You're Not One of Those Fags Who Swallows His Problems With Copious Amounts of Food...

...but alcohol is a different story. So when Rice Queen #2 offers you a sip from a pint of his Knob Creek on the train to Fire Guyland, you graciously accept. You are really all fucked up over your recent Blonde Beard sighting and can't help running through your unexpected reunion with a fine-toothed beard trimmer. And you think you've narrowed down his adverse reaction into two distinct, yet very different scenarios. Your first theory is that the man hates you. As in detests. After all, he couldn't wait to get away from you, nor could he bear even the most minimal of conversations. This leaves you wondering whether Blonde Beard found out about your Blah-Blah-Blog? And if this is the case then you can't change that because you have no control over it. Although you'd feel terrible if he hates you, what's done is done and you're not going to change his mind about you.

On the other hand, Blonde Beard's bizarre reaction might quite simply be just that; bizarre. After all, he was freakishly awkward in social situations. You experienced that uncomfortable side of him first hand after dragging him to a party at your Gal Pal's. And if he was merely just so scared by the shadow of a past relationship, then his unpleasant reaction was all about him, not you. At least you tried to be nice. Fuck that! You were nice! You were actually happy to see him! Whatever. You're over it. Even though you're not. But you will be. And with that you take another healthy, warm gulp of Knob Creek.

It's pouring when the Fairy Ferry finally arrives, so you and the rest of the Kinsey 8 race to the house and, surprise-surprise, start making cocktails. You skip Low Tea because of the inclement weather, but definitely make it to High Tea. After that it's all a bit hazy, but you have vague memories of dinner that may have or may not have been followed by a strip show. Starring you. Regardless, you'll surely be able to trace back your drunken steps soon enough in the form of unfortunate Facebook tags.

The next day is nice enough for both you and your hangover to lie out on the beach. However, the big excitement of the day (perhaps the month? Make that the year!) happens at Low Tea. You wander in with your Kinsey 8 housemates and begin an immediate Fruit Loop when who do you spy with your little eye? None other than your Internet Crush! He's standing right there, ten feet from you, all alone, with a drink in his hand (of course)! Although you now share a writing gig with him and have been working together all summer, you've never actually met in the flesh. And for some unknown, alcohol-fueled reason, you decide to out yourself. So you just stand there. And stare. Kind of similar to when you guilted Blonde Beard into grunting a few lame words at you on the sidewalk earlier this week. But unlike Blonde Beard, your Internet Crush does not try to skulk away when he catches his stalker's eye. It takes him a minute, but eventually he puts it together and the two of you giggle like a gaggle of girls.

You have a lot of fun talking in person and when you notice that both of your drinks are empty you offer to go get refills. It doesn't take much arm-twisting, and, of course, Ms. Four Letter Word wants a Thirteen Letter Drink, which happens to be the most expensive drink on the Island. But you are more than happy to aid and abet his drunk and disorderliness with a Planters Punch. However the bar line is endless and it takes you a while before you return with the cocktails. Only your Internet Crush is nowhere to be found. Somehow, even though you are double-fisted, you are able to text him without spilling a drop and the two of you ping back and forth trying to find each other, until, eventually, you just give up and finish both cocktails. Which, of course, is a big mistake.

Both High Tea and dinner are both blurs, as is Slip N' Hurl. But apparently the night ends up with you psychoanalyzing your friend Half-Share during a lovely midnight stroll into the Meatrack. You're starving so you make a pit-stop at Half-Share's house and pick up a delicious family sized bag of Tostitos - Hint O' Lime. You're ravenous and can't bear to part with the tasty tortillas, so you end up dragging the bag into the Meatrack with you. You munch your way through the moonlit woods as you pass by men munching on 'mo mussy. You are as fascinated as you are hungry, and the two of your meander down dark paths, passing half-naked men who appear out of nowhere and then slither by. It's so dark that you can't make out any faces, but even though you're as drunk as a skunk, even though your beer goggles are on tight, nobody looks all that pretty.

At one point, you and Half-Share wander up a path and stumble upon a whole group of boys who are wide-eyed witnesses to a public blow-job. You, of course, plop yourself down as if you're at the local drive in and dig deep into your crinkly bag for a big handful of Hint O' Lime. You're busy chewing your tortilla chip cud when the guy who's getting blown turns to the impromptu crowd and looks right at you when he says, "Honestly, I really can’t do this with an audience." You stop chewing the copious amount of chips that you've shoved in your mouth, roll up your half eaten bag, and slink away with Half-Share as you giggle your way out of the Meatrack. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Romantic Fags...

