SUMMER CAMP

The future moves like a storm cloud across the blue skies of August in the Pines, particularly when the current leaseholder declines to renew . . . what should be the most perfect days of summer are spoiled by endless jockeying over next season . . . Der Fuhrer informed us he would be taking a room in an ocean-front house rented by the Prince and the Ingenue at considerably higher cost . . . no surprise there . . . but would anybody else step up to the plate and rent the End House for $40,500, an increase of $500 in 2003?

Friday

En route to the ferry, laden with grocery bags and candles from Ikea, a woman pulled up next to me in a car . . . hi, i’m Candy. i’m the host at Marco’s and u look like u could use a ride . . . business must be really bad . . . when her cell phone rang, she told the caller i’m running a little late because i stopped to give a young man a lift.

How strange to have to purchase my round-trip ferry passage each time instead of using one of the 20-trip cards i’ve purchased since i first took a full-share in 1989 . . . my last one ran out a couple of weeks ago so now there really isn’t a compelling financial reason to return next year . . . yeah, like unused ferry rides have been the only thing that have kept me coming back!

What a relief to find the house empty and relatively clean . . . while i was futzing around in the kitchen, i heard a fey voice call out anybody home? and turned the corner to find Ski Boy coming up the stairs . . . he didn’t remember my name of course but was wondering if the Curmudgeon and i would be “Scrabbling” on the beach later . . . i’m just making my rounds to find out who’s here he said.

The Expatriate arrived in mid afternoon, straight from the Barney's sale, for his second trip of the season from Moscow . . . i just had a pedicure in Chelsea, too. some leg amputee came in, unscrewed his prosthesis and asked that the girl paint his toenails on that foot. only in New York . . . he brought me three pirated CDs, only $3 a pop in Moscow: the original cast recording of Closer To Heaven, the Pet Shop Boys West End musical; a collection of Pet Shop Boys rarities; and a live recording of Right Said Fred . . . u just know Testa Grande is going to tell us AGAIN he slept with one of them during his London years.

Ten minutes after the Curmudgeon walked in we began a game of Scrabble knowing that it would be hours before dinner . . . Testa Grande had phoned to say that he and his guest would be on the 10:30 p.m. boat . . . how long do u hold dinner on a Friday night? . . . if it had been just one of our house mates, we probably would have gone ahead and eaten without him but when a Pines virgin is in tow, u want the first impression of your house to be a good one.

Now a pause for some back story . . . Testa Grande met his guest through his ex-boyfriend, the Mess, who moved to Philadelphia not long after they broke up . . . the ex had been a house mate briefly last season, the kind of guy u would think was very cute if he passed u on his Razor
scooter three years ago in the East Village . . . but after spending a single weekend with the Mess, i longed for a mute button . . . while he could be entertaining (he served “benedictine,” a white trash dip from his native Kentucky that involved cream cheese, cucumbers and green food coloring, and he taught us to play “black magic” a parlor game that has subsequently gotten me through plenty of dull spots with relatives), he belonged in a younger and less sedate house, one with a pharmacy that played trance music at full volume 24 hours a day.

Testa Grande’s social scene moved to Philadelphia along with his ex and we knew the guest he would be bringing belonged to his new Scooby-Doo
crew . . . i had my doubts but i have to admit, it didn’t take long for his Tender Young Morsel to charm us . . . anybody that takes a second helping of my chili scores big points plus i liked his taste in music (Coldplay, Morcheeba, Bjork) AND, unlike any other guest we had this summer, he brought a bottle of wine to show his appreciation for our hospitality . . . u were a teenager just four years ago i observed before vowing not to mention his age again though not before discovering that everybody seated at the table was older than his mother, who stopped keeping kosher after she divorced his father and moved to Maine from Cincinnati.

