FREELOADIN’

Friday

My love/hate relationship with the Pines continues . . . how badly did i want to get the beach Friday morning? . . . badly enough so that when a sick passenger stopped the #1 at 50th Street at 8:45 i decided the only way to make the 9:01 from Penn Station was to get out and sprint down 7th Avenue . . . so what if the temperature had already crept into the low 80s? . . . so what if i was carrying a heavy backpack and a bag full of items from Fairway? . . . so what if weakened knees forced me to stop running last year? . . . i made it, sopping wet, with enough energy to hit the Stop ‘n Shop, too, tho i had shin splints for days.

Eavesdropping on the ferry can be very entertaining . . . i once imagined a Pines newsletter called POOF News with a section called “Ferry Talk” which would feature shop talk . . . u know how it is, u run into someone u haven’t seen for a week or two and what do u do? u talk about your job . . . after all, sharing in the Pines doesn’t come cheap, we don’t have families to discuss and there’s a limit to what u can say about your pet.

As i waited downstairs to disembark, i stood near a cute young fellow with a very excitable fox terrier who kept straining at his leash . . . another familiar looking fellow bent down to pet him . . . within seconds the dog had calmed down completely . . . u should have been around for the rest of the trip. what are u, a vet? . . . no, i’m a massage therapist . . . maybe u should become a pet massage therapist . . . no way, enough of my clients are animals already!

Including one in our house . . . during a lonely week early in June Der Fuhrer had hired this fellow, whose dark Slavic looks smile invitingly from the small pink posters u have seen thumbtacked to the telephone poles all along Fire Island Boulevard . . . much to Der Fuhrer’s embarrassment, release was not among the services he provided . .. besides, like they say, lie down with dogs, get up with fleas and really, what do u expect when u use a highly flattering photograph to try to seduce a clientele of pigs?

The Repeater beat me to the house and had to deal with my litany of complaints . . . the leak in the pool still hadn’t been repaired, no one had put the garbage out, etc. . . . is this what i had risked a heart attack for rushing out here this morning? . . . i sounded just like that guy David Drake
played in End of the World Party . . . go for a dip and cool off, suggested the Repeater from his reclining position on the couch, and if u make a list i will do the shopping . . . deal . . . the Expatriate arrived soon after for his first weekend and brought with him a badly needed gust of nostalgia for the good old days, when sharing in the Pines was more fun than work . . . or so it always seems in retrospect.

We met 14 years ago when i was organizing my first house and he responded to an ad i had placed in the Village Voice . . . we bonded as soon as we discovered a passion for disco and the Jean Stein/George Plimpton biography of Edie Sedgwick . . . he accepted our invitation to join the house shortly after interviewing with another group who stressed the importance of stocking up on tuna fish rather more than conversation over vodka stingers, which we were drinking that year . . . the Expatriate loves the Pines so much that he remained a quarter-share even after relocating to Kiev and then Moscow for his job with the federal government . . . no matter where i am in the world on a Saturday night during the summer, i always wish i was with you guys in the Pines . . . he also recognizes that every Pines house needs a personality like mine, judiciously observing that in times of major personality conflicts u always know there’s going to be toilet paper or things might not be where u would put them but once u master his system u know they’ll always be in the same place.

In between catching up and meal preparation, I snuck off to Wanker’s Way where things heated up pretty quickly as a result of threatening skies, the nude beach equivalent of last call at a cruise bar . . . i ended up in a long distance jerk off with some attractive guy with a glow-in-the-moonlight tan line . . . distance, like darkness, is such a good friend of mine that it occasionally bestows great beauty upon me . . . en route to the spot where i eventually chose to lay down my blanket i passed Season Hunk #3 who was so far out of my league that i kept right on walking even tho he had given me the once over . . . but as soon as he saw me and the other guy, he moved so close to us that i could see he carried his belongings in a Kenneth Cole bag.