...but when the DJ at Low Tea plays "What I Like About You" by The Romantics you can't help but race your way to the dance floor. Although you're a bit wary about running into Aussie Bum, you're actually more worried about cooking Sunday supper for the Kinsey 8 tonight, even though it's just hamburgers. Plus an Ahi Tuna steak for Fat Albert who is perpetually on a diet even though he weighs the same in pounds as you do in kilograms. Half-Share has vowed to help out so you figure you can enjoy a few cocktails at the Low Tea Meat Market before heading home to burn some much less delectable meat. However, when Low Tea comes to an end, Half-Share gives you a hard time and practically twists your arm to get you to go High Tea when he says nonchalantly, "Wanna grab another drink at High Tea?" to which you respond with an extremely reluctant, "Sure!"

You order the best value on the Island, a Planters Punch, and you've just begun to sip it when you notice a really sexy, scruffy guy across the bar who is so attractive that you forget to swallow. Almost. He looks over at you and it's one of those moments where you lock eyes and don't feel uncomfortable. At all. You give him a big toothy smile because you are suddenly very happy. Mostly because he's smiling back. And his look lingers, which gives you butterflies as well as confidence. This boy's got skinny little glasses and looks like a Jewish Doctor in desperate need of a WASPy dimpled Shiksa from Connecticut. Suddenly you don't want to leave to go home and cook. In fact, screw the food! This boy is so cute that you may have just started a new starvation diet. You tell your housemates that you refuse to leave before meeting this blue-eyed boy and when you turn around to look for him, he's standing right in front of you. He actually came over to meet you!

You introduce yourself and chit-chat about simple things that seem to take on a much deeper level, mostly due to your intense attraction that seems extremely mutual. Your blue-eyed Jewish doctor turns out to be an Italian salesman visiting from the South Side of Boston. He’s staying with friends who are renting a house for the week. Although you don’t want to leave High Tea, you explain to the Daytripping Freeloader that it is, unfortunately, your turn to cook tonight, and you must race back to prep for dinner. But that’s exactly when the DJ puts on an obscure mix of "Just Can’t Get Enough" which seems extremely appropriate since you Just Can’t Get Enough of the Daytripping Freeloader. When the extended remix unfortunately comes to an end, the Daytripping Freeloader asks for your number so you, of course, give it to him along with a kiss, which, just like Depeche Mode, you Just Can’t Get Enough. However, you’re a bit surprised when you are saying goodbye and the Daytripping Freeloader whispers, “What do you like to do in bed?” Although you’re never one to kiss n’ tell (kiss n’ blog, perhaps) you smile at the Sexy South Sider and say, “I'm sure you’ll find out later.”

Thank God you didn’t skip High Tea is all you can think as you race home to cook! Dinner, however, turns out to be a debacle. You practically asphyxiate yourself trying to start the grill, until Half-Share comes home and realizes that the starter is broken and you need a match. Then, considering how flammable of a flamer you are after a day’s worth of cocktails, you practically singe away any future need for manscaping. You’re husking corn when your cell flutters on the counter top as you receive a vibrating text from the husky-voiced Daytripping Freeloader. But it’s your heart that flutters when you finally read his message, “Those eyes are captivating I hope I get to see them again. Good luck with dinner.” Thanks to a few of your Kinsey 8 housemates who are much more skilled in the kitchen department than you are, dinner actually turns out to be almost edible and surprisingly nobody gets poisoned by your food. The frozen margaritas you make, however, should probably be served with a skull and cross bones on the glass.

During dessert the Kinsey 8 collectively decides to play a little “Get to know you better” game called, “How many people have you had sex with?” Luckily, you get to go last as this is not a game that you’re dying to play. You pour yourself a glass of wine but almost end up spitting it out when Rice Queen announces that his number is somewhere between 250 and 500! Although he’s older than you, he’s not that much older! You had no idea there were even that many gay Asian twinks in New York City! But you digress. As the game continues it’s way around the table, everybody’s numbers are very big (except for the San Francisco Treat who ended up marrying the first boy who put some Rice in his Roni), but when it comes to your turn you really think about it and come up with the number 50+. But then you make an amendment to the game and make everybody go another round. This time you want to know the penetration number. Enough of this Bill Clinton Blow-Job Bullshit. This time around the numbers drop considerably, and basically everybody's initial number is cut in half (except for the San Francisco Treat, of course) and you offer up a respectable 25, which seems rather reasonable considering fourteen of your thirtysomething years were spent in a relationship. And with that, you quickly change your t-shirt and race over to Slip N' Hurl hoping to increase your recently divulged player stats by one--specifically with the Daytripping Freeloader.