Saturday

Testa Grande played daddy all weekend . . . actually we all did since none of us were having a sexual relationship with the Tender Young Morsel though u just knew he lusted after the Sun Queen from the moment he arrived Saturday morning bearing his usual assortment of muffins, El Pico and half and half . . . u had to give the kid credit: he even agreed to play Scrabble on the beach, which gave Testa Grande his only opportunity to slip away to Wanker’s Way . . . here u are, in the Pines for the first time, playing a word game with a couple of circuit seniors under an umbrella, i teased . . . i’ll bet u don’t tell this part to your friends back in Philly . . . the Tender Young Morsel lost, of course, but he also taught us a new word when he asked were u rolling? during some inevitable Pavilion nostalgia . . . “rolling” now has formally entered our vocabulary as a generation-appropriate description for dancing on ecstasy.

One good turn deserves another . . . it’s time for your gay pop quiz i announced when Testa Grande returned to the blanket, visibly relieved that he wasn’t missing much on Wanker’s Way . . . name the movie in which these lines are spoken:

1) u wouldn’t treat me this way if i weren’t in a wheel chair. but u are, Blanche, u are;

2) fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night;

3) oh, Jerry. don’t let’s ask for the moon. we have the stars;

4) what a dump!

5) Broadway doesn’t go for booze or dope;

6) don’t fuck with me, fellas! and

7) a dingo ate my baby (the Expatriate insisted this had passed into the camp canon, tho i disagreed)

Not only did the Tender Young Morsel fail miserably, but he couldn’t come up with a contemporary set of gay cultural references . . . instead he cited some rather forgettable scenes from gay movies . . . is this the price of assimilation?

Gotta dance, however, bridged the generation gap . . . the Tender Young Morsel couldn’t wait to put on his dancing shoes and camouflage tank top which i told him he wouldn’t be needing . . . we knew from experience that Testa Grande would decline to join us for the nocturnal leg of the Pines Grand Tour . . . he also refused to budge on the dinner schedule when i asked if we could eat a little earlier than usual which would give the Curmudgeon, the Sun Queen and me time for a nap . . . i should have reminded him how we accommodated him the night before but offered instead to start the fire for his budget-busting meal ($65 for butterfly rack of lamb, no leftovers!) before he returned from tea.

A failed first attempt at apple martinis (a Google search set us straight; we added apple juice to the shopping list), dinner and clean-up lasted until nearly 11 p.m. . . . is it time to go? is it time to go? asked the Tender Young Morsel as soon as Testa Grande went to bed . . . he sounded exactly like a child on a road trip demanding to know are we there yet? . . . no, son, your three daddies need to recharge their batteries first . . . the Expatriate, who was hooked by the narrative drive of Two Boys, At Swim, agreed to babysit him upstairs while the rest of us went to our rooms for some shuteye . . . u should have seen him, reported the Expatriate the next morning . . . he couldn’t sit still. first, he went for a walk on the beach. then, he cleaned up some more in the kitchen. finally at 1:45 a.m. he asked if u ever were going to get up. it was cute.

Let’s roll i said around 2 to the Curmudgeon and the Tender Young Morsel, whose eager-beaverness revived us like a jolt of caffeine . . . the Sun Queen said he would join us later, much to the Tender Young Morsel’s disappointment . . . which lasted all of a minute once we got to the Pavilion and his dance card instantly filled with an aggressive short guy who might as well have had attorney tattooed on his forehead . . . the oppressive heat inside made the hot, muggy air outside seem like air conditioning when the Curmudgeon and i took a break almost immediately . . . but just as the drug really began kicking in, the Curmudgeon got a bad case of the birthday blues and we had an extremely intense conversation that would not have been out of place in a therapist’s office . . . thankfully, the moment passed and we headed back to the dance floor where we found the Tender Young Morsel among a group of guys who shared the Sun Queen’s highly manicured sense of sartorial style.

Are u rolling? he asked . . . an hour later he said i love u when he came up for air in between deep kisses with several of his dancing partners . . . not a phrase i hear much, particularly at 3 a.m. in the Pavilion . . . u had to marvel: 23 and taking to the Pines like a duck to water . . . who could be jealous? . . . the Sun Queen, that’s who! . . . did he recall Eve Harrington when he spotted the Tender Young Morsel being devoured by a group of guys, like Sebastian in Suddenly Last Summer . . . the Sun Queen tried exercising his considerable allure from the sidelines but the tactic failed and Margo Channing left with me and the Curmudgeon around 6:30 while the Tender Young Morsel stayed for his curtain call . . . good morning, boys said some cute fella on the boardwalk . . . the grins we returned were brighter than the rising sun.

