Summer on Fire

Shares on Fire Island stay active through September and early October, but the unofficial end to summer is Labor Day weekend…although it’s tough to tell if this rain-soaked summer ever “officially” started.  However, despite the drizzly days, nothing was able to snuff out the fun of my summer on Fire.

It was my first share, having only been a weekend guest at hotels or worse yet, a daytripper.  The daytripper is easily spotted by the backpack they tote with them everywhere they go and the intense look in their eye straddling desperate for a place to stay and desperate to get laid.  Between subway, Long Island Rail, taxi, and Ferry, it can be a three hour trip each way so the daytripper often tries to become an overnighter, tempting the adage “beggars can’t be choosers.”  I heard about stories of sleeping on people’s rooftops, on the beach, on the dock, or just giving up and forgoing sleep for the night (as if that doesn’t happen to some of us anyway).  As a young doe-eyed daytripper I never understood why people who had shares didn’t just fling open their doors for the rest of us.  But now that I was on the other side, I get it…the share isn’t just a house, it’s a home you make with your fellow housemo’s.

The BackPack at a Party - Daytripper!

And don’t get me started on being a weekender and the underwhelming amenities of the local hotels.  (I’m sorry, for $300 bucks I want more than cinder blocks and shared bathrooms – yeah I’m talking to you Hotel Ciel!  And I did not order crabs with my bed Belvedere Hotel!).  Ahem, anyway, shares are great ways to guarantee extended stays on the island, as you generally have the entire week – so if it’s a quarter share you get five weeks and a half share gets your ten.  The thing to note about shares is the emphasis on the word SHARE.  I did not expect this, but many many houses prefer to set up very communal schedules, where everyone cooks together and takes care of the house together.  Don’t worry, most houses hire maids once a week, I mean, we aren’t animals!  But especially coming from a one-bedroom apartment and a city where three literally is a crowd, living and sharing with ten people takes some getting used to.

Communal living can be great though.  I know I know, I was cynical too but it’s kind of incredible to have an instant extended family (just add water…ok vodka).  And the houses can be huge, so that family can be 15 or 20 guys strong.  Never in my tiny Brooklyn apartment could I entertain that many guys at once…try as I may. But all families, extended or not, can be a little tiring after a while.  Though the food you cook as a group is generally the best you’ll find on the island, it can get a little rocky waiting for a house of ten guys plus guests to converge on dinner from the teas, the meatrack, and lord knows who’s hottub.  That’s where the Prosecco comes in, which is apparently this year’s Rosé, in case you’re keeping score.  It held me over waiting for dinner more than once.  But if the drink trends keep heading in this direction next year’s beverage du jour will be lighter fluid.  Oh wait, they already have that, it’s called Pine’s Punch (drink at your own risk – I almost fell off a boat after one pungent punch!)

11PM dinner almost served

And speaking of trends, I’m calling you guys out.  Since the Pines is all about what you’re wearing and (hopefully) not wearing, I couldn’t help but notice one trend that better be dead by next year - Board shorts.  Talk about dead trend walking.  Who decided that we were going to have tanlines starting around the knees?  Who decided we were going to be demure this summer?  Not this gay.  While the beach scene may have been typified in the past by what can only be deemed speedon’ts (speedos where they shouldn’t be), this year it was all about the board shorts.  Even one of the two circuit parties held on the island was themed “Endless Summer” which sadly meant a night of looking at all the wrong prints covering all the right bodies.

I miss these...

...but not these

What surprised me the most though and the biggest lesson learned was the mood that overtakes the island the last few weeks of summer.  Granted, those weeks are just as fun and full of debauchery, and still way too many trannies up in my business, but there’s a hint of sadness.  It’s the end of summer camp and time to go back to reality with the chill of autumn already hitting the city.  Every last supper is called The Last Supper, and that’s when I realized this was more than just a vacation for a lot of people who hit the Pines.  It’s not a place they visit, it’s a place they live.  We’re already talking about next year’s house, and during the cold months of winter I’ll tide myself over by watching this video one or two (hundred) times.  If you haven’t seen this video yet, stop what you’re doing right now and watch it!  I’m mortified to write this, but a Miley Cyrus song, with GENIUS Fire Island footage, pretty much sums up my summer on fire.

