CHRISTMAS CAME EARLY

Everybody looked at me as if i was crazy Saturday morning when i greeted them with merry Christmas but that’s exactly what it felt like: i look forward to the Pines Party with as much anticipation as a child awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.

There had been a lot of discussion of theme outfits . . . Der Fuhrer lobbied for face paint and head dresses and i wanted boy’s pajamas with a cowboys and Indians pattern . . . someone even suggested cacti, the perfect metaphor for what the Master Spinner has described as my “prickly” personality, but we took the Curmudgeon’s easy (and inexpensive) way out: blue bandannas which Der Fuhrer purchased for $2 each.

I’m sorry to say that party favors were an even higher priority, but that’s the sad truth . . . as a kid, i couldn’t fall asleep Christmas Eve without milk and cookies; as an adult, i need E to keep going all night . . . the Curmudgeon and Der Fuhrer both came through with quantities big enough to fuel more than one house of dancing fools.

Testa Grande, who doesn’t like the energy on Pines Party weekends, e-mailed us earlier in the week to let everyone know that “other interests” would keep him in the city, leaving an empty bed in my room . . . no one knew that Testa Grande, once known as the “mayor” of the Pines, had any other interests so his absence resulted in a lot of speculation, if not much regret . . . nobody likes a party pooper and everybody loves free space to fill.

Costumes, drugs, an empty bed: this week’s blog entry will practically write itself! Did HBO (which, according to the New York Observer, recently canceled its documentary about life in the Pines because the footage they had in the can wasn’t salacious enough) pick the wrong house or what?

Friday

As soon as i claimed a seat on the doubledecker train from Babylon to Sayville Friday morning i knew there would be faces i’d never seen before: a pair of very young circuit boys, whose expressions betrayed absolutely no emotion, even when they removed their Oakley sunglasses, sat across from me with perfectly toned bodies, tattoos and buzzed hair . . . no doubt there would be hundreds more just like them, converging from all over the country to dance all night under the stars with far-flung members of their well-heeled tribe.

I found evidence of Willow at the house when i arrived: the inevitable dustpan on the stairs and dry pink sponge in my bathroom sink to demonstrate his commitment to housecleaning if not the reality . . . we never have much to say to one another, but the case of the missing gin, now a month old, did invite breathless conversation . . . was the bottle ever replaced? i asked . . . no, do u know who took it? . . . no, but i have my suspicions . . . he also reported that the site of the party had been moved from our end, where it has been for the past two years, much closer to the harbor.

Der Fuhrer called shortly after i swam over to take a look at the set-up, hinting that he would like me to meet him and the Prince at the boat with the wagon because they had picked up some groceries at Stop ‘n Shop . . . i took pity, if not credit, only because i had another agenda . . . aren’t u sweet? said the Prince, dripping with sweat . . . actually, i’m only here because i want to do the shopping and i don’t have enough money . . . even Der Fuhrer didn’t entirely understand why i was so determined to buy the ingredients for Saturday’s meals . . . it’s like this, i explained, i don’t want to eat any later than 5 and unless i take control now, chances are we’ll end up eating an hour or two before we go to the party . . . so with all this obvious forethought, whatever made me include three bean salad on the menu?

Scuttlebutt had it that the Prince wanted to go to the party but that the Ingenue didn’t . . . we’ll have to work on them said Der Fuhrer and we did, exerting an adult form of peer pressure which works remarkably well among gay men in a share house . . . the Ingenue protested that he had to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for important job negotiations over the weekend and into early next week . . . the Prince wanted to know why i was so gung-ho when i always refused to go to tea . . . because this is an event, i said . . . besides, added Der Fuhrer, if u have never been to a circuit party, this is the way to do it: 15 minutes from your house with your friends. what could be easier?

To butter up the Ingenue, we even agreed to learn how to play pinochle, although the arrival of the Curmudgeon and dinner prevented us from ever starting a game . . . meanwhile, a fierce storm whipped up the trees around us . . . when the Ingenue moved the wrought iron deck furniture inside to prevent it from blowing away, i wheeled the charcoal grill into the storage room to protect it from the steady rain . . . u are such a risk taker! said the Ingenue when he smelled smoke inside the half bathroom that abuts the storage room . . . calculated risks only i replied.