Sunday

Can’t sleep like the drug-free Sun Queen who hit the sack immediately? . . . then make French toast for your house mates before they wake up . . . Testa Grande rose looking more sleep deprived than we did just as the Curmudgeon finished frying the bacon and slicing the melon . . . the Tender Young Morsel returned when we were wiping the syrup from our plates and hoping that his prescription for loading up on carbs would help us crash . . . the flies in the Meatrack are fierce he said, before helping himself to breakfast with no apparent loss of energy or appetite. . . ah, youth.

We reconvened shortly after noon on the beach . . . the sight of a 30something man with golden hair and perhaps the buffest body we have beheld all summer reinvigorated us as he emerged from the surf carrying a pair of flippers and wearing a nose plug and goggles . . . too many accessories for my taste but we must have looked like prairie dogs popping up from their holes as we alerted everyone in our sprawling colony to the wasp waisted Season Hunk #4 walking past us, breathing heavily and gazing straight ahead.

A perfect afternoon for dozing in the sun but the Tender Young Morsel, who had turned into an umbrella hog, had the oddest sunburn on his pale skin . . . someone needs to invent a suntan lotion that changes the color of your skin when u first apply it so that u can see where u might have missed said Testa Grande . . . yeah, and some kind of insect repellent strips that u can affix to your ankles to keep the flies off agreed the Curmudgeon . . . our impromptu focus group continued during a round of margaritas in plastic glasses that nicely complemented the colors of our umbrella . . . we left the beach pleasantly buzzed.

Just as one wine-bearing Pines Virgin was about to get on the boat, another stepped off . . . the Expatriate had gone to the harbor to meet a colleague from Moscow who was making a stop at our house after spending a week with friends in San Francisco . . . Quief, a 37-year-old frat boy who had just dumped his live-in Russian boyfriend, arrived with seven bottles of wine from the Napa Valley while we were pouring our second or third round of apple tinis on the ocean deck and enjoying the kind of alcohol-fueled camaraderie that would drench the rest of the week . . . if u can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!

For perhaps the first time this season, the entire house headed or, more accurately, staggered to tea en masse chatting as merrily as a group of 20somethings about the Times decision to publish gay wedding announcements . . . virginity IS infectious . . . it reminded me of my early years in the Pines and reaffirmed my conviction that your enjoyment of tea is in direct proportion to the degree of your inebriation . . . let’s just say that i can’t remember a thing about it except that we were eating our dinner less than half an hour after returning . . . how did u manage this? asked Quief of the Curmudgeon who had served steamed hot dogs with baked beans and cole slaw that i prepared earlier in the day . . . it’s his presto meal, i growled, rolling my eyes and sensing another guest crush in the making.

Monday

When it comes to guest crushes, i must admit my already thin skin is close to bleeding . . . u see, my first summer in the Pines, i foolishly made the mistake of sharing a room with an ex-boyfriend, the only true love of my life . . . wouldn’t u know he lived happily ever after (if not much longer) with a house guest he met late in the season . . . not that i’ve ever been particularly attracted to any of our house guests, or at least not any who have hooked up with the residents of the End House but still, it would be nice to be appreciated for something other than my role as housemother-by-default . . . think Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County, if u will, minus the impeccable Italian accent and narrower hips.

The Tender Young Morsel’s crush on the Sun Queen didn’t affect me much because i knew it had no chance of consummation but the mutual attraction between the Curmudgeon and Quief became painfully obvious when i went to the beach for my swim and found them in the water together . . . i didn’t stick around long enough to determine if they had “dropped trou” to use the Curmudgeon’s favorite phrase . . . ninety minutes later they still were deep in conversation but it would have been rude to avoid them a second time so i couldn’t help but notice the book that Quief wasn’t reading, Goin' Down: The Instinct Guide to Oral Sex . . . subtle, huh? . . . the contrast between his choice of reading material and the Curmudgeon’s, a French translation of Lord of the Rings, spoke volumes . . . autodidacts of different stripes, to say the least . . . i raced back to the house with a mating dance update . . . even tho the Expatriate had introduced Quief to the Curmudgeon in Moscow, he hadn’t had a clue . . . but they both want the same thing, he averred.