Party in the FIP

If you relied solely on the testimonials of Pines boys these days, you’d swear that the Meat Rack was just another iconic myth of gay life…you know, like unicorns, and or a second date with someone you’ve met at the Pavilion. Everyone’s heard of it, but no ones actually experienced it. The stories always start with “someone they know goes there…” As in, “someone” did some crazy stuff there, but no one will fess up to being that someone. I guess it’s kind of like going to the sauna at the gym…we all know stuff goes on in there, and I bet most of us have done it first hand, but unless we’re actually caught in the sauna, we swear we wouldn’t be caught dead in there.

So basically, the Meat Rack is like a 50,000 square foot sauna. Like I said in another post it’s the area of land between the Pines and Cherry Grove, and it’s arguably the quickest way to get from one to the other. Arguable only in the sense that it’s easy to get distracted so a twenty minute walk ends up stealing your afternoon and making you late for tea. Whether you’re a voyeur, an exhibitionist, or madly in love with a new friend for the next twenty minutes, the Meat Rack is the spot for you to get your fix of hedonism. Technically it’s illegal to play in the area but with several ways off the beaten path, to the well hidden beating paths, the action still goes on.

Local Wildlife

According to my sources, who of course all claim never to actually go there, the Meat Rack is at it’s peak in the late afternoon, after getting hot and bothered on the beach, and late night after getting randy at the bars. In the afternoon you mostly have to be careful of the men who set up camp in the Meat Rack. No, not with tents and sleeping bags, but with lawnchairs, newspapers, and cock rings. They sit in strategically marked spots, waiting for some boys to stray from the herd. You can compare them to that guy in the sauna who tries to get involved when he’s clearly uninvited…not that I’ve ever been in that sort of situation, I swear. If you’re looking to find some action in the afternoon, I realized it’s a lot like bird watching, as a friend of mine took me through the woods of the rack. One minute we’re walking along and the next I’m told to be quiet and to slowly walk towards what looks like just a row of bushes. As we near we see a small opening and hidden away from the path is a small group of guys. And I’m guessing that if they were birds they’d be Swallows…ahem, you know what I mean. At night it’s a little harder to find people once you’re in the Meat Rack…there are absolutely no lights and once in the wooded area, even the stars don’t help you anymore. Most often you’ll see groups of boys giggling and squealing their way through, like a remake of the Blair Witch Project. So you’ll probably want to bring a friend with you instead of trusting whatever lurks behind that flickering iPhone in the distance.

Midnight Cardio

Now I’m not one to judge (I swear!!). The Meat Rack adds to the Pines experience, even if you don’t actively seek out any wooded woodpeckers. It is yet another way that Fire Island offers a complete escape and a community where anything goes. I for one think the Meat Rack is an institution worth supporting. Where else in the country can you find a gorgeous stretch of land devoted almost entirely to orgasms?

Despite being a mostly male population, it’s no surprise that a visitor to the island will find a disproportionate amount of high heels and wigs. But it might be a surprise that these accessories aren’t just for the resident trannies (love you DJ Lina!!). When taking a trip to the Pines, it’s pretty much a matter of time before someone breaks out the heels…and generally that time is after a few low tea cocktails. In the blink of an eye, or bat of a fake eyelash, you’re suddenly doing a Sashay, Shante, twirl, kick, pose, turn, crawl, snarl, catwalk, Tyra Banks, broken down baby doll. Well, maybe not the first time up, but definitely by the second. The fact is, on the island pretty much anyone will channel his inner diva just for kicks, high and low.