Only when you arrive at the bar it has somehow become 12:45 and after two complete loops your Boston Boy is nowhere to be found. Even though you know it's a bit ridiculous, you find yourself extremely disappointed until you remember that you have his phone number from when he texted you earlier. You quickly tap off a short note: "Are you out? I'm @ sip n' twirl but can't find you." Almost instantaneously you get a response that informs you to "Stay put. I'll be there in five." And luckily for you, the Daytripping Freeloader is a man of his word. When he arrives he looks just as good as you remember as smiles take over both of your faces and the rest of the boys in the bar quickly fade away from your concerns.

It doesn't take long before the two of you decide to take off and get away from the crowd. It also doesn't take long before you both realize that, due to unfortunate roommate situations, neither of you have a private place to go. You wind up back at the Freeloader's house (which is gorgeous) and start to make out on an uncomfortable concrete bench in his lush garden. His kisses are like buttah, and after the crappy dinner you made, you could use some nourishment! Honestly, even though it's buggy and you're being eaten alive by mosquitoes (and most likely, deer ticks), you really can't get enough of the Daytripping Freeloader's kisses and you continue to devour him until his housemates come home and turn on the outside lights. Embarrassed, you quickly jump off the bench and re-button your blouse and fix your lipstick in order to be introduced to his posse.

Moments later, you've already forgotten all their names as the two of you head down the boardwalk to go to the beach. You sit down at the edge of the beach and listen to the waves crash into the moonlit darkness as you get to know each other better. It's one of the most romantic evenings you've ever had on Fire Guyland, and you are perfectly elated, hours later, when you eventually find yourself walking home, alone, with your 50:25 ratio perfectly in tact, as well as plans to meet up with the Daytripping Freeloader tomorrow. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Dignified Fags...

...who thinks his pants are too fancy for Cherry Grove. However, you are definitely one of those lazy fags who rarely schleps his way through the Meat Rack in fear of losing his cheap pants on the way there. Actually you're kind of terrified of the Meat Rack, mostly because you know that if you found yourself in some dark, unsavory, sticky situation, you'd just wind up giggling like some nervous nelly and run out with your tail between your legs. You also prefer to actually see the people that you have sex with. Perhaps you're just a bit old fashioned in that way. But it's lunchtime and Rice Queen feels like a walk, so you, Rice Queen #3 and The San Francisco Treat decide to grab a bite in Cherry Grove. Luckily everybody's pants (all of which are much fancier than yours) stay completely buttoned as you pass through the mysterious Meat Rack.

When you woke up this morning at the ungodly hour of noon you instantly began to piece together the events of the previous evening before pulling your tired old ass out of bed . Although your memory is just as hazy and humid as today's weather, you unfortunately remember drunkenly agreeing to go to Aussie Bum's 29th birthday party at 2pm. Only you don't want to go. Although he was kind of cute, he really wasn't you're type. He was more than a bit too intense, more than a bit too young, and way more than a bit of an awful kisser. Even though you really don't want to send the wrong signals by going to Aussie Bum's party, you also hate going back on your word.

You poll your friends over lunch about how you should handle this Aussie Bum situation, and the general consensus is, "If you don't want to go to his party, then just blow it off." Although you know that this tact will send a very clear signal to Aussie Bum, you still feel lame about it. But that's when you receive a text from Aussie Bum that says, "Let me know if you are swinging by, if not, no stress. Cheers." The worst part comes when you notice that the timestamp reads 2:05pm. With all your lollygagging about whether or not you should go to his damn party, you are now officially five minutes late, not to mention more than a half-hour away. But during your past thirtysomething years in the YOUniverse, the one thing you've actually learned is to trust your actions more than your feelings. When it comes to your emotions, you're just a big ol' gurrrl who doesn't want to hurt Aussie Bum's feelings. But if you look closely at your actions, you obviously have no desire to go to his party. Hell, you've been hemming and hawwing all day, you've lost track of time, and now you are about as far away as you could physically be from Aussie Bum. As C + C Music Factory would say, "Things That Make You Go Hmmmmmmm." Obviously you just ain't that into Aussie Bum. So you text him back and say, "Hey. Im in cherry grove for lunch and not feeling so hot. If im feeling better maybe I'll see you @ tea. Happy Birthday!" To which Aussie Bum replies, "Yes, I imagine a lot of people on the. island feel not so hot today.Thanks for letting me know, enjoy the Grove..."