The Expatriate and the Curmudgeon were chatting on the ocean deck when i returned with a shit-eating grin on my face to find that my shopping list had been followed to the letter, sparing me a visit to the meat market where u can buy steak, chops and chicken . . . the upswing continued over margaridas with two Scrabble victories while i made fusilli tossed with sausage, broccoli and red pepper, salad and garlic bread . . . we held dinner until the Repeater returned from a benefactor cocktail party for the Fire Island Dance Festival with one of his inevitable “beautiful boy” reports.

The Expatriate announced he would be bringing a friend for a visit in August . . . we were all ears . . . a Pines virgin who hadn’t come out until his late 30s, when he lost a lot of weight . . . after cosmetic surgery to remove his leftover skin folds, he began going to the gym regularly where his formerly fat personality paid some great dividends . . . so great that the Expatriate had to explain the safe facts of life to him . . . this of course led to a discussion of what’s safe in a world where the first generation of AIDS survivors is greatly outnumbered by young men who have never watched a friend or lover waste away, a world in which protease inhibitors have revived promiscuity almost as miraculously as HIV-infected bodies, though not without creating a new kind of scarlet letter . . . it really hit me a couple of years ago when i first went to El Mirage, expounded the Repeater . . . this absolutely beautiful boy went down on me and another guy. he got angry at me when i pushed him away just as i was about to come. he insisted it was his choice, not mine . . . ah yes, the load collector phenomenon, surely the most stupefying behavioral development in AIDS.

Saturday

Testa Grande showed up on Saturday morning, slightly jet lagged, but early enough to sit for a Q&A about his business trip to Munich over coffee . . . an early evening hike to a hilltop restaurant for authentic local cuisine also entailed walking back down in the dark carrying real torches . . . we also went to see one of the castles built by Ludwig, the Mad King of Bavaria. nobody could quite figure out why everything was so ersatz. i kept telling them because he was gay but they just didn’t get it.

Gray skies meant lots of traffic on the boardwalk when i walked to the harbor with the Curmudgeon and the Expatriate to purchase our Pines Party tickets and do the grocery shopping . . . yeah, the weather DOES suck. stop by later for crab cakes called out a jogger to several people ahead of us . . . food preparation is a surefire way to fight boredom which is why i agreed to cook my smart meal and top it off with a lemon meringue pie . . . too bad i forgot the pie crust and the lemons, or perhaps my subconscious knew that the sun would be coming out after all.

Just in time for the invasion of the Freeloader Cartel . . . Testa Grande returned from the harbor with three Colombian 20somethings, a bottle of coconut flavored rum and a bag of chips while i was scoring the London broil . . . he had just run into one of his old AOL tricks getting off the ferry with two of his friends, a pudgy but cute guy and a dark, rail-thin lesbian, chain-smokers all . . . nobody paid much attention to them but me . . . what’s the harm i thought, and did my best to be a gracious host, putting on “Girls in the Men’s Room,” a tape mixing Shakira, Garbage, Stevie Nicks, Shelby Lynne and Tori Amos and making small talk about beauty queens and the recent coup . . . yes, in Colombia we cultivate beauty queens with plastic surgery giggled the lesbian who also declared she was an anarchist . . . that’s because u are too young to be invested in society i chided, quickly clearing the room and sending a subtle message about members of the bourgeosie who had rented the house where she and her friends were getting sloshed.

Testa Grande’s friend, who won’t be able to work the cute boy angle very much longer, tried hard to ingratiate himself with me . . . join us for a drink when u are through cooking he pleaded . . . then he tickled my armpit when he caught be doing my exercises by the pool . . . having noticed three bags of clothing parked in the room with Testa Grande, i knew exactly what motivated his flirting and kept my distance.

I learned pretty early from a bad experience with a former house mate that day trippers can upset the delicate balance of a house in the Pines . . . this particular house mate was a member of the gay volleyball team which i thought would be a wonderful way to meet new people . . . until all the members of the team who didn’t have shares in the Pines starting showing up at our house early Saturday mornings . . . i nipped that in the bud real quick, informing the house mate that if his teammates didn’t find another place to change, shower and eat, we would refund his pro-rated share and he could look for another house . . . this confrontation forever established my reputation as a take-no-prisoners enforcer of house rules but everybody thanked me for doing the dirty work.