So it’s definitely a sight to behold, and worth paying extra for the primo holiday weekend, when every 4^th of July the Pines experiences what’s simply known as “the invasion.” It’s safe to say that today there’s a love hate relationship between the Pines and Cherry Grove, but it hasn’t always been so warm and fuzzy between the two. At least now there’s some love. In the 1970’s drag queens were a large part of the Cherry Grove experience but frowned upon by some in the Pines community. In the summer of ’76 one drag queen was denied service at the Botel, a former Pines hotel and restaurant. Upon hearing this, some local trannies planned to descend upon the Pines in a show of solidarity. Stealing a page from of George Washington, who attacked the British on Christmas day, the revolutionary trannies staged their invasion on Independence Day. While it was a great surprise to the residents of the Pines, there was no battle, and the only bloodshed came from anyone in heels trying to maneuver the boardwalk after a few cocktails. The small group of trannies was actually welcomed with a warm hugs, major snaps, and a few “oh haaaaay”s.

Little did they know this would become an annual event, where every 4^th of July a group of drag queens board a water taxi in Cherry Grove and heads over to the Pines. And the number of trannies participating has ballooned (who says trannies can’t reproduce?). Now they pack themselves in by the dozens, braving the rocky seas with weaves, make up, and accessories fiercely in place. And they are welcomed with huge crowds of buff boys, leather daddys, trannies in training, and every other kind of lgbt islander. This is the genius of the annual party. In a group where there’s sometime a little too much division, this event like no other brings together every kind of queer. For a day we forget which kind of gay we are, enjoy one of the best bashes of the year, and are free to tap into our own part time tranny.

Halfway through the summer I’ve realized you actually need three things on the island…money, an iPhone, and stamina. The Pines is a paradise of fun and games. But if you aren’t a kid anymore, these games start to take it out of you. There’s so much to do and see, and well, “do”, and see being “done”, that staying a week or even a few days is like the ultimate physical challenge. It isn’t quite like running a sprint, and it isn’t like running a marathon either. Just for giggles I’d like to call it a biathlon, but that’s only two events, and well, there really aren’t any bi guys (I mean really). No, every visit on Fire Island is like a freakin decathlon and if you don’t pace yourself you’ll being dragging your tired ass across the finish line and onto the ferry home. Luckily there are lots of ways to recharge on the island and eventually you learn which events to enter.

Thursday is generally the opening ceremony, and like the Olympics, nothing really counts so you don’t need to go all out on this night. I watched one evening as friends arriving from the city unwound with cocktails at the house, hit low tea to check out the scene, had a boozy dinner, relaxed in the hot tub and then made it out for one last round at Sip n Twirl, though one swears he doesn’t remember going there. He also doesn’t remember using pick up lines that invariably included the words pee, rape, and “come oonnnnnnnn.” Now, since it’s Fire Island, there are worse lines, but this friend’s poor form knocked him out of commission for Friday when the island gets into full swing.

The action peaks on Saturday, where you can always find house parties in the middle of the day, followed by low tea, middle tea, and high tea…or as I call it the triple pump, er, I mean triple jump. Then there’s dinner to be followed by dancing, at the Pavilion in the Pines, or Cherry’s in the Grove for the more ambitious gays. But at this point in the weekend you have no choice but to start making choices. Some people blow their party load early in the day and that’s all right…the smarter Pines partier will know to take it easy later on.

Oh, and speaking of easy loads, at this party we ran into a friend leaving with a new friend to go find a bathroom. He came back 15 minutes later with his new friend’s “easy load” on his lips and shoulder. There’s really no way to comment on this, other than maybe when you think you’ve seen all there is to see in the Pines, your friend comes back to the party covered in spooge.

Like I was saying, after all the partying that can be done during the day some may still force themselves out for the night but after two or three days of that, try to remember you’re visiting one of the most beautiful beaches in the northeast and some days the party can go on without you. Another friend kindly suggested to start doing lines to stay up, and while that advice may work for some, I’d say just pace yourself before you waste yourself.

You don’t need to bring a lot with you to enjoy Fire Island, but you do need two things. Money of course, since the prices of drinks, smokes, even potato chips put Manhattan to shame, (and that’s saying a lot!) and an iPhone. No, the people from Apple aren’t sponsoring this post…but hey Apple, if you want to toss me a few bucks I’ll send you my PayPal, or Manhunt profile…whatever works for you (I’m a bottom for Macs).

