalent of a bunch of veterans--for all of us are indeed survivors--sitting around telling war stories?

When things started getting a little too graphic and repetitive, this reluctant participant retired only to have the full moon lure him to the Meatrack a little after 1 a.m. just as herds of comely neophytes were heading merrily to the Pavilion, where overpriced drinks and sloping dance floors and the faint smell of puke awaited them . . . the geography of the Meatrack seems to change more than the people who go there . . . new paths may have been cut into the dunes but the pursuit of big dick remains timeless . . . and it's a good thing too, because most of the same big dicks keep coming back year after year . . . the Meatrack is the one place in the Pines where your looks and age really don't matter . . . it took me a long time to hook up with somebody reasonably attractive cocksucker i didn't recognize . . . sure there were a couple of new faces, including a hot beefy guy in a Princeton sweatshirt with enormous nipples and a tattoo on his lower back that pointed to his asshole, but i wonder how many seasons he will last begging for loads? . . . i didn't provide him with one but saw him continuing his quest during the three hours i spent there . . . inevitably, on the long walk home, as the disco bunnies had begun their reverse commute, i had to ask myself . . . are two orgasms worth walking a mile in each direction and losing a good night's sleep? . . . only the thought of my freshly baked coconut bread kept me putting one foot in front of the other.

Sunday

Part of my rationalization for trekking to the Meatrack had been the hope that i would be able to sleep late on a day that was forecast to be gray, which it was, but both the occupants and acoustics of our house made that wishful thinking even though i was not the last to awaken . . . resignation and a plateful of apple muffins kept me silent about the earlybird noise and by the time i had had a cup of coffee, Testa Grande returned with a copy of the Times, stimulating a lively discussion about world affairs . . . our very own version of the Sunday morning chat shows, featured the opinions of a dyspeptic legal librarian who listed the countries he would blow off the face of the earth if even one of them harbored a terrorist who launched a successful nuclear attack on New York City; a Jewish communications consultant who debated his French boyfriend, an extraordinarily well-read and over qualifed furniture salesman, about how the Palestinian cause was depicted differently by the American and European media; and a highly opinionated interior designer who loses his aesthetic and cultural certainties whenever the subject changes to current events . . . i prolonged it for as long as i could, asking leading questions, until the inevitable calls of nature, restlessness and urgent priorities scattered the group . . . the Master Spinner and Baby Huey went food shopping, Testa Grande hunted for cock on the beach and boardwalks and ended up scavenging four outdoor chairs from the early 70s, the Curmudgeon read Two Boys, At Swim with a useless dictionary beside him, the Repeater peered over his bifocals at a PD James mystery and i did my Jane Fonda routine, hoping to pump up my chest and arms for my first and earliest appearance ever at the Pavilion to hear Susan Morabito.

A long, mid-afternoon game of hard Scrabble among the Curmudgeon, the Master Spinner and i killed the relaxed vibe of the morning, particularly when the Curmudgeon lost to the Master Spinner after a challenge to "qats" on a triple word score that technically should not have been allowed but that i chose to ignore because it worked in my favor . . . u simply cannot escape shifting alliances in a group of six gay men, all of whom until recently lived on their own . . . just call this weekend--or any other for that matter--"The House of Six MEs" . . . various attempted naps, repeated snacks, walks on the beach, cooking and a visit to another house (most to a soundtrack by Elgar, Celine Dion, Peggy Lee, Cher, the Black Party and Moby) filled up the long hours before another delicious meal that probably should have been avoided by the graying and balding disco bunnies around the table: roast chicken stuffed with wild rice, cranberries and mushrooms served with ratatouille and a salad, followed by the kind of fancy chocolate raspberry meringue dessert that only a snooty frog like Baby Huey can make.