When Testa Grande’s impromptu pina colada party ended in an Ice Crisis, everyone suddenly began whispering the same questions: how long are they staying? did Testa Grande know they were coming? why didn’t he tell us? . . . no fool, Testa Grande said he would go to the store but left for the beach before doing so . . . so when the Repeater asked me what i needed from the store to make dessert, i told him we might not have enough ice to make margaridas . . . should i pick up some? he asked . . . that would be enabling behavior in my book, i replied, but u do what u want.

And now, a brief analysis of an Ice Crisis in the Pines: it forced a consultation between the Repeater and the Curmudgeon on the beach (“to buy, or not to buy, that is the question”) . . . it prompted the Repeater to hide the bag he had purchased in the bathroom sink of the master bedroom when the Freeloader Cartel returned from the beach to blend the few cubes that the machine had made in their absence . . . it involved the Expatriate sneaking the dripping bag upstairs before it completely melted as soon as the Freeloader Cartel had gone outside to consume a watery batch of pina coladas . . . it required me keeping my mouth shut when Testa Grande announced he was going to the store when he really would have preferred going to tea directly with his friends instead of making a lengthy detour back to the house . . . it meant explaining to Testa Grande why there already was a bag of ice in the freezer when he returned . . . oh, and all the subterfuge resulted in one nearly useless and certainly cubeless block of ice.

Still, it was hard to feel too guilty . . . as soon as Testa Grande got back from tea i asked how did u dispose of the Freeloader Cartel? . . . they weren’t freeloaders, he insisted before informing us they had gone to the Grove to see an art exhibit and planned to go dancing at the Pavilion that night . . . i knew u guys would get worked up about it but i thought it would be good for u . . . just as i thought it would be good for him to have to go to the harbor to replenish our ice supply.

This time everyone remained upright for my smart meal though the Expatriate wisely made his signature salad--greens tossed with walnuts, mandarin oranges and blue cheese--before going to a cocktail party where he nevertheless consumed enough alcohol to impair his debating ability . . . who, he asked, had the greatest effect on the 20th century? . . . i answered Hitler immediately and he spent the rest of the meal trying to convince everybody that in fact FDR or Churchill deserved the accolade . . . the Curmudgeon had been lobbying to go to the Pavilion to hear Susan Morabito but i protested the heaviness of our late dinner would prevent the drugs from working their magic . . . why don’t we give it a rest, especially in case we can't replenish our rapidly diminishing stash of party favors? . . . to my complete surprise, he agreed and we got some age-appropriate rest instead.

Sunday

Do you know u slept naked last night? demanded Testa Grande when he found me already upstairs early Sunday, preparing blueberry bran muffins and fruit salad . . . yeah, i was kind of drunk and forgot to put my shorts on. did u want to fuck me? i teased . . . no! . . . just the image of me getting pounded by Testa Grande turned the Curmudgeon’s easily upset stomach . . . remember, we’re not that kind of house . . . but it did lead him to wonder if he and Testa Grande, who have known each other since they met at Julius a generation ago would have behaved differently if they had been doing E and sharing a house when they were in their 20s.

Here’s an interesting, tho potentially difficult, rainy day diversion best conducted after the second round of cocktails: compute your House Intimacy Index (HII) by 1) determining who in your house has slept with the largest number of house mates, dividing the number by the total number of house mates and then multiplying that number by 100 to establish the slut quotient; and then 2) count the number of separate pairings, also dividing it by the total number of house mates but multiplying that number by 200 to establish the coupling factor; and 3) finally, separating these figures by a colon, i.e. (slut quotient):(coupling factor) . . . unless of course your entire house has been to the same orgy in which case u can forget the colon and just give yourself a 100.

