Every Man Is an Island

For someone whose island escapes are usually limited to the Coney variety, any day trip to an off-shore beach is exciting. When the invitation came at my boss's farewell lunch, we accepted with wild enthusiasm. A day at Fire Island. Sun, waves, and margaritas. Drunk on the Friday afternoon air of a Midtown power-munching, we waxed ecstatic for no particular reason. If a waiter had tried to sign us up for a Mahdi Army boot camp right there and then, we'd have cheerfully X'd the spot.

With each day the reality of a get-together on the Gay Riviera loomed nearer, tapering our zeal. Being the only straight guy in our little department, my zeal was turned inside out the night before the jaunt. Luckily, my comrades shared the lackluster attitude.

Unless you're a seaboat captain, or a resident or Sayville, L.I., the trip to this alternative outpost is deterrent enough. The isle's remoteness ingeniously wards off unwanted douchebags, ethnic riff-raff, and Manhattan singles. It all starts with a train ride to the LIRR, followed by an extended train ride in a car full of bourgeois daytrippers and outerborough gays. Then, we're transported by a so-called "people van" to a dock 3 blocks away for the paltry sum of $4 one way. I lead the group onto the most proximate vehicle, which is crammed.

The dispatcher instructs us to move in even though we're on a tiny bus and there is clearly no more room. This inane directive is not lost on a sarcastic lesbian, who gives voice to our thoughts. Now we're in the lap of luxury. After a few minutes at the dock, we are ferried by the Sayville Clipper to a nebulous strip of land off on the horizon. The foreboding approach left me feeling like Jeff Bridges first seeing Skull Island in the original remake of King Kong.

When one of us poses the obvious question, "Why do they call this Fire Island?" the other shoots back, "Because everyone here's a flamer." We accept the explanation. In a orientational roll call of one, I identify as a hetero to our more spunky companion. This is good. We pull into the Fire Island Pines pier, flanked by an outdoor restaurant and bar scattered with men in cabana shorts. Women appear to be extinct. In fact, they don't appear at all.

Our host, dressed casually, is waiting at the port. It's a beautiful day and I feel as though I'm on vacation, arriving at a four-star resort. The air is dry but very clean and there are men hugging one another, celebrating reunions with smiles and hugs. "It's a camp for adults," he informs us, and this is borne out as we set off down a boarded path of wooden planks past rows of American holly, sassafras, oak, pitch pine, and red cedar. Cars are off limits here, but there are about 75 vehicles officially stationed here. We pass a firehouse that looks more like a country museum and a simple white sign announcing "Whorehouse Auditions" with an arrow pointing the way.

We arrive at the house, which doesn't look like much more than a wooden camp shack with a lovely garden from the outside. But as we step through the portal we enter the type of home you might see on a Greg Louganis version of Cribs. Successful gay men with laptops are lounging everywhere. There is an Ivy League architect, a software entrepreneur, and assorted happy young guys, possibly freelance designers.

Our host shows us the ice-machine and points us to the booze cabinet, replete with rum, vodka, gin and margarita mix. Immediately I cause a stir by jerking the icebox too hard, hurtling it to the floor. This is not a good start to my plan of staying low key. I make several tasty Bloody Marys and sit back, enjoying the conversation with my friends for the day. It doesn't take long for me to remember that gay people are not merely excellent at being fabulous, but quite clever as well.

Each succeeding drink made me more inured to my environment, which, in many ways, was far more laid back and civilized than the mainland I'd left behind.... Soon, we proceeded to the beach, where someone observed that even the "purple sand" is gay on Fire Island and I charged into the empty, frigid Atlantic waters to my colleagues' bemusement. That was the way. To charge into things, plow ahead into the unknown...after several drinks, of course.

Back at the house for more drinks, burgers, and dogs. An All-American holiday centered around the BBQ grill. Our more flamboyant comrade passed out, all flirted out, his uncouth snoring filling the summer stillness with restful resonance. We tried to flip his cot into the pool, but, like Lazarus, he miraculously awoke right at the precipice, stepping off the bed like Hannibal Lecter from his gurney...

We sail back, the two gay members of our squad completely hammered from a few extra drinks they snagged at the dockside watering hole. They harass a middle-aged couple wearing wedding bands. The two stoic consorts remind them marriage is not "awesome" but serious commitment between two loving partners. The lesson, like the last drink, is lost on them. Thing seem to climax as they ask me to show my tits. In the spirit of the moment, I comply, carefully considering if I should leave out this part of my account.

We nap all the way back to Jamaica, the smooth train ride gently lulling us back into the heteronormative fold. Fire Island's charms slowly wear off, the vodka flushing from my bloodstream. On the train back, I look around at my immigrant brethren, their faces wrapped in routine preoccupations. They have no idea...