Bea's weenie takes a beating

There have been many a moment since coming here that I've said to myself, "I'm so proud to be gay. We're such neat, organized people with a sense of fashion, a square head on our shoulders, and honestly seem to be capable of just about anything." With that said, nothing that I'm about to write in this post will substantiate any of that. In fact what this post will do is turn your stomach a bit at just how disturbingly off-putting an individual can be in a seemingly simple situation...

So, as previously described, the weekends out here with their Teas and such are quite busy. Honestly I've been told at the height of summer we're talking roughly four to five thousand people out here from Friday to Sunday drinking, dancing, and fornicating all over the place. Unfortunately, right now we're talking about four to five hundred people coming out over the weekend, which means that during the week we're talking four to five. That said, the little excitement the weekends have held so far leads to even littler excitement on the weekdays. Again, that's just for now, but as such, what the hell do you do from Monday to Thursday?! Dinner parties. That's what you do.

So, at the end of the day some lovely boy comes down your walk with a scented invitation wearing a chastity belt and a smile. He nods and asks for the man of the house so as to kindly invite him over to a dinner prepared by his Mrs, or Mister as it were. His curtsy and invitation presentation are spot on and as he giggles himself off to finish dinner plans you toss yourself in the shower and hope that yesterday's stink comes off with enough Dial. That's exactly how it happened just three days ago, and if only it could've stayed that way. But I've given this an ominous setup for a reason. You'd best sit down.

So, the lovely B and B that I've mentioned before out here, The Madison, has an errand boy. He's adorably petite and super spry. Even at fifty he'll still look 20. Ergo, we'll call him PP. That's for Peter Pan of course. So, PP and I are invited to one such house party and being the superb homosexuals we are, within 45 minutes we've made Hors D'oeuvres to bring (store bought Hummas and chips) as well as unearthed a bottle of our finest red (a screwtop Malbec that I've already siphoned a glass out of). After showering and shaving, spritzing and sprinkling ourselves with cologne, we're off with our dog, Bosco (who is actually the dog of the owner of half of Fire Island, again someone that I refuse to discuss for the sake of my career, that we've been entrusted to take care of for 48 hours).

So, Bosco, PP and I are off on our merry little way to this festive dinner party at the home of a couple here on the island. They are one part the head chef of the restaurant I work in, again someone I'm not discussing, and his lovely partner, again you get the drift. They have made an amazing display of snackables, against which our Hummus pales in comparison. It ranges from thinly sliced chorizo to an actual handcut veggie tray, not just purchased in the store. It would take 6 bottles of our 9 dollar partial bottle of wine to account for one of their artsy bottles. None of this is to say that i am embarrassed by any means. I have no problem being a mooch. I feel that what I lack in finances I make up for in personality... I hope.

At any rate, things are running smoothly, the wine is flowing, I'm drunk in about 6 minutes, which is when my personality flows the most. An uninvited but more than welcome guest comes, still yet another nameless owner who shall remain secret. I enjoy him a lot because he's sweet, funny, Jewish (always a crowd pleaser), and loaded. Lovely guy. So, he's formally apologized for showing up without an invite, and then informs everyone that he paid for the hummus and chips that PP and I brought... hmm. Again... I'm just here to provide personality and take all I can fit in to these fashionably, yet terribly skinny jeans. Regardless, it's fine that he's come and we're happy to have him. He then apologizes ever further because he's thoughtlessly invited another friend along, someone sure to entertain us all with stories from his past and better yet, he's got a cute little weiner dog. Wonderful. How could anything... possibly... go wrong? Right? Right.

Okay, I'm wasted on Grey Goose and Pom juice by the time the old bugger arrives. The images are blurry but I still recall a squat man whose eye live as close to either side of his nose as possible. Beyond that his demeanor and build seem oddly familiar, I just can't quite place it. As he wafts his way into the home behind him comes waddling the world's first weiner dog. By that I mean clearly none existed before this one, because if they had, they'd be dead. This ancient little creature, who probably as a pup hobnobbed with the dodo, skulks its way into the kitchen and plops, waiting for food to come to it as age and time already have. The geezer does much the same and I'm still mildly perplexed as to who it is he reminds me of...

