WHO PINCHED THE GIN?

Friday

Weeks in the End House begin on Fridays . . . during high season, the switch over can create some tension between those arriving and those leaving . . . i caught the 11:30 boat with Testa Grande, the Prince and the Ingenue . . . all of us were itching to get to the beach after a stifling Independence Day . . . we found the Ditz and three other people still at the house . . . who could blame them with a heat wave waiting for them in the city? . . . unfortunately, we also found a note upstairs next to the telephone from a couple who had departed the day before:

Dear Fellow Sharers:

We had left a full bottle of gin in the lower drawer in the small bedroom after our week in May.

The gin was not “house gin”, as it was brought from the city, not using house funds. The gin was left under clothes in the dresser, so that we could enjoy it when we came out this week.

To our complete surprise, someone had gone through our clothes, taken the gin and drank it all.

Whoever may be responsible, please place a full bottle back where you found it. You know the brand. Thanks.

The Curmudgeon already had tipped me off about the missing bottle so the note didn’t come as a complete surprise though I did think it was a bit cheeky . . . the Prince reacted with some dialog uttered by Eliza Dolittle in My Fair Lady’s Ascot scene . . . Somebody pinched it, and what I say is, them as pinched it done her in...Them she lived with would have killed her for a hat pin, let alone a hat...Gin was mother's milk to her. Besides, he'd poured so much down his own throat, he knew the good of it...Drank! My word! Something chronic! . . . we had a good laugh over that . . perhaps i would have felt differently if it were my bottle of Bombay Sapphire, but given the fact that I had cleaned the house from top to bottom before i left, i thought they should accept the bad with the good . . . in any case, i made myself scarce as quickly as possible.

Some people get their ego-gratification from wearing designer clothes or eating at hot restaurants; i get mine from swimming the length of the Pines . . . with the ocean temperature finally warm enough I set out for the beach with my goggles to do my first swim of the season . . . i swam 1,850 strokes (yes, i count every one of them, alternating the breaststroke and sidestroke) which almost got me to the Meatrack . . . the strength and flow of the current affect how far i get.

I rarely double back, however, because i’m always hoping that when i walk back to my starting point, wearing my goggles around my neck, that someone will take notice . . . according to one of my long-dead house mates (the mortality rate in the three houses that i have shared over the years has been pretty high) someone actually did, once, and it should have illustrated the futility of my quest in a community where the residents are judged by their beauty, income or talent . . . he was hanging out on the beach with some friends when i walked past . . . hey, what’s that guy doing wearing a dog collar? someone asked . . . not exactly the kind of notoriety i desired, but notoriety nevertheless i suppose . . . like Oscar says, it doesn’t matter what people say so long as they are talking about u.

Much more to my liking was the reaction i got a couple years later during jellyfish season from a couple of muscle boys who looked as if they never got their hair wet . . . was that u swimming out there? asked one . . . bingo! . . . i slowed down . . . yeah . . . aren’t there jellyfish? don’t they sting? asked the other . . . yeah, but they don’t hurt much i answered tho my skin was tingling unpleasantly and kept walking, feeling as butch as i ever have.

The Ditz had returned from a visit to the Pines doctor by the time i was through trying to show off . . . they couldn’t do anything about my ear infection . . . i told him someone had left a bottle of gin upstairs the last time they were out which, after three weeks, had gradually disappeared . . . could that have been it? . . . i don’t know, u will have to ask them . . . he tried to give me their e-mail address but i decided not to get involved and instead concentrated on getting the refrigerator and pots and pans back in order . . . i also took the opportunity to ask them where they had stowed a bright yellow lamp table that i added to the morning room when i rearranged the furniture a week earlier . . . uh, i put it in the storage room, said Willow, the Ditz’s lover, who affects the distracted demeanor of a waspy Connecticut matron . . . to each his own u know . . . yeah, like i wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that shirt which looks as if it were a bunch of Laura Ashley remnants stitched together . . . my weekend wasn’t beginning very well even though i had been relieved of Cooking and shopping responsibilities . . . when i told the Prince i had put a couple of things on a list he whined u mean we have to do all the shopping? . . . i should have said except for the things that Testa Grande and i lugged all the from Stop ‘n Shop but kept my mouth shut.