By this time we had consumed so many drinks, along with chips and guacamole, that i can barely remember what the Prince prepared for dinner (London broil, rice and asparagus) let alone what we talked about . . . all i know is that over slices of rich chocolate cake left behind by Willow, Der Fuhrer, the Prince and the Ingenue all demonstrated different ways to tie their blue bandannas with surprising creativity . . . in seconds, Der Fuhrer transformed himself from a Catholic cardinal to Heidi, a role he was born to play with his fresh scrubbed looks (this, however, probably had as much to do with his 30 bottles of Kiehl’s cosmetic products on view in his bathroom as the bandanna shenanigans) . . . when the Curmudgeon, our circuit alpha dog, decreed that we would wear them around our necks and everyone agreed i knew that our campaign to ensure full-house participation in party going had ended in victory.

Saturday

Bright sunlight flooded the morning room while i set about preparing a full meal that could be served cold around the time we normally eat lunch . . . as soon as everyone had gotten up, i pressed shuffle on the CD changer which i had loaded with my five favorite Madonna recordings, a body of work which, several hours later, didn’t appeal to anyone else as much as it still did to me . . . the Sun Queen called while i was beating meringue during La Isla Bonita . . . we hadn’t spoken since he had been unable to buy a week in August from the Repeater so i seized the opportunity to discuss an idea that i had been floating with Der Fuhrer and the Curmudgeon . . . if coming out here is so important to u, i said, there is a way if u are also willing to commit to a second week in September: u can buy out the Master Spinner . . . i sweetened the deal by inviting him to sleep in Testa Grande’s bed and join us at the party.

Call me a schemer, but here’s the thing: why let someone spoil your summer if u can avoid it? . . . when everyone else would have preferred not inviting Master Spinner back into the house this season, i was his only advocate (Baby Huey wasn’t an issue at the time because they had broken up) . . . Der Fuhrer, the leaseholder, agreed so long as he was restricted to a quarter share on a weekend when no one minded but he did say u will be sorry more than once.

The case of the missing gin and my growing intolerance of Baby Huey offered the perfect synergy for a buyout of Master Spinner (have i been watching Big Brother 3 too much?) . . . while i have no idea if Baby Huey actually pinched the gin, all fingers pointed in his direction . . . but in order to get rid of him, i had to take down Master Spinner, too . . . what would u do?

When the Prince and the Ingenue returned from the harbor after purchasing the pony-patterned wristbands that would admit them to the party, Der Fuhrer and i were working out by the pool . . . it looks like Gold’s Gym! exclaimed the Ingenue only slightly less sarcastically than the Curmudgeon who had sneered give it up guys a few minutes earlier . . . i fled for the beach when the Prince and the Ingenue started whining about being hungry . . . a pow wow ensued with Der Fuhrer and the Curmudgeon about how best to approach Master Spinner with the buyout proposal . . . Der Curmudgeon’s inclination, like mine, was to be firm and present it as a fait accompli . . . surprisingly, Der Fuhrer suggested that i try to avoid a confrontation that would result in ill will and possible legal action, a fear that i found ridiculous given the fact that we would be offering full financial restitution.

After a somewhat self-conscious game of Scrabble (now that some people have begun reading the blog, would we be recognized? dream on!), we returned to the house for our big lunch . . . i fully expected to find that the Prince and the Ingenue already had dug into the chicken and pasta bean salad, but they even were willing to delay the meal until after i made a simple salad and we had a couple of rounds of cocktails . . . i drank mine hoping they would help me take a nap while raptly listening to the Prince describe in great detail how he had decorated a diva crib just around the time she became a superstar in the 80s and long before she needed a crack den . . . i’ll never forget how she looked when she stepped out of the limo, he said . . . a vision in chocolate. she liked the fact that i didn’t kiss her ass and i liked how she knew exactly what her priorities were: a music room and a swimming pool. but it’s also a decorator’s job to anticipate what a client will want even if she doesn’t ask for it. she really liked the lynx throw i added to one of the rooms . . . hmmmmmm, black women and jungle animal prints . . . i resisted the urge to ask when “anticipating a client’s needs” becomes politically incorrect stereotyping?