After a delicious lunch you all decide to take a peek in town before you head back, and of course you end up running into Baby Daddy who is, ironically, wearing nothing but an Aussie Bum bathing suit. Albeit last years '07 model, Baby Daddy is filling it out very nicely. His friends are also scantily clad and seem to be irritated as you stop them to say a simple hi and give Baby Daddy a kiss hello. You chit chat for approximately 2.2 sentences before Baby Daddy's friends say, "We have to go now," and drag him away rather rudely. Although it's weird, it's totally fine. The last time you saw him he was busy describing the romantic date he was going to take you on, and now he's too busy to say hello? It's not like he's wearing a Tuxedo and late for a wedding. He's in a skimpy Speedo! Even if he's late for the beach, it's totally overcast! Baby Daddy is an enigma wrapped in a riddle shoved into a fortune cookie sealed in cellophane that you have no desire to unwrap, let alone eat. Next!

The day progresses like any other on Fire Guyland. Beach Cocktails, Pool Cocktails, Low Tea Cocktails, High Tea Cocktails, Dinner with an overpriced bottle of cheap wine, a bit of after-dinner dancing on the dining room table in your underwear, and then, of course, it's off to Slip N' Hurl. Luckily at High Tea you ended up swiping an entire sleeve of Fire Island Pines cups from the bar when the bartender was busy ignoring you. With these special cups, not only do you have a wonderful To-Go cup for cocktailing along the boardwalk without being hassled by the police, but with these particular magical cups you can actually walk right into the overpriced bars because they assume you ordered the drinks from them! Not that you condone stealing, but come on! Would you convict a starving child who stole an apple from a bodega? Of course not. And this is the same exact principle.

As usual, upon arriving at Slip N' Hurl, it's everyman for himself and the Kinsey 8 quickly divides to conquer. You, of course, get sidetracked on the dance floor, but before you can even complete an entire Fruit Loop, your inner Elaine finds yourself flailing, or rather dancing, smack in front of Aussie Bum. You quickly ask, "How was your birthday party this afternoon?" and when he replies, "It didn't happen," you are equally confused and yet completely relieved. You can't imagine showing up to a party for someone you just weren't that into, where you were not only the sole guest, but his only present to boot! But Aussie Bum doesn't seem to care that his only guest was a no-show. Your attempt at a simple, trite conversation quickly segues into how Aussie Bum seems to think you are just the greatest thing since the invention of the Gay Bar. And come on, nobody's that great. Especially you. This boy barely knows you. You chatted yesterday. For a bit. Your signals of disinterest were pretty clear (except for the kissing part, of course). Hell, he doesn't have any clue about who you really are! The fact that he is so interested when he knows nothing about you is kind of a turn off. Perhaps he likes you because he thinks you're playing "Hard to Get," when in reality you are really playing "Impossible to Get"? Actually you're not playing at all. But then again, on the other hand, his enthusiasm for you makes you wonder if you might be turning into one of those boys who is only interested in boys who have no interest in you? Ugh.

Regardless, the conversation begins a downward spiral. Aussie Bum's intensity, coupled with his bad breath begin to singe your eyebrows. Even though you are practically mute, he begins bombard you with requests for dates when he returns from an upcoming business trip. But when you politely decline he becomes relentless. He begins explaining how you two got off to a rough start and that he wants to make it up to you. Suddenly you are aware that this boy, for some unknown reason, has completely romanticized you into someone who doesn't exist. Which is more than a bit disconcerting. Although you do believe in love at first sight (okay, lust), you also believe that it has to be a two-way street! And right now Aussie Bum is on a lovely, yet very private cul de sac. So before the conversation gets even more awkward, you decide to be as clear as possible in response to what seems to be escalating into an unsolicited marriage proposal. You say, "I don't think it's a good idea if we go out."