Well as it's been only hours since the Betty White episode of SNL, something we gays will talk about until there's another minority president, weiner geezer man perks right up. He proudly starts name dropping with the best of them and out falls none other than Bea Arthur, gender nondescript star of stage and screen. Well, needless to say he'll be getting referred to as Bea from here on out. He regales us with stories of his last time having dinner with her where, and this is hand to god truth, all they did was tell Jew jokes., the best of them all being:

"Why are Jewish men still circumcised?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because Jewish women won't touch anything unless it's 20% off!"

So at least the old broad can tell a good joke. We're sitting there, enjoying Bea's tales of Bea when all of a sudden a clamor comes from the kitchen and a doggie tiff breaks out. Little weenie and Bosco are clearly having it out over someone's table scrap and being that Bosco is only one year old and a golden retriever, where weenie is well... just that, Bosco wins.

Weenie waddles his way out of the kitchen, crestfallen but not in any serious pain and finds his way to papa Bea for comfort. While holding Weenie, Bea comments that the last time he was in the hospital (Weenie that is), he cried more than when he lost his parents, which I'd place somewhere in the Paleozoic. That's when I make a mistake. A big, fucking, mistake.

"Is Weenie alright?" I say. "It looks as though she might have a little cut right..."

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYy GOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!"

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*Dog is thrown to the floor*

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"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

"HE BIT HER! SHE'S BLEEDING. SHE'S DYING. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH GOOD GRACIOUS GOD. MY GOD.... AAAHHHHHHHHHH!" Bea says calmly.

During the final part of the Bea's rant, a sensible adult has picked Weenie up, placed her on the table, and is checking out the wound. It is, in fact, a small cut about the 2 inches in length, and isn't even bleeding at all. As a matter of fact the dog has yet to even notice the cut due to the fact that it's face is muzzle deep in pasta salad. Delicious pasta salad I might add.

Yet the ranting continues... Is she gonna die? What do I do? Is there blood on my blouse? Over and over and over until someone thankfully tells Bea to shut her trap because the tone of his voice is distressing the animal. After composing herself a smidge and unclutching the pearls Bea sits opposite the pup and strokes her head while the while the fatass continues to chomp away.

Bea seems to have composed a bit and we all realize that while the cut is minor, it should probably be looked at by a professional. The only way to do that is to call someone with a boat and have them take you, namely, the police. So, after calling the animal hospital to verify that they're available, and the police to get their boat ready, Chef man, Young Jewish Owner man, Bea and Weenie are on their way to the dock. The instant the door closes drinks are already being poured. Music has been turned up and mirth is on the rise. Luckily we are in fact in the clear, however, Chef man and Young Jewish Owner man are not. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until they got back, an hour later, after Bea filled out a police report... yes... a police report, that they were able to tell us of their leg of the trip.

First of all, on the walk to the harbor, which takes about seven minutes, they stopped twice, each time Chef man was convinced that Bea was having a heart attack. Beyond that, Bea refused to carry the dog. The dog he threw to the floor when I mentioned that Weenie had a cut. The dog that means more to him that the passing of his dinosaur parents. Wow.

Well after another hour we hear that the dog has been given a couple of staples, and in true Long Island fashion, a prescription for pain killers. I intend on buying a few from him later this week. I'm sure they work just the same right?

Anyway, you'd think, or maybe like, this story to be over, but no. Not quite yet. How you ask? Why not? Please, you beg? Well, while working at the Canteen this morning who should saunter in but Bea. Bea and her weenie. Well Bea, who has forgotten I was even at the party, asks me if I'd heard what happened to her precious pooch. I answered that I had in fact, because I was there. She apologized because all he can remember of me is my chest in a v neck t-shirt. Lovely. Just lovely.