In the meantime, the Curmudgeon arrived and nervously headed off to a house on Bay to have a drink with some guy he met at the Pier Party during the Pride festivities . . . it looked as if he might be having a very busy stay because Big Talker, someone with whom he’d had an affair last year, was also in from San Francisco . . . but he returned soon enough and said he’d take the Scrabble game to the beach . . . so did u do it? i demanded as soon as i joined him . . . we didn’t and i’m not sure it’s going to happen . . . u should have pounced i said . . . what other reason would someone have invited u to their house when u could just as easily have met on the beach? . . . i want to be the one who gets pounced he replied . . . yeah, just like the rest of us . . . still, i wonder if sublimating his sexual energy has made him a more competitive Scrabble player . . . he scored his personal best, something he later attributed to not drinking in the afternoons.

I stayed at the beach much later than usual and discovered that a friend of the Ingenue’s had dropped by with a couple of guys who were in the original cast of Naked Boys Singing . . . just my luck tho it did permit me to avoid the embarrassment of Dirty Old Men Staring . . . when the Curmudgeon left to join everyone at low tea, i stayed home to make dessert, another strawberry glace pie, and get the house back in order . . . Testa Grande and the Ingenue returned early because of the holiday weekend crowd . . . i hope u washed your hands before u started making the salad, said the Ingenue to Testa Grande . . . i saw u putting them all over those sweaty backs at tea . . . if he’s looking for fastidiousness, he better find another cook.

Sobriety is a terrible thing find waxing at home for u . . . none of my house mates was feeling any pain and by the time we sat down to our first alfresco dinner of the season i definitely felt like the odd man out . . . the discussion over pork tenderloin (again!) turned to Martha Stewart . . . i couldn’t believe it when the Prince started to defend her based on what he had read in New York magazine . . . things got ugly when, apropos of nothing, he turned to me and asked what do u do? as if someone who is unemployed had no right questioning the ethics of a successful business person . . . the Ingenue didn’t help matters when he started ranting about his difficulty in finding some music to play for his friends . . . who makes those tapes with the names that give you absolutely no idea of what’s on them? . . . with that i excused myself and went to bed where, for most of the night, i sulked while tossing and turning . . . should i stay or should i go? . . . only the fifth of July and already i’m over the Pines.

Saturday

It took most of the day for my black mood, which came right on schedule, to lift . . . rising early and concentrating on my exercise routines, including a 90 minute walk to Davis Park and back (while listening to “Testosteroll”, an inexplicably titled tape mixing Cher, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, the Moffatts, New Radicals and Hole) and lifting my dumbbells while the Prince prepared a fritatta for breakfast let everyone know to keep their distance . . . but i couldn’t resist joining the Curmudgeon on the beach to find out how his date with Pride Guy had gone . . . when i went over to his house he seemed more interested in the conversation his house mates were having than me . . . and i didn’t mention Scrabble, either, just like u suggested . . . when the subject of my moodiness came up, he insisted i was being oversensitive and basically told me i needed to lighten up.

After deciding to barbecue chicken for dinner, we ran into Der Fuhrer, just arriving from a family gathering on the Jersey Shore, en route to the Pantry where as usual we were the only patrons wearing shirts . . . preparing creamy potato salad helped me get to a different place and end my misery tho i must admit Testa Grande didn’t make this any easier when he brought somebody back from Wanker’s Way back for a light meal and several brews . . . should i bring the grapes out? asked the former Mr. Drummer, who looked much better in the pool than he did up close, before snatching away what had been my lunch . . . i think we saw Testa Grande giving that guy a foot massage on our walk to Water Island, whispered the Prince as he mixed vodka cocktails with chopped spearmint for him and the Ingenue . . . i’m surprised that’s all u saw, i said . . . the Bitch was indeed back and talking!

While we were making dinner, the Curmudgeon wrongly attributed my good spirits to a gin and tonic . . . a doctor specializing in addiction once told me if u drink only when u are happy u probably won’t ever have a drinking problem, but if u drink when u are sad, watch out, advice i never have forgotten . . . now it was the Curmudgeon’s turn to get his knickers in a twist . . . come out here and look at the gas grill he insisted . . . they left all the jets open last weekend and now we don’t have any propane to barbecue my chicken!