Your honesty, of course, backfires. Whoever said, "Honesty is the best policy," was definitely not gay. Anyway. Aussie Bum is now both slightly mad and probably more-than-slightly embarrassed. But he definitely heard you, so you decide to shut your big trap in order to let your words sink in. Aussie Bum actually begins to argue with you about why you should go out with him and you begin to get freaked out. Being a lawyer, Aussie Bum seems to think he can somehow sway your drunken jury. But his closing argument actually concludes with, "If you want me to go away and never come back, then just say so." How on earth did it suddenly get to this point? You just met this guy last night! Such drama! Unfortunately you realize that you have no other choice but to answer his question, so you say, "I think you should go." Aussie Bum stares at you for an endless, yet incredulous moment, and then he turns and disappears into the crowd at Slip N' Hurl. A sudden wave of relief takes over as you walk outside to find Rice Queen and fill him in on your latest drama.


But two seconds into your recap with Rice Queen you are tapped on the shoulder by none other than Aussie Bum! You are dumbfounded when this relative stranger asks you why you don't like him. Although you would usually say something like, "Does it matter why I don't like you?" but something about this boy is off. Very off. For some unknown reason he is a bit obsessed by yours truly, and images of boiled bunny rabbits begin to dance through your head. So you say as politely as possible, "You are really freaking me out!" Eventually Aussie Bum leaves, and this time you watch to make sure he leaves. At this point you are done. You want to leave immediately, but you ask Rice Queen to walk you home because you're actually freaked out that Aussie Bum might follow you and jump out of the bushes on your way home. On the walk back to Beach Hill Walk you receive a text from Aussie Bum: "Hey – I’m sorry. I’m terrible in siuch situations, but an eternal optimist. I may hit you up in a few weeks, hope I’m not so scary. I’m intense but do think you’re worth a touch of my dignity." Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Indecisive Fags...

...but when you get to the Fresh Market in Fire Guyland with the dire need to caffeinate, you are annoyed to have nothing to choose from but Coke products. You stare at the refrigerated bottles for so long that someone actually asks you if you're okay. No, of course you're not okay! There is no Diet Pepsi on this whole damned island which is your new home for an entire week! You usually vote yourself off of Temptation Island after a measly three-day weekend, but since you and your Lovely Lady Mumps are between apartments (a.k.a. homeless) you are stuck on the Isle of Guy for a full week. Thank the gay gods for your share house. And thank the gland gods that your Lovely Lady Mumps seem to be getting a little bit better. Anyway.

You finally decide on Coke Zero, which turns out to be infinitely better than Diet Coke and as you are paying you start scanning the extensive crowd on the dock which has gathered to watch the Invasion. Every year since the Dawn of Gay Man, the Cherry Grove Drag Queens descend upon The Pines in droves and paint the town red with way too much lipstick and blush. There's some sort of beachy, Stonewall-ish historical significance, but you've long since forgotten. Hell you've forgotten last night already. Until, of course you are reminded of last night when you see him standing amongst the crowd wearing nothing but a skimpy little Speedo. True to his word, the day-tripping Baby Daddy has come back for another gay day. Actually, today is the gayest day. Anywhere. Baby Daddy doesn't notice you through the store's window, and you briefly consider knocking on the glass to say hi, but your run-in with him last night was so odd that you decide to just let it go. If he's really as interested as he said he was, then he's got your number. And if you're really as uninterested as you think you are, then you've got voicemail.

It's hot and muggy and there's absolutely no breeze so you wind up watching only a smidgen of the festivities before you, Half-Share and Fat Albert decide to rehydrate with something more refreshing than some second-rate, poor excuse for a Diet Pepsi. You all head into the Pavilion and your boys need to hit the bathroom before the bar, but you wait outside since your Coke Zero hasn't made it's way south to your bladder yet. You futz with your phone until Half-Share comes out and informs you that you must take a peek at the show going on inside the Men's Room. You, of course, don't need to be coaxed more than once so you pop your head in and indeed there are two boys pressed up against the urinal, making out as if it's not actually one o'clock in the afternoon with plenty of other much cleaner places to get it on. That's about when their zippers get yanked down and the circle jerk, party of two, begins.

Later on, you end up losing your friends so you decide to wait for them at the bottom of the steps which lead up to Slip N' Hurl, which ends up being a great spot because it's the final destination for all of the fabulous D.Q.'s so they all end up sashaying past you along the runway as if you're Michael Kors (but luckily not as Gay Fat). Unfortunately all the Straight Looky-Loos who came out for the day have found the same primo real estate as you have, and they're all a bit drunk and obnoxious. It kind of feels like you're at some bizarre gay Hooters, until one Bad Breeder grabs a hold of Marilyn's famous white dress in an unwelcome attempt to blow it up as if she were standing on some explosive sewer grate. Needless to say, Marilyn is pissed and instantly turns into the Seven Year Bitch and goes postal on the The Misfits, because it's more than obvious that Something's Got To Give.