Well after serving her a coffee and an egg sandwich I continue to stock the shelves and laugh to myself. Meanwhile, she proudly sits as close to the entrance as possible, brandishing her busted Weenie, asking anyone who passes by if they've heard about it.

you tea, I tea, we all scream for High Tea

So I've been absorbing a lot over the last few days. Time out here isn't like anything you've ever felt. One day can contain nothing interesting, thereby leaving you to feel as if it lasted either forever or never happened. Conversely, other days may contain just a bit too much to process creating a sense of dread for what's to come. All in all I'm excited, but a lingering fear can't seem to dislodge itself from my head.

Out here there is a tradition of something called Tea. This has nothing to do with the far right wing nuts trying to split the Republican party, but is rather a collection of gay men travelling in packs to and from different establishments out here depending on the time of day. When everything is up and running here's how it goes: Low Tea starts at approximately 6pm and is held at the Pines' only real sit down style restaurant, the Blue Whale. The whale won't look like much of a restaurant though because all the tables have been removed to create a dance floor and upwards of a thousand homos are buying up booze and shaking groove things all around. Also, just for your own frame of reference, this is where I'll be working for the summer once it's up and running. Currently it's missing a floor, has the semblance of a ceiling and a half built cocktail bar... she's in need of a little love, but getting there.

So, back to hypothetical Tea. We began at the Blue Whale, drinking it up where there is sure to be a floor soon enough, but lo and behold it has crept its way to 7:55pm. Well, as any self-respecting homosexual will tell you (although the more time I spend out here I think there are very few of those around) 8pm is the end of Low Tea as we know it, and no one wants to be the last lady at the bar. So, en masse, about 900 dudes trickle they're way to one of two destinations. They're both about 100 yards away from the Whale and starts at a dance hall called The Pavilion, which currently serves as dry storage for the marketplace as well as a home for excess gym equipment (because what's a homosexual without gym equipment?). In here we discover an enormous dance floor with crazy lights and great drinks. It isn't exactly a full-fledged dance club just yet, it's just a taste of what's to come. This is what's called Middle Tea (get it? Low Tea? Middle Tea? K, good.) and is a diving board for those who wish to get a little bump-n-grind on before heading up to the last stop, High Tea.

High Tea is a beautiful room with full length hardwood floors, and hardwood dj both, and two wall length hardwood bars. How many times can one homo write hardwood... Anyhow, an awesome feature of this space is the wall made entirely of garage doors. It's the second floor of a building that overlooks the harbor as you come into The Pines, and weather permitting, this wall of garage doors are open allowing for the summer air to come in, and the dj's rockin' tunes to entertain all the homes below. As I said before, this is currently the only part of Tea open for business from Friday to Sunday, but project manager man (a straightee) has convinced us that the Whale will be open for Low Tea on Friday.

Now that you've got a grasp of Tea out here, let's talk specifics. This weekend I had the pleasure of going to High Tea the three days it was open (Friday, Saturday, Sunday). On Friday, when the weather was stunning, I basically just stood near the bartender that I made out with the night before... (we'll get there, we'll get there) and enjoyed a few stiff drinks while dancing with my new favorite person on the island. She's a free spirit, born and raised in Ireland, and business partners with the marketing director out here. We'll call her Carbomb. That's referring to my favorite style of shot, not the bootsy attempt to blow up Times Square last week. Anyhow, Carbomb and I are dancing our faces off and getting shitfaced on Whiskey(her) and Gin(me) and flirting with our bartender counterparts. She's actually in luck this summer because three of the bartenders at this point are... dare I say it... Straight! Her poison of choice hails from Hungary and has assured all of us, despite his extensive knowledge of the type of thongs bartenders wear at Splash Bar that he's 100% heterosexual. We'll just call him Starving. So Carbomb and Starving are off at their corner of the bar enjoying a flirtatious moment between rounds of dancing and boozing. Luckily, or rather conveniently for me and my new bestie Carbomb, my bartender of choice is stationed right next to Starving. He's a little Latino from Miami with nice lips and an obsession for the phrase, "Yes Bitch!" He's also the person that I've had random bouts of mouth to mouth practice with and was sweet enough to buy me a cupcake on my birthday. He also thought it would be hilarious to tell someone in the bar that we were foster brothers raised in Wooster, so as to weird them out anytime he saw us flirting, something I think we were successful in. If he does anything to piss me off I'll start calling him Fidel on here, but for now we'll call him Charro... because of his pretty lips.