So no, it’s not because you need to be able to make calls…though most other phones don’t get service on the island. In some ways that’s a pro; you get to completely unplug and just let yourself get swept up in the environment. However, there are times when you’ll absolutely need to reach out and touch someone. Like if you want to txt that guy you just met at Sip n Twirl to find out where his hot tub is, then you’ll need to get some service, before getting, well, some service.

Also, when you’re out and about in a bathing suit, how much can you really carry? Sure, stuff it into your bathing suit, but a camera isn’t the bulge we’re looking for down there. Instead, your iPhone is the perfect way to capture some of the natural beauty, gym-pressed beauties, and of course the not so pretty moments.

These pictures, for example, are from Shequida’s amazing show at the Ice Palace in Cherry Grove. (BTW, sorry Shequida, you got totally upstaged by Busted, the most entertaining drag queen this year…I mean, a white girl in an Erykah Badu costume performing a spiritual song and actually going out and exorcising the crowd? You can’t beat it).

And if you get asked onto a speedboat by some rich daddy and his Russian boytoy whore, you have to be able to capture the amazing sunsets. I don’t know how my phone didn’t fly into the ocean during this one.

And like I said, the Shequida show was in the Grove (Cherry Grove, land of lesbians and more “colorful” gays), which is a hop, skip, and Meat-rack jump away from the Pines. The Meat-rack, well, it’s hard to begin describing the Meat-rack. It’s a gorgeous state park that separates the Pines and the Grove, with forests, dunes, deers, amazing views, and so much public fucking you almost feel weird if you don’t have your cock out.  In the middle of the night and at the end of a few cocktails, the iPhone becomes a necessity. There’s a flashlight app but all you really need to do is keep activating the wallpaper screen and you’ll be able to see just enough to make it across. People used to carry tiny flashlights but now they let their screens show the way. Like fireflies you can see iPhones flashing on and off, some heading towards each other to meet up and some running away for cover.

Then there are the hilarious apps to use and abuse while out and about. Like Grindr, which is fun more for the uselessness of it than anything else. It’s an app that tells you how far away a gay guy is and usually shows a picture and what they’re into. At the Ice Palace, the closest gay guy was my housemate who was standing next to me and it said he was 80 ft away. So basically it just called us fat and said there were no other gay guys in the bar. And there’s Bumpit, where you can just bump phones to get that hottie’s number before he leaves to turn up the heat in the hot tub.

Sure, you don’t NEED an iPhone on Fire Island, but if you want to have more fun, and an easier time remembering it all, I’d say don’t leave home without it.

Surely it won’t rain for six days in a row on Fire Island.  Surely it won’t be any fun if it does.  Well, I was wrong on both accounts.  Let me tell you something, it blew and it blew.  Joining the Manhattan masses on the LIRR, a group of quaffed young men stood under the awning at the Pines Ferry dock grumbling through their cocktails that it better get better out.  After heading across the bay on the ferry, downstairs no less because the rain made riding atop the ferry impossible, it did feel a bit like the beginning of that movie 28 Days Later…narry a fairy in sight along the generally bustling harbor strip where the bars, booze, boys and lone restaurant are. 

But there is a silver lining behind all these clouds.  A drizzly Fire Island can serve up its own heat to rival the barely there or not there at all bathing suits of a sunny day at the beach.  During six days of clouds and cool temps (at the end of June!!!) I found out that Fire Island still beats the heck out of a rainy day in NYC, or most places for that matter.  First of all, rain might be the best conversation starter out there since cigarettes, especially since most people have quit lighting up and can no longer bum a smoke.  Instead, between teas and dinners, from under the roofs and canopies at the bars we watched the damp scene unfold.  The boys make a run for it, getting drenched, carrying drinks, and giving each other knowing looks, as if to say, “we’re getting wet already, what’s a little more wet?”  You won’t find this sense of camaraderie during the sweltering heat when it’s more like “I’m drenched in sweat, out of my way bitch.”  Something about the rain makes everyone let their guard down just a bit more, the boys smile a little more often, and the sense of community in the Pines shines through it all. 