It didn’t take long for the conversation to get back to the party and the reason we were eating so early . . . trust me, if u are going to take E with us u don’t want to do it on a full stomach . . . the Prince and the Ingenue also were puzzled by our discussion of whose E would be fueling the night’s activities . . . should we take Der Fuhrer’s stash of tiny green pills or the Curmudgeon’s, from an untried supplier? . . . what difference does it make? asked the Prince . . . quality control, sputtered Der Fuhrer, we didn’t get these from Bayer u know and it’s important that we’re all enjoying the same high!

Sleep eluded us no matter where we tried to find it: on the beach, in our beds, on the couches upstairs while listening to Moby’s 18 . . . ever so slowly and long after everyone had showered and dressed, the little hand approached ten, which in the Curmudgeon’s view was at least two hours earlier than we should arrive . . . fortunately, the Sun Queen’s entrance with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, provided just the right distraction (and grand gesture) . . . he and the Prince eyed each other warily while i did everything i could to fan the flames of what i knew would be the natural competitiveness of two first born sons who earn their living by making things pretty . . . as soon as the small talk started to falter i saidthe Sun Queen drives a BMW convertible. the Prince arrived in a brand new top-of-the-line Mercedes . . . it worked too: the Prince spent the rest of the weekend asking who’s the Sun Queen? whenever somebody mentioned his name even though he was occupying the empty bed across the hall.

Finally, at 10:30, came the moment of ceremonial drug taking . . . why do i feel like i’m in an after school drug special about drug abuse? asked the Prince who initially refused to join us, a decision i thought was rather too quickly seconded by both the Ingenue and Der Fuhrer . . . what did they know that i didn’t? . . . i also found myself in the extremely odd position of encouraging somebody to take a drug and felt even more peculiar when the Prince finally announced he would do so because it seemed to be so important to me . . . the Sun Queen, who helped me tie my bandanna just so, declined because he didn’t have a ticket . . . i’ll have a slice of the lemon meringue pie instead and go to bed.

Is my outfit ok? the Ingenue asked nervously, standing before me in navy jams and sneakers and looking as if he were ready for a volleyball game on the Jersey shore . . . it’s fine, i answered matter of factly, you’re young enough that if u keep that smile on your face no one will pay any attention to what u are wearing . . . the Curmudgeon may have enhanced his insecurity: few men at the party and certainly no one in our house are more handsome . . . as soon as he stepped upstairs in his boots, jeans and cowboy belt, the Ingenue said WOW . . . but like most men our age, the Curmudgeon didn’t like it when he sat down and saw his stomach sagging over the top of his jeans . . . we may not have looked like a house of circuit boys, but none of us gave a shit as we headed off to the party, shirt less all, and giggling with excitement.

A crescent moon hung over the beach right at the entrance and the party lights illuminated the spume of the crashing surf . . . volunteers admitted us as we held our wrists high and entered a homo take on Dodge City . . . more than one guy with a pinched cowboy hat leaned provocatively against a bale of hay . . . see what Madonna wrought with her Don’t Tell Me video! . . . just imagine if the Wild Wild West really had been like this enthused the Curmudgeon as we passed cowboy after cowboy (or do i mean cowgirl?) . . . they would have been a lot dirtier i countered and it isn’t likely any of them would have been bareassed under their fringe chaps . . . there were plenty of elaborate Indian costumes, too, a great excuse to wear feather and beads for anybody with a taste for ethnic drag . . . we even passed a herd of Guernsey cows who, to my mind, misinterpreted the party wristband motif . . . they wore black and white fabric and hung bells around their necks . . . the private tents on either side of the dance floor proved the old adage that the Pines is high school with money: u could purchase one and name it something like the JO Corral, admitting only members of your clique.

When we took our E, Der Fuhrer once again reminded us how four hours could feel more like 15 minutes . . . how true . . . i think we hit the almost-empty dance floor during the GoGo’s, part of the old folks set, and kept dancing on the uneven plywood floor as the enlarging crowd pressed in upon us, bringing the five of us even closer than drug . . . claustrophobia forced the Prince and the Ingenue to take a break during I Feel Love but the rest of us remained in the thick of things . . . sometime after midnight, i noticed an adorable fellow in a pinched cowboy hat and a rawhide necklace dancing in the vicinity of me and the Curmudgeon . . . he smiled at both of us and introduced himself . . . inevitably, he began paying more attention to the Curmudgeon which precipitated a more critical evaluation of his outfit on my part . . . webbed Top Siders? i don’t think so! . . . still, he seemed so friendly and sweet that the Prince began channeling Dolly Levi.