So, all throughout my first High Tea experience I'm dancing it up with Carbomb, flirting it up with Charro, and drinking it up with Tanqueray (not a nickname here, I just mean gin). It was a super fun experience and thankfully the DJ cranked out some fantastic tunes. After helping clean up a bit, trying to get Charro's attention when I can (he plays a mean hand of "hard to get"), I drunkenly hit the hay. My poor kitten Little has grown more and more concerned, leaving AA pamphlets under my pillow and pooping on my vodka. Listen, drinking is only a problem when you wake up... or maybe when you don't...

Day two of Tea, and the day before my bday, happens to be my longest shift at work. Work right now is a little food shop not unlike Panera, or Au Bon Pain. Luckily, even with a bit of a hangover I can still press buttons and smile. I also think of this as a blessing in disguise because I will have to work straight through High Tea and shouldn't be getting drunk the night before my 26th bday anyway. Also, the last thing I need in my life is more booze as at this point my dexterity is questionable at best.

So, after a lazy morning, I collect myself and head to work at the Canteen. It's actually pretty damn cute in there and all I really do is smile and nod, smile and nod, press a button, and smile, and nod. The locals and regulars love the changes that have been made. I bullshit my way through conversations with them about how great it is compared to last year (because at this point I've been here a total of 4 days) and get them to buy bottled water and pay in cash. I may also, on occasion, nudge the tip jar on accident because baby's broke and unabashedly so. Work is moving along just fine from 3pm to 5pm. However we know that come 5:30 we'll be dead because Tea has begun, and honestly who'd prefer a ham sandwich to a vodka soda? We begin our busy work: filling ketchups, brewing more tea, restocking Perrier, etc. when the manager, whom I won't be giving a nickname or talking about at all for the sake of my job, comes in and singles me out.

"Nate, what are you doing right now?"

"Umm... working? Refilling this bucket of sani-naps?"

"Drop that, grab a tray and follow me!"

Oh lord.... motor skills don't fail me now. After scooping up a cute green tray I follow him up to High Tea at the height of it's craziness. I'd guess there were about 300 gays or so dancing and drinking it up. I'm feeling a little woozy and a lot un-cute. Manager man settles me up at the bar with my tray and has none other than Charro make me 9 "Planters Punches." This is a combination of juices and fire water designed to do little more than fuck you up. Oh no... it suddenly dawns on me. Cocktail boy. I'm becoming in this moment, for the first time in my life, a cocktail boy... okay. Okay. I can do this. I think.

For the next hour and a half I carry tray after tray of punch, sold for 9 bucks a pop, around a crowded dance floor. The carrying, not so much a problem. Breaking a twenty dollar bill with a tray of drinks in one hand and 17 ones in the other, sketchy, but successful. Being groped by persons unknown, unable to retaliate because my brain is solely fixed on a tray of cheap booze: priceless. After making my way through sweaty men dancing like mad and making out like whoa, en total I sell 27 punches and even make a few bucks along the way. My dexterity has returned and I'm feeling like a celebrity. Even one of the owners, someone else that I refuse to write about on here for the sake of my summer, compliments my punch peddling skills and even calls me "his favorite." I'm sure I would've been his favorite with or without the empty drink cup in his hand... right?