An absolutely perfect day prevented us from computing our HII . . . visibility to the east extended all the way to Barrett Beach and the water temperature of the calm, clear ocean could be described only as delicious and it took almost no effort at all to complete my mile-long swim . . . the Expatriate had to catch a 2:50 boat so we had a farewell game of Scrabble on the beach which, thanks to the Fire Island Dance Festival was as integrated as i have ever seen it, at least at our relatively uncrowded end . . . look there’s some guy who used to chase me around the Ramble. i always avoided him until i opened the Arts & Leisure section one Sunday and discovered he was a big deal downtown choreographer . . . with the competition among the three of us so fierce, they both ignored my starfucking chatter until i gleefully pointed out that two of the best looking men in our vicinity were wearing the same bathing suit, and i don’t mean a simple Speedo but the kind chosen as carefully as a prom gown . . . u really are a teenage girl, aren’t u? laughed the Curmudgeon . . . he got that right . . . when i still went to tea i never failed to quote Cher in Clueless either: let’s do a lap before we commit to a location.

With everybody but the Repeater leaving by low tea, i dashed to the Meatrack where it didn’t take me long to get my rocks off in the standing-room-only Pig Pit . . . i’m always amazed when people bring their sex toys outdoors . . . this encounter gave me my first up close and personal look at a pair of tit clamps . . . as much as i like nipple play, extreme hardware just doesn’t do it for me (yet) . . . besides, it didn’t go with his bathing suit at all . . . early orgasm didn’t prevent me from spending another couple of hours hunting for a second, even a third . . . i ended back up in the Pig Pit where some guy with a Prince Albert who gave great head offered me his pre-lubed butt while he went down on another guy . . . not today, thank u.

More than once i had to step past some semi-attractive guy sleeping on a well-travelled path whose clothes were dirty and whose arms were scratched . . . so this is what homelessness looks like in the Pines . . . i made a mental note to avoid him if he woke up . . . a couple of attractive young guys participating in a group scene weren’t so fortunate . . . i watched Mr. Homeless get one guy to fuck him and then the third guy started fucking the guy who was fucking Mr. Homeless . . . suddenly a cell-phone rang, and the third guy took the call without ever breaking his rhythm . . . though i couldn’t hear what he said, if i were directing this particular tragicomic porno flick, he would have announced exactly where he was and what he was doing, like cell-phone users everywhere do . . . yeah, i’m in a bareback daisy chain in the Meatrack. can i call u back? . . . the scene broke up a few minutes later and as Mr. Homeless pushed past me i heard him say i hate rubbers, i hate rubbers . . . and everybody else here today, fella.

The Week

Initiating a pattern that continued until he left on Tuesday, the Repeater and i pretty much avoided one another back at the house . . . by the time i got back from my unsafe sex seminar on Sunday, he was mostly asleep or absent, leaving me in peace and quiet to clean, write, cruise, exercise and eat . . . people who don’t have a lot to say to one another can co-exist peacefully in a house together if they show each other some respect . . . unless of course u believe the Curmudgeon who insists that i terrorize everybody but him into submission . . . maybe he’s right . . . after straightening the pillows on the couch favored by the Repeater for the umpteenth time, i noticed he stopped sitting there . . . and he did leave earlier than expected . . . c’est la vie.

If only i could maintain that equilibrium regarding the Master Spinner and Baby Huey, his on-and-off again French boyfriend . . . they showed up mid-afternoon on Thursday without any advance notice even tho they had to vacate on Friday, hoping to find the house empty and reclaim the master bedroom, which is about the size of their soulless new apartment . . . instead, they found their worst nightmare: a bitchy, blabbermouth neat freak . . . i found a note when i returned from Wanker’s Way after a near miss with Season Hunk #3 (insecurity paralyzed me from making the first move even tho he kept looking in my direction) cheerily announcing we’re in the small room, which looks vacant . . . i fled the house in the kayak for two reasons: to give the sneaky arrivals some space and to spend as little time as possible with Baby Huey, my bete noire and chief suspect in the case of the pinched gin.