Predictably, the match was never made . . . unless u are willing to club the Curmudgeon, hoist him over your shoulders and carry him back to your cave, nothing ever happens . . . all of us gave the Curmudgeon plenty of room to chat up the Top Sider Cowboy under the refreshment tent once introductions had been made . . . the first sign of trouble came when the Top Sider Cowboy made a point of informing the Curmudgeon that just because he was drinking water didn’t mean he was doing drugs like everybody else . . . uh oh . . . he also made the mistake of stopping to talk to the Best Little Boy in the World en route back to the dance floor . . . i admire him more than anyone, he gushed to the Curmudgeon whose view is colored by many years of less than sympatico interactions . . . all hope was lost when the Curmudgeon made it clear that his thirst and energy WERE drug-related . . . the Top Sider Cowboy eventually melted into the beat, but not before refusing a goodbye kiss on the lips . . . i wonder where, exactly, he thought he was . . . the Iowa State Fair?

Typically, Der Fuhrer and i settled for far less wholesome distraction tho Der Fuhrer did moon over the Top Sider Cowboy all night . . . when the Circuit Slut, a guy we recognized from both the White and the Black Parties, squeezed his slim, well-defined torso into our midst like a greased pig, neither of us resisted his indiscriminate moves . . . at least until the hairy ass i felt underneath his chaps gave me the courage of my sometimes prissy convictions . . . after our second hit of E, the number of dirty dancing partners seemed to multiply by a factor of ten . . . i moved from one opportunity to another as easily as a bitch in heat . . . one long-haired beauty enlisted Der Fuhrer to give him a piggyback so that he could scan the crowd for his friends . . . the vibe was as attitude-free as i ever have experienced . . . i told u that we could solve the problems in the Middle East if we put Ecstasy in their water supply said the Curmudgeon.

During one of my frequent trips to the port-o-sans i ran into the Sun Queen who had magically transformed himself into Jesse James . . . instead of going to bed, he somehow managed to crash the party, find a hat and let loose like a horny villain in a whorehouse saloon . . . what’s up with the tents? he asked . . . i went inside one and saw a guy just about to mount another . . . when we returned to the dance floor, it didn’t take long for him to hook up with other members of an outlaw gang based purely on looks . . . like him, they all had shaved heads and heavily manicured facial hair . . . he held a glass of vodka in one hand and used the other to lift his hat on and off his head while shouting hee yah . . . who knew?

The gradually brightening sky and thinning crowd signaled the end of the party but not before the music peaked for the Curmudgeon with Make Love, a remix of an old Joan Armitrading song . . . dawn didn’t do any of us any favors after a night of manic dancing . . . an anachronistic black woman (did divas perform in Dodge City?) commandeered the stage for a forgettable finale . . . a big gal, she looked as fresh as a daisy in her yellow outfit . . . then, with the sun just over the horizon, hundreds of exhausted and shirt less men began a barefoot migration home on the beach . . . wouldn’t this have made a great ending for the HBO documentary? asked the Curmudgeon.

Sunday

After lying awake on my bed for a couple of hours and reliving some of the most intense moments on the dance floor i went upstairs to join the morning debriefing which was already in progress with the rest of the house, minus the Sun Queen who was missing in action . . . what did u like most about the party? i asked the Ingenue . . . the big muscle men . . . and the least? . . . my outfit . . . too bad i didn’t leave it there, but E turns me into a morning chatterbox . . . once Der Fuhrer brought back the Times from the harbor, we got into an argument with the Prince and the Ingenue about the estate tax . . . no doubt all the other houses in the Pines were having more drugs and sex at after parties that we hadn’t been invited to while i was defending my share the wealth philosophy . . . sigh . . . Christmas was over.