Anyway, could life get any better? Of course it can! I return to the Canteen feeling like a gad-damn superstar only to find out that we're low on mayo and I get to scoop it with a butter knife from a gallon-sized tub into little to go cups! Amazin.... wait. What?! Me? The cocktailing superstar? The drunk owners favorite?!... Well we've all gotta return to reality some time I suppose. So my Saturday night ends with me slathering Hellman's into tiny plastic cups and getting as little as possible on my Seersucker pants. The only real perk of the evening after that was Charro coming down to buy a sandwich once High Tea closed. I mentioned being a little chilly and that I'd forgotten my scarf upstairs during my punch pushing. Two minutes later the saucy Latina comes waltzing in with my scarf and a smile. Sadly, but adorably, they both warm me up quite a bit. I shouldn't be smitten by anyone yet, but I always have been a fool with my ticker.

After closing up shop and getting the next day off work because it's my bday, I head home and crash. This Tea thing, I can already tell, is the best of times and the worst of times out here on the island. It's where deals are made, love is found, and 40 dollars gets you two stiff drinks and the graze of a cocktail boys backside. I love it. I think.

Vacay's Over

Fair warning, this is being written on Cinco de Mayo and I've had one meal, two Coronas, and am in the middle of a bottle of Malbec.

So, it's been a couple of days. I may not have mentioned this before, but I made the conscious choice to come out here a few days early because I wanted to get settled a little bit before the shitstorm of new workers came and to claim the bottom bunk for me and kitty. So, until now it's been paradise. Literally. I wake up and the birds are chirping, the sun is bright and full, and the ocean is roaring. I only mention this because tomorrow the rest of the crew arrives and I find out just how homosexual and overly dramatic this summer is going to be. Lord god I hope that 20 boys roll off that boat tomorrow dark featured, easy going, pot-smoking, and funny as hell. Even one blonde queen has the potential to ruin a summer.

So, here's the skinny. I have an awesome suite mate (he lives in the room connected to my room by the bathroom). He's cute, has gorgeous eyes, a long beard, plays guitar, and LOVES kitten. We'll call him Amish. So, Amish is one of the kitchen people and due to the fact that he can't lock his outside door from outside, he uses my room to come and go and locks his outside door from the inside and his bathroom door. That last sentence may confuse you and if so, ask me for a diagram, which I will gladly draw the next time we're drunk together at a bar and there's a napkin and a sharpie around. Suffice it to say he uses my room as a path to the outside world and twice now he's awoken me from a nap, and once he interrupted what I'm going to discretely call personal time and allow you to draw the conclusion.

I love that he loves kitty, who has fast become the star of the island. Granted her stardom is mostly with others and not so much with me. Why you ask? Well I've touted kitty's unstinky bowel movements for a long time now. I mean really... I live with a kitten alone in a studio in Staten Island and it never smells like poopy. But. Now I live in a small (and I mean smaaaaall) room with her and lord... Lord help me. Is it the stress of moving that wakes me in the middle of the night to rotten eggs and hairy cheese? Is it something I'm feeding her that allows her to open up and release the devil into her poopy box everyday? I just don't know... I know that this whole paragraph is unwanted, but I needed to get it out. Thank you for indulging me. Again, remember the Coronas...

So, kitten is a hit. Just last night I was at dinner with some new friend's... We're having fantastic conversation about gay youth and how it affects us that often our first relationships happen later in life than those of heterosexual youths. Remind me to talk more about this the next time we're drunk in a bar and there is a napkin and a sharpie around, I'm passionate about it. Anyhow, we're eating some incredible Baklava and homemade crepes when I casually mention having a kitten. Suddenly my opinions about homosexual youth and their underdeveloped relationships fly out the window and every 'mo in the room is dying to meet her. So, we walk past the stunning beach, and under the sky full of stars (those twinkling lights up there that I haven't seen for the last 8 years I've been in nyc) and head to my, again, very tiny apartment and proceed to be shown up by a 7 month old pussy.

Otherwise things have been paradisaical (or paradise-like) out here. I've gone running on a beach, had lengthy conversations with a beautiful boy from Columbia, and even used a power-washer topless.