From the couch, where he had beat his only justifiably guilt-free retreat of the weekend, the Master Spinner suggested that we play one of our standard house games with the Repeater, asking him and also the Curmudgeon, who never had participated before: list your favorite animal; your second favorite animal; your favorite beverage; and following each, your three reasons why . . . from this we learned how the Repeater and the Curmudgeon see themselves, how others see them and how they feel about sex . . . no revelations in that last category given our neverending exploration of that subject . . . in fact, i was so thoroughly disgusted by yet another sexual dinner conversation, i proposed that we start fining anyone who mentions sex . . . yeah, like a dollar that we'll add to the kitty, agreed the Repeater, one of the worst offenders . . . better $25 so we can eat really well, i countered, ever mindful of the drag my limited budget puts on the house economy . . . by the time the Curmudgeon and i were finished cleaning up we could have bought enough lobster and foie gras for the rest of the summer.

The Curmudgeon and the Repeater went downstairs to nap leaving the Master Spinner, Baby Huey and Testa Grande upstairs with me . . . the Master Spinner and Baby Huey, once fond of Tina, now drank Sleepytime tea in front of the fire and moved the furniture to secure their maximum comfort while Testa Grande lay on one of the new couches, conscious that everyone probably thought his dirty feet--he insists on going barefoot as much as possible---would soil the white ultrasuede . . . another relaxed conversation, this time mostly about the artists included in the MP3 "Dinner in the Pines" mix, that along with "Cocktails in the Pines" has taken up almost all the disk space on my tangerine I-Book . . . Ella Fitzgerald is to Cole Porter as Dionne Warwick is to? . . . u hated Bjork when i tried to get u to listen to her three seasons ago . . . it's bonno, not bone-o . . . but as soon as the Master Spinner and Baby Huey went to bed, Testa Grande and i began to talk more seriously . . . even tho we rarely see each other in the city we picked up right where we left off last summer, easily confiding in each other about our feelings and the changes that we're going through as we get older . . . these kinds of non-sexual but deeply intimate relationships seem to thrive in the Pines and make the hassle of sharing a house worthwhile.

Monday

Master Spinner and Baby Huey tiptoed around upstairs when they arose and not only because they knew they were on thin ice already . . . for some unfathomable reason, the guys in our house try much harder not to disturb your abbreviated slumber if they know u went to "church" the night before . . . they're also likely to pay close attention to your debriefing to see who was there and if they missed anything . . . for years i listened to these silly conversations thinking who gives a shit but now that i've started going out again, i can't wait to relive the night before an audience . . . sleep continued to elude me so i arose with Testa Grande . . . the Curmudgeon, who returned from the Pavilion last, was already up . . . we've got to start trying different DJs, i whined . . . Susan Morabito has played that same set every time we've gone to hear her . . . the Curmudgeon wasn't having any . . . u might have had a better time if u had been on something: no alcohol, no drugs, no wonder! . . . the Master Spinner, busily stirring chicken soup, was quick to recommend crystal with a K chaser . . . even the Repeater had taken a break to smoke some pot once or twice . . . financially induced sobriety ($8 for a drink!) didn't prevent me from shaking my butt for more than four hours . . . it hadn't inhibited my behavior when a couple of dirty dancing opportunities arose, either . . . i suppose i might have enjoyed the scene more with drugs . . . god knows everybody else seemed to be snorting or swallowing something but the tactile sensations of communing with dozens of hot, sweaty bodies plus the rapture of the all-too-familiar beats offered stimulation enough for me . . . nor did i require the support of a wall for part of the evening to keep my balance as did the Curmudgeon who, by the same token, also had the E-induced courage to introduce himself to a couple of guys . . . say hello with your body instead of your mouth i had shouted . . . neither technique offered much success, a fact that did not escape our audience whose attention shifted to bagels, Evelyn Waugh and Vanity Fair on a humid and warm overcast day . . . i couldn't wait to get home to solitude and sleep . . . after wearing my maid's uniform long enough to say that i left my room and the kitchen as i would expect to find it, i planned an early escape with the Curmudgeon . . . of course the sun came out just as we boarded the 2:50 ferry.