God knows the Meatrack provided plenty of distraction, and not for the first time that day . . . during my swim earlier that morning the current had taken me as far as the Grove and i couldn’t resist a walk through . . . White Speedo, some well-defined blond in a with a big dick who reeked hot sex approached me almost immediately . . . your cock’s cold he said as soon as he went down on me . . . been in the surf? love the goggles . . . finally! some recognition! . . . he basically ate me alive (the rimming did wonders for my body temperature) and wanted me to fuck him too but i managed to resist that very tempting invitation once he pulled apart his butt cheeks to expose his all-too-bumpy anus . . . and when i pulled out of his mouth to ejaculate, he said no, give me your load.

So there i am, for the second time that day, and who is the first person i see? . . . White Speedo except now, five hours later, it’s shit-stained because he’s getting fucked, or more accurately, pulling a train, to borrow a long-remembered phrase from the high school jock/cheerleader lexicon . . . and to think i could have been the engine . . . i mean at 11 a.m. i HOPE i was his first load of the day.

Actually i gave him my only load despite no lack of takers, including the Punching Bag, a remarkably attractive sick puppy who signaled his submissiveness by crawling to me on all fours across a very hot and very public expanse of white sand in his red Speedo and then licking my feet . . . i knew from previous experience what he wanted but took no pleasure in the look on his face, which combined rapture with faux fear, as i slammed my fist into his rock hard six pack . . . is there anything i won’t for a hunky guy? . . . still, give me a good kisser any day, like the neighbor i ran into who’s always walking his Briard on the beach . . . we had made searching eye contact on more than one occasion but kept stalling in the small-talk mode . . . we had absolutely no problem going from zero to 60 in the Meatrack, however . . . story of my life.

So u would think i would be purring like a cat who had just lapped up a bowl of cream when i finally paddled back to the house but all it took was a quick survey of the pool deck and the common areas to see that Master Spinner and Baby Huey already had trashed the house with their sloppiness . . . open magazines and newspapers, wet towels, half-empty glasses and scattered clothes covered nearly every available surface . . . i frostily acknowledged Master Spinner’s hello from one of the two couches he and Baby Huey occupy at every chance and quickly went back downstairs to do some therapeutic chores . . . i also noticed that the note regarding the pinched gin wasn’t exactly where i had left it prominently displayed by the telephone.

All fingers had been pointing at Baby Huey, who had both motive (he has been in and out of recovery during his four previous years as a house mate) and opportunity (he and Master Spinner occupy the room where the theft occurred) . . . there also was some damning circumstantial evidence: the weekend before the theft was noticed, Master Spinner and Baby Huey, who had been fired from his new job earlier that week, had confined themselves to the room for a 12-hour period without any explanation.

Watering the plants and starting a load of laundry but mostly a desire to break the case (my father was in the Criminal Investigation Division of the Army) calmed me down enough to be civil . . . nevertheless, i refused their dinner invitation, extended as a peace offering by Master Spinner . . . did he really think he could buy me off with linguine and clam sauce, especially when he was making it with turkey bacon? . . . sorry, i already planned my meal . . . Master Spinner was eager to tell me about his and Baby Huey’s trip to Naples, where the two of us had spent several delightful days last year . . . i listened politely even as Baby Huey pompously described the classical architecture of a restored hotel they visited . . . finally, Master Spinner brought up the note.

I didn’t take the gin, he asserted . . . but if somebody actually had the nerve to go through somebody else’s drawers, that’s really outrageous . . . ok, u can cut the spin i thought as my eyes turned to Baby Huey, who sat up to deliver his unblinking denial . . . why would i have taken it? i don’t drink anymore . . . i offered up an alternative theory: i did notice a half-empty bottle of Bombay Gin where we keep the house liquor when i arrived that weekend. perhaps, they had forgotten that they had opened it and never hid it in their room . . . we had a good laugh . . . as the three lightest drinkers in the house, we shared the view that it was entirely possible for the resident booze hounds not to remember exactly how much they had drunk or when . . . the tension leaked out of the room along with my rush to judgment.