My favorite place to be, which is where I am right now, is a beautiful bed and breakfast out here called The Madison. I have eaten most all of my meals here and the manager is so so so sweet. He humbly denies that any of his food could possibly satisfy your cravings and yet it is incredible. So far in three nights I've had steak with mushrooms, onions and peppers, a whole roasted chicken served with baked potatoes, and a pasta dish with sweetened sausage and broccoli rabe. Literally each of these meals were served with an appetizer of humble pie in which B and B manager man tells all of us that we'd be better off eating slop because he's fully incapable of food prep... again, I love gay people.

Aside from the fact that kitten is more likely to be prom queen than I am, I'm totally pleased thus far with my experiences out here. That could all change tomorrow and this post may very well be followed with angry epithets hurled the way of my outrageous tranny mess roomie who does meth and screams while I read the bible and try to pray... you can sort out what's true or not. Regardless, this was the right choice for me. It'll be sobering, in an ironic way, to get drunk this summer with "my people" and really learn about what's going on in our community. I won't belabor it now, but by learning what's going on in our community, I might even get a glimpse into what's wrong with it as well. high hopes for a lowly waiter I know. Wish me luck.

A very good place to start

It was all so romantic at the start, a hot summer day, a kitten in a box, and a cab running over my foot. I started out on one island just south of Manhattan, we'll call it Staten. After hurriedly cleaning the place up for my subletter and shoving my newly adopted kitten, Little, into her carrier I hop out to the street to catch the cab that I've called to come pick me up and take me to the 2pm ferry, the first step in a long journey and the start of my summer. Excitement isn't even the word to describe the bubbling in my chest. I've never lived in a vacation island for the summer. I've never been completely surrounded by affluent and wealthy homosexuals. I've never seen a beautiful ocean wave crest and fall only to reveal an empty lube packet among the conches (I now have...). It's bound to be an amazing time. Right?

Let me fill in the back story. I'm a 20-something gay guy. I live in NYC and have done so for about 8 years after moving here from southern Ohio. After graduating from school for performing arts I've been mildly successful but an offer came for the summer to work in The Pines of Fire Island (gay mecca essentially) and I took it. Will it further my career? I dunno. Will it make me a better person? Decidedly not. Will it be worth reading about my mishaps, stumbles, adventures, regrets, fears, drunkeness? Meh. We'll see.

So, I'm standing outside of my apartment complex with two suitcases, a backpack, and a kitten in a box all jittery and ready for adventure. The cab that I've called is on its way... right? Did I call the wrong number... Hmm. Let me just look.... nope. Okay.... So it's 1:50pm and as long as he gets here now I'll make that boat.

1:56pm. Kitten already hates me for putting her through the first 12 minutes of this soon to be 5 hour trip. I hate the cab man. Why is it so hot? And I can't even... SHUT UP KITTEN! Grr.....

2:10pm. Hey cab man. How's it going? Me? I'm great dude... just great. I'm also an hour behind now because you're 10 minutes late. And that's fine. Kitten hates me now. That's also fine I suppose. Let's just go.

2:13 pm. Oh. Great. A Five Borough bike race. Fun. What cab man? You can't drive me to the boat because of the bikers... and I've gotta walk downhill with bags and kitten alone in this damnable heat... well I'll just have to then. Okay.

2:14pm. DAMNIT! Cab man why did you run over my foot while I was trying to reclaim kitten from your backseat? What's that? You swear you heard the door close? Interesting... really interesting... I swear I had 5 toes just a minute ago...

So, after a perfect start, I finally arrive at the Staten Island ferry. A man who doesn't speak any English sees the distress wearing on me and just picks up one of my bags. Are you stealing from me sir? No. Just helping. Ah... kindness. Blessed blessed kindness. He walks with me all the way to the seat that I've chosen, mumbling something about the dogs that sniff your luggage in the terminal and the possession of marijuana, something I'd never agree to on a public blog. I ride on the boat receiving mothers and children warmly as they ogle kitten, who is starting to shed from fear and loathing. I'm pretty sure she intends on killing me in my sleep and at this point I would welcome that.