Oh, and the parties do NOT stop because of a few raindrops.  With just about one square miles of land in the Pines, there’s no excuse not to brave 10 minutes of rain for an evening of high, low, and perhaps middle tea too. If a wet tee shirt clinging to your body sounds like a drag, just take it off while dancing away at the Pavilion.  And if it gets lost, which it probably will, think of the trek home as a way to shower off whatever sins may have transpired that night.  Even the house parties went on as planned, with one featuring a clown nose for patrons, like it needed to be any zanier, and one gorgeous house party featuring DJ Lina, who you can check out regularly at Sip N Twirl where she spins Twirlina.  She cranks out the best tunes on the Island, rain or shine.  I mean really, you thought we’d all just catch up on our reading in this rain?

All in all, there’s a bit of sadness to realize that one of your precious weekends on Fire Island will be waterlogged.  But once you put away the sunblock and pull out the umbrella (ella, ella) you’ll embrace the community for what it is, and the rain makes it easier for it to embrace you back.  While you might want to die from all the rain, with the shenanigans of the Island going strong, you’ll realize, what a way to go. 

The Woman of a Thousand Voices

More notorious than the Blood Bucket. Louder than the Sip and Twirl. Cheekier than the seasonal nude volleyball tournaments on the Grove coast. Porsche, the chameleon of all things diva, is everything summer at the Island is supposed to be. She is Fire Island Royalty, Queen of the Ice Palace, Princess of the Pines, Chairwoman of Cherry Grove. She smokes, she swears, she could probably drink Lindsey Lohan into a coma, and yet somehow, someway she parlays these vices into a musical revue, replete with paddle turns, slurred shtick, and a final act that never fails to bring the house (or arrangement of lawn chairs) to its feet.

Though her name suggests a sleek, slim-hipped chassis, flaunting an engine capable of shattering the space/time continuum; sports car Porsche is not. Physically, she’s more of a Volkswagon, the one in your great uncle’s garage that hasn’t been touched in years. Her mouth however, is all convertible coupe: quick to wit, able to resurrect greats like Minnelli and Crawford in zero to sixty, belting high c’s at full throttle, all the while precariously balancing a highball of whiskey (most of which usually ends up on stage, and helps to explain why the continuous refills). It’s truly an amazing thing to witness. She’s a national monument, like the Grand Canyon, or Chick-fil-A. But what makes her shows so special is the absolute, undeniable iconography of these late, great madams of yesteryear. The attention paid to their trademark accoutrements and flawless execution is what truly brings these impersonations to life. Now, I know it’s Island lore, and that she’d never admit it, but I do believe that at some point Porsche sold her soul to the devil in exchange for those of the greats. She effortlessly channels everyone from Bette Midler to Betty Davis, Judy to Janis.

When visiting the Island it is an absolute, downright requirement that one set aside a night to witness the spectacle that is Porsche. You can’t find this kind of untapped, explosive charisma on a Broadway stage, let alone anywhere else in the Grove (no offense Sherry). So do yourself a favor, next weekend blow off the Blue Whale, pull up a plastic chair, and prepare to be floored by the dynamo of drag, the speedster of Spanx, Porsche.

Summer is a time for celebrating the freshest ingredients our planet has to offer, and I, for one, can’t think of any better preparation than to soak it all in booze. Here’s a recipe for a sangria that is sure to make you hit the high notes. (I also have on good authority, that Patti Lupone and Liza both drink a vat-full of this toxic concoction before every performance.)

“Sing Out Louise Sangria”

1 bottle of White Zinfandel
3/4 cup of peach flavored brandy or vodka
1/3 cup of fine sugar
1/4 cup of pineapple juice
2 peaches, pitted and sliced
1 apple, cored and sliced
1/4 cup of fresh cherries, halved (not the diabetes-inducing maraschino variety)
1 tbsp of chopped mint

DIRECTIONS

1. In a big ole pitcher (a bathtub can also be used for those larger, Amy Winehouse batches), combine the Zinnie, peach brandy or vodka, pineapple juice, and sugar. Stir until sugar is dissolved. Add sliced peaches, apple, and cherries. Lastly, add chopped mint.
2. Refrigerate sangria until well chilled, at least 2 hours, best if overnight. This really gives the fruit a chance to macerate and soak up all that flavor, creating delicious little buoys of booze.
3. Pour into single-serving thermoses filled with ice. Serve beachside, wearing your skimpiest swimwear, protective eyewear, and most importantly, quoting lines from Gypsy. SING OUT LOUISE!!!!!