The thought of playing Scrabble with a pair of about-to-be-hatched lovebirds sent me straight to Wanker’s Way where a couple of muscle men were providing a delightful afternoon of exhibitionism . . . an hour or two later i was headed back to Bad Penny’s house, vastly relieved that i could still manage to pick up SOMEBODY (who knew it would be a guy who kept turning up everywhere over the next few days!) . . . he took me back to his house where we had pleasant, if unfocused, sex under his outdoor shower . . . no doubt he channel surfs a lot and loves water sports . . . he invited me to stay and then sat down not in the chaise next to me, but a second one over, an early warning sign.

Before eventually bringing him to a second orgasm, i learned he was an anesthesiologist who didn’t like being alone in the Pines after he returned from Sip ‘n Twirl late one night and found a threatening voice mail Message . . . it turned out to be a prank call from Chicago but i haven’t felt safe since he said . . . when i raised the subject of his easy access to drugs, he told me it would be dangerous professionally for him to do them personally but that hadn’t stopped him from providing a friend of his with some ketamine for his birthday or telling me about a prescription drug for treating heart disease that could be used like ecstasy.

Was it the prospect of marrying a sweet Jewish doctor who could keep me dancing all night, any night i wanted that impelled me to bring him back to the house or his own forwardness? . . . when i decided it was time to leave, Bad Penny said he had to take his dog for a walk . . . would u mind if i walked u to your house? he asked . . . the next thing i know, we’re drinking margaritas and feeding the Sun Queen’s famous focaccia to his cocker spaniel on the ocean deck with my house mates, each of whom can barely conceal his shock that i actually have brought someone back . . . this kind of thing happens about once every three years, the Expatriate later informed Quief . . . but as soon as Bad Penny left, shortly after we made a tentative date to go kayaking sometime during the week, the Sun Queen asked why did he keep saying `we’ when he was telling us about the house he just bought in the Pines? . . . i guess it takes one partnered man to know another.

Running out of gas for the grill for the second time this summer didn’t prevent the Sun Queen from preparing a simple Italian meal (pasta tossed with basil, tomato and garlic, chicken cutlets and a mesclun salad) that was delicious enough to justify Quief’s effusive praise without setting off my guest crush detector . . . nothing like getting laid and a second bottle of wine to restore your good humor and devilish impulses . . . we ask every guest in our house a couple of questions i said . . . first, who was your female role model growing up? and second, would u be more likely to wear tit clamps, a butt plug or a cock ring?

For a guy who came out three years ago, only after moving halfway around the world, Quief handled our own version of Get The Guest pretty well . . . Judy Garland he replied to the first question, without having to think nearly as hard as the Tender Young Morsel, who had chosen Madonna . . . the Expatriate had predicted he wouldn’t get it at all . . . i must have asked two dozen people this same question over the years and no one EVER uttered Judy’s name, tho oddly enough i heard someone whistling “If I Only Had A Brain” outside of my bedroom window the next morning . . . no wonder he had stayed in the closet so long! . . . i couldn’t even bring myself to buy Judy at Carnegie Hall until my early 40s because i didn’t want to be pigeonholed as one of those gay men who reveled in pathos . . . when everyone expressed their surprise that a guy as “straight acting” as he, the only one of us who ever had had sexual relationships with women, idolized Judy, Quief succumbed to the spell of the Pines, where the Expatriate says u can tell people things u don’t even tell your therapist, and confessed that he had been repressing his homosexuality ever since early childhood . . . i remember going to Cape Cod with my parents and three brothers one summer. i must have been three or four. and when i came out of the surf with my arm raised above my head, my mother told me to stop because only girls did that . . . given this history, it wasn’t hard at all to predict that Quief would say he preferred a cock ring to tit clamps or a butt plug but give him a year or two more out of the closet and then let’s see.