Once we've docked and I've collected the fallen fur from both her head and mine I disembark, renewed and refreshed by the waves and fresh air. Disregarding the state of my bank account, I flag down a cabbie, stuff my junk in the trunk and give him the directions.

Penn station would be a madhouse with a tour guide and no luggage. For those who've never been there, it's underground, not that well lit, and full of people who're dying to both be the hell away from here and totally drunk. So, I buy my ticket and walk directly to the nearest watering hole and settle up close to the door because I've only got 14 minutes to get my summer buzz started. I've done more damage in less time before so I'm not too concerned.

While waiting for the bartender to come back from her smoke break a charming woman starts doting on what she refers to as my "baby." At this point kitty is dying for some attention and I'm just dying. I open the case, beg her to pet Little and ask her not to steal anything while I order myself a drink. My frustration begins to dissipate when her boyfriend walks up and say, "Can I grab you two something to drink?" Margarita. Rocks. Salt. Please. Thanks. And I give him a twenty to cover it which he refuses saying that my kitten is bringing his gal joy, so i deserve a drink. I think that's fair and gladly re-pocket the cash while girlfriend and I talk about a former Siamese she had recently lost and kitten has a fallen in love with girlfriend's hand.

Boyfriend returns with my drink, which I pound because we've got 5 minutes to make it. These two happen to be riding the same train that I am out to Long Island and Boy carries a bag while Girl carries the kitty (insert tasteless P-word joke here). We settle in, an old man hits on girlfriend while I wrestle my luggage into an over head compartment and we're on our way.

Sadly, Boy and Girl live not too far out on the island and soon I'm left alone with kitty who is infinitely calmer thanks to Girlfriend. I close the old eyelids, kick back and relax. I arrive in Sayville, Long Island around 6pm (which you'll recall is 4 hours later than this rambling story started). I'm driven to a dock and my restaurant owner picks me up in a boat. His boat. So cool. We make our way out to the pines and all I can say for those who've never been there is beautiful. Beautiful. Beauty-full.

After docking Kitten has become the fan favorite with the handful of homos that pass by. Even office manager lady loves her and offers to hold her for a while to let me settle in. More kindness. I welcome it. The walk to my accommodations is along a wooden planked path lined by tall colorful trees, 30 foot bamboo stalks, and brilliant, gorgeous, stunning beach homes. I've already taken 20 pics on my phone and while they upload to facebook I round the corner to my place for the summer.

It's called the Ranch... Essentially it's a double wide trailer where two boys stay in a room and a bathroom joins to another room of two boys. I've chosen to come out a few days early and settle in, have my choice of both room and bunk, etc. After dropping off the bag and checking out the 'sitch' I look around and thank whatever power that be has gotten me here alive, safe, and given me this incredible summer.

The rest is a bit of a blur because there was a drink in my hand within 5 minutes. Seriously. Grey Goose and soda. I love gay people. Love them.

Cocktail at my side I go to re-collect kitten to find that she's smitten even more homos. I'm convinced that she's gonna find me a man this summer. And that's why I keep her around. After getting her situated with a pooping box and some food I do a little light unpacking. I do a quick wardrobe change, toss my locks up into my new favorite hairstyle, the Samurai Knot, and drunkenly hit the path to The Pines' premier B and B: The Madison. It's owned by the same people who own our restaurant and they "keep the troops fed." I walk in to receive another beverage and steaks on the grill. (I silently re-thank the powers that be).

Dinner: incredible. Sobriety: thing of the past. Hot tub: in it. Life: amazing.

Needless to say I'm pleased. I don't know what this summer has in store for me. I've already started falling for someone here, and who knows where that will lead. I've already been told to stay away from drugs this summer. However, apparently no one considers pot and coke a part of the drug family... interesting. I've already gotten drunk and been in my undies in front of strangers... Perfect. I intend to wake up each day and live the best day I can no matter what. So far I've been successful. Let's hope it stays that way.