Until i opened the refrigerator and noticed that the almost-empty bag of Bordeaux cookies i had saved to eat with my ice cream was gone . . . where are my cookies? i demanded . . . i ate them said Baby Huey . . . how rude! i shouted . . . i can’t help it, i’m a sugar addict . . . so far as i was concerned this was a Perry Mason moment: if he can’t control his consumption of other people’s food, why should i believe that he can control his consumption of their alcohol?

The evidence continued to mount: my open bottle of seltzer: GONE, even after i had vented my outrage over the cookies; my grapes: GONE . . . my banana: GONE . . . little things may get blown out of proportion in the Pines, but as i watched him inhale everything in sight, nothing of which he and the Master Spinner had purchased, i got angrier and angrier and went to bed furious, only to be awakened by someone stomping around at 6:15 a.m. . . . ok, i allowed, whoever it is has every right to be up, and tried to get back to sleep but when the blender started whining half an hour later i lost it and stormed upstairs . . . COULD U BE ANY MORE INCONSIDERATE? i screamed as soon as i saw Baby Huey . . . all i got was a Gallic shrug . . . as far as i am concerned u are persona non grata and i’m going to make sure everyone knows it

No idle threat thanks to the internet i thought as i headed for the 10 a.m. ferry recalling Wednesday when i clicked into an AOL M4M chat room using the screen name Pines Scribe . . . my profile includes a link to these pages and i was hoping to get an unsolicited reaction . . . it wasn’t too long before i got an instant message from an unknown neighbor who had taken the time to read the House of Six MEs:

Now Fire Island: The diary is pretty funny. I could have a field day with our house!

Pines Scribe: it's about to get better

Now Fire Island: How's that?

Pines Scribe: new entry with more interesting stuff

Pines Scribe: r u here now?

Now Fire Island: Yes, and from your description of the house (June 20th entry) not far either. I often decribe where we are as "Rhode Island."

Pines Scribe: why's that?

Now Fire Island: Far East. We're on Ocean, between Fisherman and Sail. The walk gets to me sometimes (especially at 3 in the morning!)

Pines Scribe: and where might u be coming from at that hour?

Now Fire Island: Sip 'n Twirl, in my never-ending attempts to find true love here (or at least gratuitous sex).

Pines Scribe: so elusive, true love . . . it's my theory (one given credence in the Times on Sunday) that friendship is the new romance

Now Fire Island: In that case I guess I'm a big slut!

Pines Scribe: all men are pigs is my mantra

Now Fire Island: Most of them,anyway.

Pines Scribe: show me a man who's not a pig and i'll show u a woman who underwent a sex change

Now Fire Island: Very cynical...

Pines Scribe: at the heart of every cynic is a disappointed romantic

Now Fire Island: True. So are you out here as well?

Pines Scribe: yes, just a stone's throw away

Now Fire Island: I have been out here for most of the summer. We've probably seen each other many times.

Pines Scribe: no doubt but have we ever cruised one another?

Now Fire Island: Actually who knows. On the one hand I say we've probably seen each other, but on the other I forget where we are...Fire Island Pines...where people can look right through you as if you don't exist.

Pines Scribe: u do know your environment!

Now Fire Island: I've become inured to it. It's a trade-off...all of this natural beauty in return for having to share it with a bunch of shaved, pinched little man-girls who have the perpetual look (and countenance) of someone who just smelled a fart.

Pines Scribe: and u call me cynical!

Now Fire Island: Disappointed romantic

Now Fire Island: Realist

Pines Scribe: sigh . . . i know what u mean but i do try to remain hopeful altho it's getting harder as i get older

Our chat concluded with Now Fire Island sending me a really hot picture of his chest . . . he also suggested that i follow the hammering and sawing and stop by for a visit . . . i never followed up on his porno movie invitation . . . building a readership has a higher priority at the moment.