Independence Day marks the beginning of the high season in the Pines . . . overnight it seems like hordes of the hunkiest guys on the planet have made this narrow strip of sand their summer playground . . . by early afternoon the beach resembles the swimsuit competition in a male beauty pageant where anybody can be a judge . . . but both high and low tea suddenly get a lot more crowded and intense for the faint of heart so i wasn’t surprised when the Prince and the Ingenue returned to the house early and agreed to play Scrabble . . . the Curmudgeon’s prowess with all the obscure two letter words he has memorized quickly outraged them but the Prince, with a little coaching from a couple of experts, still managed to win just after the lights went out.

Does this mean we won’t be able to go out dancing? asked Der Fuhrer who finally had some justification for burning every fucking candle in the house . . . the power capabilities of the Pavilion and the season’s recreational drug use trends proved to be far safer topics than Martha Stewart’s finances . . . the conversation also demonstrated how sheltered certain kinds of couples can be from the seamier aspects of gay life . . . what is K? asked the Prince and the Ingenue in concert . . . and we discovered that a mere reference to rimming is a sure fire way to get the Ingenue to start clearing the table.

The Curmudgeon decided that with Victor Calderone spinning at the Pavilion we could go earlier than we had last time which still left a couple of hours to kill after dinner . . . Testa Verde retired to bed and the Ingenue conked out on the couch while Der Fuhrer and i mostly listened to the Curmudgeon and the Prince duke it out over Warhol vs. Picasso . . . of course Warhol is the equal of Picasso, asserted the Prince . . . no, argued the Curmudgeon, u have to take technical ability as well as impact into account . . . whatever . . . should i wear my bitch dog shorts again even tho Testa Grande insists that it’s not quite time to bring back cutoffs?

Sunday

Would u believe that we nearly got busted as soon as we got to the Pavilion? . . . Der Fuhrer suggested we go upstairs to get a overview of the floor and pick the hottest spot . . . when should we take our E? he asked . . . NOW . . . but just as each of us was unwrapping our little pink pill, some long-haired geezer with a flashlight came out of nowhere and warned . . . hey guys, don’t make me have to ask u to leave . . . giggling like a trio of high school girls, we made our way back downstairs and swallowed . . . ten minutes later we had claimed our space . . . two hours later, i came as close as i ever have to heat stroke while the Curmudgeon hung on to Der Fuhrer for dear life . . . but refilling our water bottles from the restroom tap and a brief cooling off period revived me . . . by the time Victor played “Beautiful Stranger” i thought i had died and gone to heaven . . . the Curmudgeon and i closed the place tho we left separately when he got introduced at the last minute to some cutie who already had left the Pavilion once, slept, showered and returned . . . i took the beach route home but when i removed my shoes, i discovered that profuse sweating had pickled my feet . . . blue veins were visible under white and soggy flesh . . . perhaps i should share this phenomenon with Partnership for a Drug-Free America: these are your feet. and these are your feet on Ecstasy . . . such a campaign might even work given the fact that for most of us, vanity trumps health every time.

Don’t know if it was the aftereffects of the drug, the lack of sleep, the milky, steamy daylight or the rolling blackouts but the remainder of the day had an eerie feel to it . . . the Prince and the Ingenue must have thought i was schizophrenic . . . instead of the silent treatment, they got a breathless account of the disco and entreaties to join us at the Pines Party as soon as they got up, not believing we hadn’t been to sleep . . . u look like u should be on doing the weather forecast on television said the Ingenue . . . yesterday i was icy, today i was warmly complimenting him on the fact that he had better legs than 90% of the muscle boys on the beach.

After a brief nap, i awoke to a buffet lunch prepared by the Prince using every leftover in the house who declared they would go bad otherwise . . . he’s too new to the End House to know that i eat ANYTHING if it doesn’t smell too bad . . . one of the Ingenue’s high school friends, Game Show Guy, joined us . . . i can’t decide if it’s generational or geographical, but i seem to meet more and more guys who have gay friendships--most from the New York City area--that go back to their teens, a time when i did everything i could, unsuccessfully as it turned out, to keep my peers from finding out.