Tuesday

As soon as i heard the Curmudgeon get up, i rushed upstairs to wish him happy birthday even tho it was the kind of morning better spent in bed with somebody, especially if the opportunity had been staring at u in the face for the past 36 hours . . . but the Curmudgeon and Quief were still tap dancing around each other . . . the tension was less erotic than irritating for the rest of the house . . . c’mon guys, u wanna do it, what the hell’s wrong?

The Sun Queen had planned to take everyone to Top of the Bay in the Grove to celebrate but when he called to make a reservation, we discovered that it was closed . . . then i’ll buy lobsters for everyone announced the Curmudgeon . . . groan . . . u can take the boy out of Maine but u can’t take Maine out of the boy, who also couldn’t understand why the Meat Market doesn’t sell clams by the peck . . . but we don’t have the right utensils i whined, thoroughly unenthusiastic about all the work required to extract a little bit of pricey meat . . . i’ll buy the crackers offered the Expatriate . . . and i’ll make u a banana cream pie, i added, getting with the birthday boy’s program . . . of course the Curmudgeon had another idea . . . if we’re going to have a lobster feast we should end it with something blueberry . . . how about a cobbler? . . . perfect! i’ve got a recipe in my room . . . the world’s most complicated blueberry cobbler recipe i might add . . . it covered two pages in some gourmet newsletter and kept me cursing in the kitchen much of the afternoon . . . i followed it to the letter until the end when i didn’t hear the timer ring . . . something’s burning giggled the Curmudgeon.

The “pound and a half” lobster boat wouldn’t be docking at the Pantry until 1 p.m. which gave us plenty of time to kill . . . the Sun Queen barked at his “girls” back in the world of evening wear and took a walk to the Sunken Forest while the rest of us played Scrabble . . . when Quief put the letters Q U I E F on the board toward the end of the game, i challenged . . . it’s a vaginal fart, he insisted as i reached for the Official Scrabble Players’ Dictionary . . . u are the only person in the room who would know that i teased . . . he lost his turn but acquired a nickname.

A hazy sun had come out by the time i finished my exercises by the pool and the Curmudgeon, the Expatriate and Quief returned from the Pantry . . . are we straight? asked the Expatriate, who couldn’t wait to get back to At Swim, Two Boys . . . straight as a rush chorused the Curmudgeon and i, completing one of the book’s two unforgettable phrases . . . at least until i saw the $4.95 price tag on each of the three bags of frozen organic blueberries . . . if Testa Grande had been here, he would have picked fresh ones from the bushes on Tarpon.

The Expatriate brought a pitcher of apple tinis to the beach just as Season Hunk #4 emerged from the surf . . . we’ll drink to that . . . look at that guy, i said to Quief . . . u won’t find a better, steroid-free body in the Pines . . . fortunately, he didn’t take a good enough look because when we went to tea he tried to tell us that the guy was sitting at a nearby table . . . no, no Season Hunk #4 is over there, smoking a cigarette argued the Sun Queen who never forgets an eight pack . . . Quief pulled a $20 bill out of his pocket . . . wanna lay some money on it? he demanded . . . simmer down, fella, this is the Pines, not Fight Club.

The Sun Queen rose to the challenge, if not the bet . . . just as his guy was walking past us to leave, he stopped him and asked if he had been swimming in the ocean earlier . . . yes, said Le Flipper, in a French accent that had the Curmudgeon panting to test his linguistic skills . . . he obviously relished the attention of five fawning men . . . i swim a mile in the ocean every other day i’m out here, i said, but i sure don’t look like u. maybe i should take up smoking . . . he laughed, showing horrible teeth (his tragic flaw?) and a couple of minutes later we had a date to go swimming the next day . . . pinch me quick somebody . . . thank god for apple tinis and house mates, even ones like the Curmudgeon who groused he’s arrogant because Le Flipper refused to speak French to him . . . more like polite, argued the Expatriate just because u spoke his language doesn’t mean the rest of us did . . . touche!

