You’re Not One of Those Fags Who’s Into P.D.A....

...but you are always amazed and sometimes quite impressed by the gay boys who have the balls to share their dirty gay stuff with the world. Like the boys you stumble upon while taking a leisurely Saturday morning walk on the beach. Although you and your skin cancer just got back to civilization from Fire Guyland less than twenty-four hours ago, your BFF called to see if you wanted to take a day trip to Jones Beach and of course you said yes. However your shoulders seem to be protesting your life of leisure as they have recently raised their Terror Alert from Orange to Red.

Speaking of Terrorists, the P.D.A. boys on the nude beach are the gay equivalent of Suicide Bombers. They are literally fucking in broad daylight. Although the Top definitely has visible signs of advanced HIV, there are absolutely no visible signs of a condom. Anywhere. This becomes quite evident when the Top Terrorist pulls out, spits into his palm, and then lubes up for some more un-gloved love. And yes, you can see all of this because you are actually that close. The whole scene is just so upsetting that you cut your walk short and head back to your friends who you were trying to escape for a brief respite, mostly because they were rather drunk by the time you arrived. You, however, surprisingly Just Say No to an afternoon Corona, mostly because you know you have a long night ahead of you.

The plan is to head back to the Karaoke Nazi’s house to shower, then head over to Warm Up at PS1 in Long Island City for some hot dancing amongst the Hunky Hipster set, then it’s off to Brooklyn to celebrate COILIN’s graduation from the Columbia Doctorate program. It’s a banner three Borough day that will probably end with some bed spinning in Rice Queen #2’s lovely accommodation for your homeless ass. However, after escaping the Top Terrorist and finally making it back to your Bombed BFF and company, you seem to get the distinct feeling that you are not going to be included in the showering part of the plan. And after what your virginal eyes just saw, you’re feeling very, very dirty. So you figure it’s best to be clear with the Karaoke Nazi and you say in the form of a question, “Oh, I thought I was coming with you guys?” And she kind of gives you this lingering, surprisingly annoyed look as she says, “I have no idea about that. Do you want to come back to my place?” as if you are back in Middle School and she is one of those Mean Girls who takes semantics to a new and extremely irritating level. You really have no idea why your relationship has devolved into these annoying games, but you play along because you really do want to take a shower. So you say, “That would be great because I’d really like to wash up before PS1.” And she acquiesces with a simple, “Alright then.” And even though you are tempted to ask why she seems to hate you so much, you ultimately decide that you’re just really not all that interested so you just let it go.

Unfortunately, when it finally arrives, the Jones Beach beach bus is ridiculously overcrowded. Luckily you push your way to the front and get up enough steps to ding your metrocard. Your friends, however, miss this opportunity and tell you they will grab the next bus. However, by the time the train arrives they are nowhere to be found. You call your BFF for their 411, and wonder if, just in case the train arrives before they do, if you should just head over to the Karaoke Nazi’s house and shower before them. His hesitation speaks volumes, until he finally suggests that you just wait on the train platform for them even though they have also missed the next two buses because of overcrowding issues. So when the train does come you make the executive decision to get on the train and just head back to Manhattan to wash up and drop off your beach chair so you won’t have to lug it around all night. And honestly, you’re thrilled to miss any further patronizing drama with the Karaoke Nazi that might ensue over using too much shampoo or hanging your towel incorrectly.

On the train back you receive another call from the Daytripping Freeloader, which is sweet and you are happy to have the opportunity to complain about your ridiculous beach day, but that’s mostly because you are running out of things to say to the boy who has been calling you at least once, every single day since he left Fire Guyland. Being a bit phone phobic, you never really know what to say during such frequent conversations with a veritable stranger. So your chats tend to be a lot of daily recaps that lack much of a spark. You do, however, appreciate his obvious intention to not lose momentum, which is usually the kiss of death in any long term non-relationship.

Your BFF and Company are at least an hour late to PS1 but luckily you time your arrival to meet them perfectly. Unfortunately the place is an absolute zoo, and this year’s Public Farm theme makes you feel more like a sheep than a patron of the arts as you wait in a beer line that snakes it’s way throughout the entire outdoor installation. It takes more than a half hour to get one beer. And after just a few beers you find yourself extremely late to the Brooklyn Bash.

Everybody but your BFF bails on the party, which is fine because you had been feeling like a fifth wheel all day. The two of you hop on the G train and schlep over to Fort Greene and the graduation party is raging by the time you arrive. It’s really sweet to greet your thirtysomething friend as Dr. Doc and you toast him over and over again until eventually you find yourself sprawled out in his backyard hammock making out with some Brooklyn Bald Boy. Although you have no intention of making a public spectacle of yourself (you never do...), you can’t say you’re that surprised when the other guests actually throw a glass of water on you from the second floor balcony in order to cool you down. Anyway...