U could tell Game Show Guy and the Ingenue had grown up near the Jersey shore: their bathing suits were more modest but less fashionable and they played kadima with an aggressiveness i associate with heterosexuality . . . guys who pick it up in the Pines tend to adopt a more cooperative style and spend way too much time apologizing to one another when their partner misses, no doubt recalling humiliating moments from gym class . . . as my late and only lover used to say if there’s a ball involved, i’m not.

The Prince and the Ingenue joined the holiday weekend exodus; Der Fuhrer and the Curmudgeon went to low tea, looking a little worse for the wear; and i headed to the Meatrack hoping to avenge my own more recent humiliation on the dance floor: some cute young couple had rejected me when a bad case of E dick failed to measure up to the steady pump of my E hips . . . it didn’t take me long to hook up with some hunky if tweaked space cadet my own age who screamed u are right up my alley and said u are better than anything in my dildo collection . . . such a sweet talker! . . . still, the encounter gave this old sex addict just the rush he needed before chowing down on the leftover leftovers and going to bed.

MONDAY

Another mile-long swim knocked it out of me even after ten hours of sleep so i was perfectly content to lay near the Curmudgeon on the beach where fewer people made it easier for him to cruise . . . at least once a season he manages to get laid simply by looking up from whatever book he’s reading, in this case Empire Falls by Richard Russo, chosen because of its setting in Maine where he grew up and longs to retire . . . Monday’s candidate, a tweaked young blond with a fetching butt crack, sashayed past and gave him the unmistakable come hither look . . . big mistake: the Curmudgeon expects to be picked up . . . how come so many bottoms look like tops and vice versa? . . . another of nature’s cruel jokes, i suppose . . . or do i mean nurture’s?

The Curmudgeon also reported that Der Fuhrer had gone shopping for a major sit down lunch in anticipation of the Cook’s arrival and an invitation that the Curmudgeon had extended to Ski Boy, a potential Scrabble partner Der Fuhrer had met during gay week at Aspen . . . a $20 food assessment at 11 a.m. on Monday a.m. for a meal when i would have preferred an apple did not please me . . . tho both Der Fuhrer and i are unemployed, his nest egg is considerably larger than mine . . . i knew we would have to have a conversation, and soon, if we were going to be spending the entire week together.

A young hunk visitation provided some early afternoon diversion when the Sun Queen’s ex, the World’s Nicest Boyfriend, stopped by with his new boyfriend, a sweet guy who looked like the Sun Queen, sans the crow’s feet . . . chrome nipple and navel rings contrasted vividly with WNB’s nearly black skin . . . we talked about the past, partying and piercing . . . WNB also mentioned they recently had fired their maid even tho she left them an occasional joint . . . while everyone else laughed, i was thinking career opportunity and feared that a pot supplying maid might convince Der Fuhrer to join the people in our house who are lobbying for a house cleaner.

Ski Boy hadn’t shown by 3 p.m. . . . i asked him at tea while he was drinking a Planter’s Punch, explained the Curmudgeon . . . we played without him and i finally broke my losing streak . . . the Cook had arrived and was sitting in his usual spot, smoking and staring out at the ocean while Der Fuhrer bustled about, setting the table and using half a liter of olive oil for the pasta, bread and salad . . . just as we were finishing we heard an affected voice tentatively calling out hello . . . tho he had stimulated Der Fuhrer’s erotic imagination, which tends to be of the Hitler youth variety, it quickly became clear that he was sorrier he had missed Scrabble than lunch and that the Curmudgeon would once again be the cause of sexual frustration in the Pines.

I’m just so excited, enthused Ski Boy, a freckle-faced quarter share from Chicago who was incapable of making conversation unless he was the topic . . . I opened the Pines Phone Book and there was my name! . . . he made our own Ingenue look positively jaded . . . a brief interrogation also indicated that he and his roommate were supplying the eye candy in a house populated my men of our age, a good generation older than he . . . the kind that Cook while the kids go to tea and the Pavilion, but who like to keep their fingers on the pretty pulse . . . seeing the Pines through their eyes can inspire an almost paternal nostalgia . . . fucking them can be like drinking from the fountain of youth.