This is the kind of day that makes it all worthwhile i said when i joined the Curmudgeon the beach . . . sunny skies, a light breeze, and clean, cool water can make u forget all the hassles of sharing a house in the Pines . . . if there were a real estate agent asking me to sign the lease right this minute, i’d probably do it . . . neither of us had the energy to do anything other than watch the parade passing by and chat about the state of our lives . . . when the Curmudgeon started in about his dream to return to Maine and live on a farm for endangered farm animals i asked him to recall three recent occasions when he felt happy or a real surge of joy . . . the last three times i took E and went dancing . . . then he corrected himself: actually that’s not true. i had a great moment when i heard from Der Fuhrer that one of our house mates on another weekend, an English Canadian, was offended when Der Fuhrer hung out my Quebecois flag one afternoon because it matched his outdoor table setting. the guy demanded that he take it down. i got a real kick out of that.

Somehow the Curmudgeon, Der Fuhrer and the Prince summoned the energy to go to low tea after the Ingenue and the Sun Queen left . . . i stayed behind to enjoy some solitude and try to pull together the remaining leftovers for a light meal . . . i crashed before they returned and learned the next morning that they had dined at the Cultured Elephant . . . so much for house solidarity . . . who could be bothered to call Cinderella to let her know that she was on her own for the evening!

The Week

What a difference a day makes . . . despite continued fine weather, swarming black flies with bites worse than mine made it impossible for anyone to stay on the beach . . . coincidentally, Monday morning i sent the Master Spinner a polite e-mail suggesting that he consider a buyout given his continued insistence on bringing Baby Huey, whose presence i could no longer tolerate . . . he didn’t put up a fight, though he did counter that i had been pretty intolerable myself . . . . . . by mid-week, the Sun Queen’s check for the pro-rated weeks, utility fees and security was in the mail . . . both the Master Spinner and i expressed the hope we could put this unpleasantness behind us but i wonder if our friendship will be an unforeseen and unfortunate casualty of sharing a house in the Pines.

The Curmudgeon returned from the beach breathlessly on Monday to announce a show in progress but i already had spied the two tweaked guys in Indian headdresses stumbling down the boardwalk . . . they removed their bathing suits and drew a crowd from Casa Debris, whose residents are much more aggressive about helping party casualties try to achieve erections in public for an impromptu digital photo session . . . an invitation to do more drugs in their hot tub wasn't long in coming . . . we all had to admit, they formed a beautiful tableau as they stood snorting on the roof, their red headdresses contrasting vividly against the blue skies and white flags . . . very Ralph Lauren on Tina.

When Der Fuhrer announced the imminent arrival of BeauMonotone, an heir to a Midwestern manufacturing fortune he met on the slopes at Aspen, i bribed the Curmudgeon with a banana cream pie to stay until Wednesday . . . Beau, a beautiful blond who actually sports lederhosen as an apres ski outfit and says things like Zionist conspiracy when he discusses politics in the Middle East, thought he won the S&M love lottery last year when his boyfriend, the Fragrance Master, asked him to move to Paris . . . they met in a Ft. Lauderdale bathhouse but now they live in the Seventh Arondissement in an elegant old apartment with a partial view of the Eiffel Tower . . . they also own a home in Martha’s Vineyard . . . at first glance, u might think they had it all . . . i know i did when i met them at the Pines Party last year . . . i would have followed the Fragrance Master anywhere he wanted me to go . . . in a heartbeat.

So how do u spend your days? i asked at dinner one night, knowing that Beaudidn’t work and didn’t speak French . . . well in the mornings the Fragrance Master is such a little boy that i have to get him up. that’s usually when we have sex. then i scramble a dozen eggs and get him dressed. after he leaves i go to the gym. on my way back to the apartment for lunch, i usually stop somewhere to pick up things for breakfast the next morning. then i usually make another trip to various stores in the neighborhood to shop for dinner. that takes a while because i have to go to so many different store. the butcher will cut the meat however i want but it can be really hard to make him understand what i want. if i have any time after that, i try to explore a new neighborhood before coming home and waiting for the Fragrance Master to call and let me know what time he’ll be home. he likes me to serve him before i sit down at the table. after dinner, he’s usually unwound enough to tell me about his day. then, he’ll usually watch TV for a little while before he goes to bed. sometimes on a Friday night we’ll go to a leather bar and i’ll watch him get a blow job . . . different strokes for different folks i guess . . . though he insisted he was happy, u had to feel a little sorry for Beau, especially when he admitted that the Fragrance Master recently had decided that they needed to see other people.

Be careful what u wish for.