As soon as we got back to the house i announced i broke up with Bad Penny at tea . . . what do u mean? asked Quief . . . he told me he has been in a relationship for the 12 years, i explained huffily and i don’t feel like being anybody’s sexual outlet . . . not even for the prescriptions? asked the Sun Queen . . . it takes forever for the water to boil at our house so the Curmudgeon decided to serve his lobster feast in courses (potato salad and corn) with lots of wine in between . . . perhaps that explains what ranked as one of the best nights i ever have had in the Pines . . . good food (who knew lobsters could be so meaty!), better company and the memory of the Curmudgeon and the Expatriate, neither of whom is known for their spontaneity, tossin their plates off the deck . . . i didn’t throw mine on purpose! laughed the Curmudgeon when the Expatriate followed his lead . . . i just wanted to get rid of the lobster shells . . . or perhaps the prospect of swimming alongside Le Flipper had me jazzed . . . the Expatriate and the Sun Queen decided i needed to be put to bed after i spent half an hour babbling about how the Pines enables us to create families of our own choosing . . . here take this said the Expatriate, handing me three Advil in an attempt to cap the gush of sentimentality that was spewing from my mouth . . . i refused until he went back upstairs and brought me a glass of seltzer and then swallowed two before donning what the Sun Queen calls my Wonder Bread shorts (Tommy Hilfiger outlet boxers with huge blue, chartreuse and turquoise polka dots) and passing out on my matching mint sheets.

Wednesday

Remarkably, none of us were hung over the next morning . . . as soon as the Curmudgeon joined me for coffee, he revealed that the dirty deed had been done on the couch after everybody went to bed . . . never underestimate the power of alcohol as a sexual disinhibitor, or excuse for making the first move in case it is rejected . . . uh, why didn’t u sleep together in his room? . . . inquiring minds want to know . . . he said only one of the beds was made so we fell asleep upstairs . . . both the Expatriate (the Curmudgeon didn’t climb into his bed until nearly dawn) and the Sun Queen (i was prevented from getting a drink of water in the middle of the night by a tangle of naked bodies with all the lights on) independently verified the coupling . . . there are no secrets in our house.

Nor much public display of affection . . . in fact, the Curmudgeon and Quief kept their distance in front of us, although the Curmudgeon later revealed that they had enjoyed a little post-coital hanky panky in the ocean . . . Quief had a 2 p.m. ferry to catch . . . so far as i know, he walked to the harbor by himself, but not before i had a chance to ask him what he thought of the Pines . . . i really enjoyed my visit and you guys but i thought it would be kinder . . . since i’ve never depended on the kindness of strangers, i just shrugged, recalling with some embarrassment how i had gone on and on the night before about how much the place had meant to me now that it looked as if this really was the end.

But Quief wasn’t entirely wrong, as i was to learn yet again . . . my date with Le Flipper had me in such a tizzy that i spent most of the morning thoroughly cleaning the common spaces in the house and listening to a terrific custom CD that had been burned by Quief’s friends in San Francisco . . . it included Norah Jones, Jack Johnson, Dirty Vegas, Doves, Gorillaz, Beth Orton and “Turn My Way,” a song by New Order with my favorite refrain of the moment (i don’t want to be/like other people are/don’t want to own a key/don’t want to wash my car/i don’t want to have to work/like other people do/i want it to be free/i want it to be true).

What time is your date? asked the Expatriate, observing my frenzy . . . 3:30 p.m. u know me too well . . . tick tock, tick tock . . . i couldn’t eat, i couldn’t read, basically i was as nervous as Sally Field just before she won her second Oscar . . . i mean, what if he doesn’t even remember the invitation? u know how casual everything is at tea i agonized aloud . . . calm down, advised the Sun Queen, who has seen me in this situation before . . . just don’t have any expectations and u will be fine . . . easy for him to say with a boyfriend waiting back home.

I finally made my way to the African Village house where Le Flipper had been staying for a little more than a week . . . when no one responded to my call at the front door, i nearly retreated but some inner strength brought me to the back gate where i could see Le Flipper in the pool up to his wasp waist, chatting with his much older host . . . he didn’t invite me in but kissed me in the French way on both cheeks and told me to wait for him on the beach . . . another guy will be joining us, he added . . . my heart sank . . . if i wanted to swim in a school i would have gone to Pepperdine.