All year we have waited patiently (some more than others) for winter to wane, spring to sprout, and now, finally, summer is here. Which means one thing: Barbeque. That, and maybe a few hundred half-clad, sun-starved Manhattanites (possibly some Jerseyers and Connectikins) making their yearly migration to the promise land that is Fire Island. Now it may come as news to some, tragic as it may be, that not all of us will have a place to call home when the sun sets. Not everyone will have the luxury of stumbling home at some ungodly hour, to brave 6-foot drops into pussywillow and chaparral, or precarious patches of boardwalk. No, they will be the on the last ferry home, the lower class, the “shareless.”

Now perhaps, you waited till Memorial Day weekend to begin looking for a share, or thought your money would be better spent on pink tanks and Saranwrap-for-jeans. Whatever the reason, I don’t judge. However, just because you’re without residence, doesn’t mean you can’t have a fabulous time. I have complied a list of ways to make the weekend a memorable one. You can thank me later.

1. Pack light! Only the essentials. I can’t stress this enough. Please, leave the Nair, tea lights, and assorted chutneys at home. I’ve found that a thermos of White Wine Sangria (recipe to follow, next week), a large blanket (seats 3), sunscreen (cancer free skin is sexier than tanned), a brown-bagged (carb-less, of course) lunch, and perhaps a few airplane bottles of your favorite liquor, are all you really need to have successful afternoon of basking. I’ve also found that if you ditch it all and go for the economy-size bottle (serves 6), you can have an equally fabulous time.

2. Once you’ve had your fill of sun worship, find a stretch of boardwalk (the more inconspicuous the better) under which to ditch the goody bag. Make sure to take your valuables with you, being that there is every possibility you may be burgled by a deer.

3. This frees you up to go shirtless at Low Tea at the Blue Whale. Here, you have two options: Saddle up to some cutie/potential boyfriend and invite yourself back to his place for dinner. Or, make a trek through the Meat Rack or along the coast towards Cherry Grove. I suggest the latter, unless you’re WILDERNESS PREPARED. To find out what exactly THAT means, ask a local.

3b. (Side-note) Restroom locale becomes an uncertain thing on the island; it seems you can never find one when you need it the most. As for going “number 1,” you can pretty much go anywhere, the place is a giant kitty litter box (and don’t act like you haven’t!). You can usually find a little tuck-away hamlet for just such release. However, I highly advise against relieving yourself on private property, i.e.: the prized geraniums on someone’s porch. As for “number two?” You’re on your own.

4. In the Grove you can find some great venues for all things nosh, some more expensive than others. If you’re still in your daywear (which you should be, as per packing light) I suggest Cherry’s. Cheap, casual, and coastal. There’s an outdoor bar, with a gorgeous view of the bay.

5. After dinner, head back to the Pines for High Tea at Sip and Twirl. I highly advise that if you insist on double-fisting drinks, to wear shoes with sufficient tread, or elbow pads, as there is every possibility you may slip on the dewy outdoor patio, creating a spectacle of broken glass and bruised ribs, and who needs that. After a full day spent overdosing on Vitamin D and brining in Zinfandel, you will undoubtedly want to leave sometime before midnight. Don’t forget to pick up your bags; which, in the nighttime hours, is a feat in and of itself.

6. If you happen to miss the ferry and have yet to find a Good Samaritan to take you in, fret not, all’s not lost. Though technically it is illegal, in the most extreme of circumstances, some people (not myself, a friend, I swear) have been known to sleep on the beach. And then take the Blood Bucket (the first ferry, which comes at the crack of dawn) back to the mainland.

So there you have it. If you follow these steps, maybe come up with a couple of your own, you too can experience all the magic and frivolity of Fire Island, even if you find yourself…dum-dum-DUM…Shareless.