As usual, cocktails flow all afternoon until it's time for The Dance on the Bay which is a fundraiser for the Gay & Lesbian & Bisexual & Transgendered & Eunuch & Asexual Community Center. You watch the sun begin to set as the cocktails really flow (mostly because they're free) and that's when your inner-Elaine starts to, um, dance on the bay, until eventually, yadda, yadda, yadda, the next thing you know it's 1am and you're surprised to find yourself back at Slip N' Hurl. You cross your fingers hoping that one of your missing Yaddas included dinner as you stumble into the busy boy bar.

Almost instantly you meet an Aussie Bum who just turned 29 today, and, get this, feels old. You roll your eyes and inform him that, "Well, here's the good news. You're still too young for this ride," as you gesture toward yourself. It's actually a bit hazy (surprise, surprise), but somehow the conversation quickly turns and suddenly you feel like you're on a date with a 38 year old woman who's eggs are reaching the end of their shelf life. Just like Baby Daddy from last night, Aussie Bum starts talking about the future. Or more specifically, your future together! Like when he gets back from his business trip, blah-blah-blah. Or when you meet his family in Australia, blah-blah-blah. The whole conversation becomes even more surreal when he actually says aloud, "Since today's my birthday I deserve to have you go home with me." Did you skim over the part of the script where you agreed to jump out of a cake? Well, actually, you are about to jump. Right down the stairs. So you tell Aussie Bum, politely, that since you are turning into a pumpkin that it's time for you to go home. Unfortunately, that's when Aussie Bum insists on walking you back. You're too exhausted to decline so you just give in reluctantly.

When you finally get back to the Kinsey 8 house on Beach Hill Walk, you try to say goodnight politely, but Aussie Bum insists on a kiss. Although you're not feeling it, you're not feeling like dragging out the uncomfortable moment either, so you give into his birthday wish, yet quickly wish you hadn't. It's one of those Jackhammer Kisses which instantly makes you feel like a Jackass for agreeing to the whole preposterous situation. You're too old to be bulldozed by a 29 year old, but when Aussie Bum asks you if you'll come to his birthday party tomorrow you find yourself reluctantly saying, "What time?" Aussie Bum stutters until finally he says, "What time do you want to come?" And since you don't want to come at all you end up answering with a snarky, "When the party starts." The whole thing is so weird that you begin to wonder if there is even going to be an actual party, but you say, "Just tell me when to come," because you are cranky and tired. The indecisive Aussie Bum tells you to come at 2pm and you say goodnight. But not before he Jackhammers your one last time. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Furry Fags...

...anymore. You definitely have more than your share of hair, but luckily this includes your head, and the rest of your body can be easily manscaped away down the drain. Actually, that's not true. You definitely need to vacuum the tub after clipping, unless, of course, you want to gamble on the slim chance of having a hot Roto-Rooter serviceman come to your damsel-in-distress rescue. But luckily for you, you're on Fire Guyland with O.P.P. (Other People's Plumbing) so you just wash that shit down the drain and head off to Tea.

You chat it up with anybody who will listen to your mumbling stubble, but nothing memorable happens as the evening progresses from Low to High Tea (and FYI that's not because you blacked it out. You just chose not to remember.) Anyway. Suddenly one of your Kinsey 8 housemates taps you on the back and informs you that you are verrrry late for dinner. So you and the San Francisco Treat start walking along the boardwalk when all of a sudden the lightning illuminates your aging frown lines. Micro-seconds later, it's raining Cats and Dogs, and, since you have a paralyzing fear of pussy, you and the San Francisco Treat race home as fast as you can. Unfortunately your drunk little legs aren't quick enough to spare you from the Cat Spray and you are absolutely soaked by the time you arrive home.

You, of course, instantly change into a cute new t-shirt that's even more form-fitting than the wet one, and then you enjoy a lovely pork dinner that one of the Kinsey 8 cooked while you were out not remembering High Tea. After dinner the boys are obviously feeling frisky and your living room turns into an impromptu wrestling match. You, of course, avoid the potential for bruises and unsightly black eyes, and grab your digital camera so you can document them as they begin to unravel.