The third guy turned out to be around my age . . . and i recalled the odd remark Le Flipper had made at tea, the one that had given me such hope . . . i’m looking for a daddy, NOT a sugar daddy . . . perhaps we were the finalists in Daddy Search and the fastest swimmer would catch him! . . . he suggested we walk back to my end of the beach so we could catch the current, spoiling what was to be my carefully planned Kodak moment . . . i had asked the Curmudgeon to be waiting there at 4:30, near the spot where Le Flipper had emerged previously, with my camera set for the proper light exposure . . . now there would be no photographic evidence of what the Curmudgeon later described as the opportunity to walk along the beach with two of the handsomest men in the Pines . . . of course that particular satisfaction eluded me entirely as i pondered the kind of existential question any honest 40something gay man in my situation would ask: is it better to be invisible when u are walking by yourself on the beach or next to somebody with the best body in the Pines?

Le Flipper may indeed have had the best body in the Pines but he sure couldn’t go the distance . . . neither he nor his friend ever had swum the length of the Pines before and within half an hour i had lost both of them but gained a new companion: a pilot fish who mistook me for a shark, darting under and in front of me halfway to the Grove . . . i felt more like an idiot than a loser in Daddy Search but nevertheless made a quick stop in the Meatrack for what Morrissey calls a little “self validation” (if u are looking for some self validation, meet me in the back of the railway station).

So how was it? asked my house mates when i approached our spot on the beach with as much nonchalance as i could muster . . . there were several cute guys in the Meatrack, i responded . . . the Meatrack? i imagined u drinking Cosmos by the pool at the African Village house all this time, said the Expatriate who knows exactly which buttons to push . . . oh, no my date ended almost before it started. the only thing that can keep up with me in the ocean are the fish who think i’m going to help them find their dinner. i think Le Flipper knew exactly what he was doing. he ditched me in the politest way possible. . . well, if it’s any consolation consoled the Sun Queen i think that body is all about a little dick.

His assertion didn’t console me but an apple tini did . . . we made the Sun Queen pick the couture designer whose clothes most suited each of us: he dressed the Expatriate in Prada, the Curmudgeon in LaCroix and me in Chanel before declaring i would wear only Valentino . . . we ended the afternoon taking pictures of each other in the buttery August light . . . friendship is the new intimacy.

We were meeting Soccer Mom, the woman the Curmudgeon might have married if his pituitary gland had been a little larger, in the Grove for his delayed birthday dinner at Top of the Bay . . . she had taken the car ferry from Bridgeport to Port Jefferson after the Curmudgeon had extended a last minute invitation for a day or two at the beach . . . Soccer Mom awaited us at the dock looking very Jackie Kennedy in a hot pink sack dress and a simple strand of pearls.

Going to the Grove is always a slightly hallucinogenic experience for me . . . in fact, the visit i enjoyed the most was one summer afternoon when an old friend and i ate chocolate Ding Dongs stuffed with magic mushrooms . . . the place, from the names on the houses to the Belvedere (heterosexual remark overheard on the ferry: that’s their church, dear) to the oddballs wandering the boardwalks, scream charm (or horror, depending on your perspective) in comparison with the drab restraint of the Pines . . . we had an hour to kill before our 9 p.m. reservation so we sat at the bar at Cherry’s where we listened to compellingly awful karaoke . . . i had had sex with the bartender in the Meatrack last season . . . he couldn’t make a margarita or an apple tini worth a damn, but we all marveled at his muscle definition and tipped him in spite of his attitude . . . and the wink he gave me when we left did enable me to bank some self-validation.