The Curmudgeon, however, wasn’t thirsty for this effeminate flavor and said he had to get ready to leave . . . when he excused himself to shower, Ski Boy bid us adieu and followed him downstairs, probably intending to persuade him to take a later ferry . . . poor guy . . . no Scrabble, no nookie . . . a similar situation with a happier ending had occurred last season when Baby Huey had sold one of Master Spinner’s weekends to Big Talker, a business acquaintance from San Francisco who proved my theory that there is a direct correlation between boring professions and kinkiness in bed.

Everyone in the house knew within five minutes that Big Talker, a hairy, overweight blow hard, had the hots for the Curmudgeon . . . i think he’s the most attractive man i’ve ever met he cooed to anyone within earshot . . . naturally we communicated this to the Curmudgeon who still refused to make the first move, so Der Fuhrer literally pushed Big Talker into the master bedroom where the object of his school girl lust was taking a publicly announced shower . . . i was in my room at the time, but i still could overhear the seduction as it took place . . . where are u? called Big Talker . . . i’m in the shower . . . want to see how these nozzles work? . . . puhleeeeeze . . . shouldn’t someone who can read Proust in French come up with a better line? . . . their affair lasted almost a month with the Curmudgeon flying to San Francisco for Pride weekend and some costumed sex.

Once the Curmudgeon left, i headed to Wanker’s Way, hoping for some time to myself . . . i parked between a hot couple already masturbating each other and some crazy Brit who, according to Testa Grande, packs a pair of pink panties in his beach bag just in case . . . slim pickens, indeed, given my lack of interest in English kink . . . Der Fuhrer and the Cook decided to skip tea which allowed us to eat at a decent hour but it also forced me to have a cocktail with them when i would have preferred to read or write . . . plus there’s nothing worse than being a captive audience during dinner for a couple of old friends . . . they drank, smoked and reminisced while i listened politely to one outrageous story after another . . . there was this time when i played spoons after doing drugs in Omaha with this girl we both know . . . if u weren’t able to grab a spoon when the time came, u had to eat cold baked beans . . . i never missed once . . . i guess u had to have been there and drunk and stoned . . . thank god a sore throat finally gave me an excuse to turn in early.

THE WEEK

After buzzing Der Fuhrer's hair first thing on Tuesday, i got a call from the Sun Queen . . . he wanted to buy a week in August from the Repeater . . . i think i’ll have Chocolate Lover and his friend from Florida out too, he said as breezily as if he still owned a share . . . is this the same guy who refused to renew because “exclusive weeks,” which once made it possible for house mates to fill all five beds with guests from Monday through Thursday, had been abandoned as a result of the rising unemployment rate in our house? . . . but when i told him that purchasing an available week did not include guest privileges he said we’ll see as if he were the only person who had a say in the matter . . . no wonder he’s a successful garmento.

Taking out the Expatriate’s sea kayak for the first time this summer promised to be a good stress reliever and allow me to avoid any discussion of meal preparation since i was determined to make do with fruit and Monday’s lunch leftovers . . . there’s no better way to snoop in the Pines and get a look at the beautiful bay front houses . . . music sounds great, too . . . for this trip i chose “The Estrogen In Me” which mixes Carole King, Carly Simon, Aimee Mann, Joan Armatrading and Chantal Kreviazuk . . . despite the soundtrack it was easy to imagine that i was Captain John Smith and that Pocohantas was only a paddle away, soaking in one of the hot tubs with a view of the sunset.

But back to reality: kayaking also offers a unique route to the Meatrack . . . i hid my craft in the reeds and spent a couple of hours cruising . . . much to my annoyance, i found a sign that violated my sense of propriety thumbtacked to a tree near the entrance to what Testa Grande and i call the Pig Pit, so named for the hopeful denizens who typically sit naked in a white plastic chair beating off and looking for group action of any kind . . . red lettering handwritten on notebook paper announced CELL PHONE LOST: if u find it please turn it in at the Belvedere . . . i resisted the impulse to rip it down whenever i passed and eventually got lucky with a beautiful daddy kind of guy who was probably younger than me even tho he insisted on calling me his beautiful boy . . . as the Master Spinner is so fond of saying, everyone has their own reality.

