Archive: August 2006
(2 entries)
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, 6:39 PM | Link | Comments (0) | More from Drinking & Women | More from Jane | More from The Damned Human Race
Music for chameleons
Jack is on vacation. In his absence, we present posts from Jane, who is also on vacation.
Another day in the luscious and infernal Cherry Grove. It just keeps going. I suppose I should tell more anecdotes in order to make my hijack worthwhile. Something worth reading. (Apologies for not performing better under pressure!)
The only thing exciting that’s happened recently is that I got stung, bit, irritated by something. Swimming in the sea, kicking my girlhood siren fantasy — or desperately scrapping for a lobster-boy pass, as Rob calls her funny orange turbo-tailed nerfball that we pat about in the surf — it’s impossible to isolate the incident. Somehow I wound up with a Farrah-Fawcett-Burning-Bed-style bruise/laceration on my trunk. At first I thought it was just the result of a mid-afternoon wrestling match between me, Rob, and Cassandra (the fabulous one of the bunch) that shook the rafters of Tee-Pee House. A match that resulted in bruises upon all and the death of my sunglasses for which I performed an instant Irish wake that garnered the applause of all.
Then I woke up this morning with a profound burning sensation, itching and burning, and a truly spectacular wound on my belly. I dare those dykes to do such damage! I’m guessing it was a jellyfish or some otherworldly kraken-plant that I grazed in the midst of my stupefied pleasure. Jellyfish. I tend to doubt knowing the venomous Gulf of Mexico jellyfish that I sparred with during my youth on the Florida panhandle. Apparently there are dainty jellyfish on Fire Island, that just flirt with the idea of hurting you and then quickly retreat before you can get any sort of hold on them. Barf! Clichés all around! I’ll tell you, this place lends itself to them.
A couple of nights ago we decided to head to the local seafood galley for lobster night. We ate tiny $25.00 lobsters al fresco in view of the rising rose-colored moon bobbing along to the tunes of the shirtless piano player. What more could you ask for? Well, you could ask for him to play one of the better tenor numbers from Les Misérables…. But, you know what? No need to ask! He’s on it. He’s on it. Bring him home!
I had to confess upon my enthusiastic joining of the chorus that I know this material well. As a baby-goth drama princess, I sang the whole soundtrack innumerable times, each vocal part in fact. The gang were astounded but not terribly enthralled.
I shouted “And you call yourselves gay!”
“I’m a dyke, not a faggot!” thundered Cassandra. “Give me Iggy Pop, give me Bryan Ferry! Give me FUCKING New Order. But DO NOT give me SHOW TUNES!” standing and pounding her fists on the table.
‘Nuff said. Maybe I’m not just gay, but a gay man….
by Jane, 3:04 PM | Link | Comments (0) | More from Drinking & Women | More from Jane | More from The Damned Human Race
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