At least enough to get me through a pretty decent dinner served by a waiter so efficient i had to tell him so . . . afterward, while Soccer Mom, the Curmudgeon and the Expatriate waited for a water taxi on the dock to take them back to the Sip ‘n Twirl, we watched a bingo game hosted by a drag queen in progress at Cherry’s . . . did someone say surreal? . . . not so surreal as the nearly empty disco that the Sun Queen and i went for a pre-Meatrack cocktail . . . while the Sun Queen sucked his Cointreau through a straw and deposited it into his Poland Spring water bottle, the cute baby-faced bartender with a Britney midriff chatted me up . . . i used to be a paramedic until i got sued by some bitch who said i hadn’t performed the Heimlich maneuver correctly . . . he was sorry to see us go . . . i was glad the joint didn’t serve food.

The Sun Queen and i split up near the entrance to the Meatrack . . . self-validation eluded me with the attractive fellow who had smiled at me several times in the disco . . . he ended up with Stroke4Show, whose dick is as big as his teensy dog . . . but as i was leaving i hooked up again with the Fashion Savior who paints and splits his time between New York and Miami . . . he was standing outside the entrance to his house and we reenacted the same sexual scenario we had earlier in the summer . . . he came and i didn’t except this time we did spend enough time in his hot tub for him to tell me the story of his early retirement: all the demands from my private clients got to be too much. i finally told Leonore Annenberg to get the hell out of my loft when i refused to cut the armholes of her dress as high as she wanted them. she said `look, honey, i never raise my arms when i go out. i don’t open doors or hail a cab or any of those things. all i need arms for is to carry my purse at my side’ but i just couldn’t do it. it was wrong . . . just what i like: a man who stands on principle and who sits on my dick screaming u can fuck me anytime! . . . yawn.

Thursday

What are u going to take with u from the house to remind u of our years together in the Pines? i asked the Expatriate . . . we already had made arrangements, if the house fell apart, to store his kayak at a friend’s house . . . u should take your bird book at least . . . after looking around he replied it’s just things . . . he did agree that it would be a shame to lose the some of the original art work that had accumulated over the years, including a lithograph of several bare breasted ladies frolicking in the dunes and a water color of Master Spinner and Baby Huey, which hangs accusingly in the stereo room.

We joined Soccer Mom on the beach where she had been pumping the Curmudgeon about the Sun Queen who obviously had made a big impression the night before when he said he would dress her in Balenciaga . . . good egg that she is, she agreed to join the Scrabble sharks for a game that was interrupted by a visit from Ski Boy . . . we started without u apologized the Curmudgeon because my friend has to catch an early boat back . . . Ski Boy didn’t understand how seriously we take the game and tried unsuccessfully to make small talk about American Idol . . . i’m rooting for Kelly he said but his enthusiasm drew a blank stare from the Curmudgeon who had eyes only for his rack . . . the awkwardness lessened a bit when Ski Boy and the Expatriate discovered they both had grown up in Chicago but we all were dumbfounded when, at the conclusion of the game, he asked a question about scoring that left no doubt in anybody’s mind that Scrabble had not been the reason he joined us at all . . . but the Curmudgeon, who didn’t even remember his name, was merciless . . . i’m going back to the house to get something to eat with Soccer Mom . . . Ski Boy walked away, forlornly.

When we returned to the beach, the wind prevented us from staying very long, apple tinis or no . . . we retreated to the house for another round just as the clouds moved in . . . the Curmudgeon and i headed off for tea where we ran into a couple who i hadn’t seen all season . . . rumor has it the Pavilion is up for sale but nobody wants to buy it because the bar business sucks . . . the couple had a pet preference in common with Bad Penny, who just happened to have a picture of his lover when he joined us! . . . the Curmudgeon mentioned he had run into him on the beach earlier in the day . . . upon hearing that our house is breaking up, he said don’t worry, we’ll probably have space available for u in our house . . . hmmmmmm, did Bad Penny mean u in the singular or the plural?

Back at home we enjoyed a lovely meal of linguine with shrimp, tomatoes and olive oil purchased and prepared by the Expatriate, a vast improvement over what we used to call his Presbyterian pasta . . . the four of us toasted what may have been our least meal together as a group in the Pines after a splendid week and began planning a Thanksgiving trip to Moscow before the Expatriate takes a new job in Washington, DC at the Justice Department . . . as Doyler would say in At Swim, Two Boys what cheer!