Sea, sex, and sun: Pick two
Jack is on vacation. In his absence, we present posts from Jane, who is also on vacation.
Dear Jack,
Greetings from Fire Island. I wish you were here. I realized that I’m gay and I want you to tell the world that I’m not coming back.
Ever yours,
Jane
Just kidding! Sort of. I’m on Fire Island. Cherry Grove to be specific. Having a gay old sopping-drunk blast with my dyke friends. And, no, I’m not sure that I want to come back. What a strange and wonderful place this is! It reminds me a lot of when I lost my mind back in Nice a few years ago.
I’m just now truly settling in after ten days or so of “vacation.” It has to better here than wherever you are, for sure. As Serge Gainesbourg said, “Sea, sex, and sun.” And even if I’m not the one having sex, it’s still fun. I’ve seen more live action male frontal nudity in these ten or so days than ever before in my 26 years. My friends dismissively say this is the trashy part of queer Fire Island, not surprising given the condition of our rickety matchstick rented abode known as Tee-Pee House. But I think it’s great the house wobbles every time I heave out an asthmatic cough, though fortunately everyone is too drunk to notice.
Indeed, every day I awake to Long Island sunshine, vegan scramble and a freshly-made frozen margarita. Or some stale crackers and a warm Coors Light, depending on who rouses themselves first. Then we go to the beach and swim away the transition between hangover and fresh intoxication, nap in the sun or under an umbrella, and retire to more frozen drinks in the teepee and the occasional night on the town, talking a bunch of shit that only one or two of us are likely to remember even a shred of.
Just last night, in fact, I had a long conversation with Rob imploring her not to swim in the ocean alone in her condition (I was certainly in no condition to rescue her if she got into trouble and I certainly didn’t feel like schlepping the compulsory 6-pack to the beach!). I eventually convinced her to play a game of rummy 500 with me instead. Shamelessly whipping out my theory of poor Natalee Holloway’s unfortunate demise (RIP)…abandoned on the shore after unsuccessfully seducing her seducers and bathing away the shame in the surf only to meet a watery grave. No shame, I tell you! If not her, then someone.
Near dawn, I emerged from this match triumphant but she wanted another hand, just as a sort of perverse 2-out-of-3 possibility of redemption. I gracefully gave it to her and won again. Anyway, in the morning she emerged from the depths and stated, “I don’t remember how I got home.” “Good thing you didn’t go swimming,” remarked Lorelei, the only other breeder in the house. Little did she know the trials I had gone through to convince Rob of the danger of the sublime night sea. “So that’s why I lost,” Rob said, rubbing her eyes and replacing the horn-rims on her ginblossom face. “Don’t use your condition as an excuse to dismiss my victory!” I exclaimed. “So beating a drunk is a satisfactory victory?” she replied, cracking open a Coors Light that was sitting on the littered countertop.
There will be a rematch.
by Jane, August 23, 2006 6:39 PM | More from Drinking & Women | More from Jane | More from The Damned Human Race
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