And unravel they do! Your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, who more-or-less runs a Fortune 500 company from 9-5, somehow winds up smack in the middle of a gay old time. Rice Queen #2 grabs himself some Spanish Rice and Fat Albert's pants instantly fall off, probably because his body is too rickety to defy the effects of gravity. You, of course, run downstairs to gossip with the Kinsey 8 about how 1/4 of your Quarter Cher are about to break the unwritten Fire Island rule of hooking up with a housemate! Your BFF races upstairs with you to witness the tragedy unfold, but by the time you return, the bedroom door is not only closed, but locked! Although you wait quietly in the hall for a photo-op, you are quickly shamed by the undeniable fucking noises that emanate from Behind the Green Door. You and your BFF giggle like a gaggle of girls and then head to your room to get gussied up for Sip N' Twirl.

You are brushing your pearly whites when the other door to the shared bathroom bursts open and Rice Queen #2 races in, naked, and he's as shocked as you are by the evolutionary Eden-like situation where you are unabashedly introduced to his unwelcome serpent. Luckily, Rice Queen #2 quickly grabs the roll of Charmin before disappearing behind the shelter of a fig leaf while you quietly click your heels together and say, "I wish I was at Sip N' Twirl!"

Afterwards the remaining Kinsey 8 heads out to Sip N' Twirl and fortunately it's not too crowded. You quickly gravitate toward the pool table and it's not long before the two Hotties playing Stripes and Solids suddenly make you want to sink your 8 Ball into a game of Pocket Pool. Stripes is Armenian and Solid is, well, solid. Although you are definitely more into Stripes, it quickly becomes apparent that Solid is more into you. However, having just manscaped, you find yourself a bit disconcerted by the tufts of hair that prominently form an undeniable Ring Around His Collar. But you decide to take the road less traveled and convince yourself that this is just some natural, hairy Ruff collar from the Elizabethan period.

Unfortunately when you go home with Solid you realize that his Ring Around The Collar is actually a floor length, head-to-toe, Chia Pet cape. Especially on his back. Chia Pet is the hairiest boy you've ever seen. His chest is so covered in fur that you can't even find a nipple. Although he has a great body, the kissing leaves something to be desired and nothing seems to make up the fact that your fingers seem to get tangled as you attempt to touch the Chia Pet. You may or may not fall asleep, but when you eventually come to your senses you realize that it is definitely time to go home. Chia Pet tries to convince you to stay but you are afraid to camp out and wake up in the bush. So he walks you to the outside gate with his raging hard on, which, surprisingly, is less hairy than the top of his shoulders. Then you race home and devour a delicious left-over pork chop. Unfortunately you lose your appetite when you actually have to yank one of Chia Pet's gray back hairs that's stuck between two of your teeth. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Fags Who Publishes His Cell Number…

...but you are always happy to stumble upon some quality reading material to keep you occupied while you’re on the can. Even on the Long Island Rail Road. You are actually a bit skeptical, however, about John’s outlandish claims that he will, ironically, meet you in this particular John on the 5:09 pm train to Babylon (Monday through Friday no less) for some “Hot Man on Man Action!” Although you are pretty sure that John-John would probably not be your type, you are a little bummed that you are, unfortunately, on the 3:21pm to Sayville, because it would certainly be entertaining to watch some suburban commuter hovering around his personal little Meatrack on his way home to his wife and kids. You, of course, rush back to tell your own little Fire Island Fag Family all about John-John, mostly so you can enlist them for help to remember which exact train to take in June when you have your next Quarter Cher week on Fire Guyland. Luckily, one of your more prompt Housemates arrived to Penn Station early enough to secure a spacious six-person banquette, so you and five of the Kinsey 8's you share a beach house with can all sit together and shield yourselves from the unsettling number of Kinsey Zeros who could really benefit from an episode or seven of Queer Eye for the Long Island Guy.

Since this is your first weekend of the Fire Guyland season, you are initially a bit confused by the 22 year old Columbia Student from Hong Kong who, although much too young, seems way gay enough to be part of the Kinsey 8. For some reason, although it appears that his hair consultant is Christian from Project Runway, this gay boy does not seem at all interested in participating in any of your convergaytion. Eventually, when you can’t stand the suspense anymore, you decide to ask one of the three Rice Queens about their not-so-Ancient Chinese Secret? You aren’t at all surprised to learn that Hong Kong Boy Toy is Rice Queen #1 and Rice Queen #2’s Exchange Student for the weekend. You immediately feel like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles as her grandparents introduce her to the “Weird Chinese guy in Mike's room,” a.k.a. Long Duk Dong. Even though The Donger is nowhere near as social as the one played by Gedde Watanabe, he certainly is young enough to make you feel old enough to be Grandma & Grandpa. Which, in and of itself, is enough reason to instantly hate The Donger.