As the skies darkened with clouds, i spotted a stylish pair of sunglasses in the sand where earlier i had noticed a disinterested group of 20somethings playing with each other . . . finders keepers, losers weepers i thought vengefully, eager to see if my new eye wear would take a decade or two off my age . . . still, i couldn’t resist checking into the Pig Pit one final time and ripping down the cell phone sign on my way out . . . once i pushed the kayak back into the bay i hung the sunglasses over my life jacket and quickly paddled east, wondering what it would be like to be caught in the storm . . . but just before i got to the Pines harbor entrance, i realized that my purloined sunglasses had fallen into the bay . . . and that, class, is today’s lesson in karma.

Despite the imminent downpour, Der Fuhrer and the Cook were rushing to the Pantry when i arrived at the house . . . they returned three hours later, dry but drunk, having taken refuge at tea with their groceries . . . after two Planter’s Punches, Der Fuhrer behaved obnoxiously, telling me how wonderful i am and what a wonderful leaseholder he is . . . i wasn’t having any of it and intimated he was a flaming asshole before finishing my meal and saying good night . . . the only thing that kept me from going back to the city first thing in the morning was knowing that Der Fuhrer was already planning to leave.

By 10 a.m. Wednesday, I finally had the place to myself for a couple of nights . . . or so i thought . . . the World’s Nicest Boyfriend and his new beau were on the beach when i went for a very chilly swim . . . WNB, who knows the Sun Queen as well as anyone, agreed that he had a lot of chutzpah after i had vented . . . i could tell the WNB’s new beau loved the dish because, according to the Sun Queen, he was very jealous . . . nothing like stirring the pot on the beach with a pair of newlyweds who are still in the hand holding stage . . . give them a few years and one of them will be asking about palimony, too!

We made a deliberate choice not to have a television because it sucks the conversation right out a house but i must admit i miss it when i’m alone . . . sometimes u do need a distraction from the sun, sea and sex so i’ve turned to blogging to fill up the long summer days . . . Broadway scores, best heard from beginning to end, offer another entertaining diversion if u don’t mind the show tune stereotype . . . sometimes i even combine the two: like Wednesday evening when i listened to “Back To Broadway” and the words poured out of my fingertips as smoothly as Barbra’s mouth . . . like buttah . . . too bad my computer battery ran out of juice before i could save what i had written about the previous week . . . i lost a good two hours of work . . . the cute shirt less guy in a cowboy hat reading on the roof right across from where i was composing must have heard me shout fuck . . . in consolation, i cranked up “As If We Never Said Goodbye” loudly enough to be heard in Cherry Grove, just in time for a magnificent sunset, the kind when a huge orange ball melts over Long Island against a purply pink sky . . . was it my imagination or was my neighbor doing an interpretative dance? . . . was he lingering deliberately? . . . i wasn’t in any mood to find out.

Der Fuhrer, who has a two-weeks on, two-weeks off schedule, called Thursday morning to say he wouldn’t be back until Friday after the dermatologist had removed the little worm of skin that extruded from the crease of his mouth . . . but the Prince, who has the same schedule, also had said he might return on Thursday, so i checked the schedule and calculated that the coast wouldn’t be absolutely clear until bedtime which worried me a little . . . what if he and the Ingenue did show up unexpectedly? . . . was there enough food to feed them? . . . but by 11 p.m. i still was blissfully alone and went to bed only to be awakened at 12:30 by the front door sliding open and someone charging upstairs.

I was more confused than frightened although the scenario for a horror movie that i once conjured up with the Neurotic, my oldest gay friend, did flash through my mind . . . here’s the concept: an embittered drag queen in the Pines uses a dildo to bludgeons all the cute, happy couples when the ferry is out of service . . . actually we changed it to cute couples period, otherwise there wouldn’t be enough gore . . . how ironic if now i turned out to be one of the victims . . . please girlfriend, i’m hopelessly single, don’t kill me.

But it was just Der Fuhrer who had caught a ride to Bay Shore with a straight stockbroker friend and managed to get to the Pines from Ocean Beach using connecting water taxis . . . i guess if u were as tanked or high as he was, the story might have been amusing but it tested my patience the next morning . . . i beat a hasty retreat to the beach before leaving.