Luckily, this is when Rice Queen #2 pulls his weekend bag from the luggage rack, which clanks like a noisy wind chime and confuses you until he opens it up and reveals a nice travel sized unopened bottle of Knob Creek. Although you prefer clear alcohols for the same caloric reason you prefer Diet Pepsi, you quickly decide that beggar alcoholic buggers can’t be choosy, and you happily accept a big swig which instantly fills your esophagus with warmth and good cheer, almost as if it was a well endowed good queer. Since Rice Queen #1, Rice Queen #2 and Rice Queen #3 are all busy fawning over The Donger, you start chatting with Rice Queen #3’s Boyfriend who is a lovely Vietnamese boy from California. And since this San Francisco Treat has been in a relationship for several years, he seems to be quite interested in hearing all about your recent date with the Swedish Engineer that you've been fancying, Swedie Pi.

Although the Knob Creek is long gone by the time the Fairy Ferry docks at Fire Guyland, all of the usual Harbor Hob Nobbers start jumping impromptu Creeks that have formed along Fire Island Boulevard thanks to the monsoon that developed during your Escape From New York. You race to the Real Estate Office with the rest of the Kinsey 8 because you need to pick up the House Key before heading over to your house on Beach Hill Walk. The Donger walks along the path, umbrella-less, but Rice Queen #1 and Rice Queen #2 both sacrifice their own dryness, while selflessly choosing to shelter the Hong Kong Donger with their umbrellas as if not only his feet are bound, but his hands are too. Meanwhile, you wish that The Donger’s mouth was bound because everything that comes out of it just makes you feel as old as The Last Emperor.

Considering the downpour, your first night on Fire Guyland is a total washout, but luckily you wake up to a Sunshine Day that’s so gorgeous it’s worthy of a Brady Bunch song. After a leisurely breakfast you and the Kinsey 8 are surprised by an impromptu visit from a few Gentlemen Callers, who turn out to be some boys that share a beach house with your friend Half-Share (who upgraded to a Full-Share this season, only in a less glamorous house). It’s not long before you and all the rest of The Marys are sipping some Bloodies by the pool, however the real bloodbath begins when you all begin to crucify all of the poor gay boys unfortunate enough to be out of earshot. But you digress. The sky is blue and the vodka is Skyy and when the latter ends up being as clear as the former, you all decide to head over to Half Shares house for $90 worth of Tuna Fish sandwiches (purchased from the Grossly Overpriced Grocery) and you wash them down with a few Coronas (Light, of course, as Speedo season has officially begun), and sit by Half Share’s pool, boozing away the afternoon until Cocktail Hour finally arrives.

You race home and change into a scandalous pair of New Religions and decide to top them off with a politically correct, yet inappropriately tight, “Marriage is so Gay” T-shirt. After all your Gay Cocktailing, the fit is a bit too Gay-Tight, even for Low Tea on Fire Guyland, but black is always slimming, and considering everything going on in New York and California you decide that it’s an excellent conversation starter to begin your annual summer Husband Hunt. Low Tea at the Blue Whale is absolutely overflowing, and although you are just beginning your Senior Year of Camp Camp, some liver spots on certain Senior Citizens’ bald heads make your overworked liver feel as if it were the liver formerly known as Prince. So you, of course, decide to Party Like it’s 1999. You and the San Francisco Treat ditch The Donger and the Three Rice Queens and head over to the outdoor bar to order some drinks. Since the San Francisco Treat has never been to Low Tea before, you give him a quick education about the best value on the Island and revise his drink order with a round of Planters Punch that are so strong they seem to put more hair on your recently manscaped chest.

Once you have your drink in hand, you quickly ditch the San Francisco Treat so you can do an unencumbered Fruit Loop around Low Tea, as it's time to play your favorite game that you like to call,“Who Would You Sleep With?” Although the pickins’ are a bit slim (and not so slim in many cases), you eventually decide to talk to a boy who’s t-shirt begs you to “Take the Pepsi Challenge!” Although you are a Die-Hard Diet Pepsi fanatic, you definitely lose the Pepsi Challenge so miserably that you may actually have to wake up and nurse your hangover with a *gasp* Diet Coke tomorrow. But all you really want is a kiss. It feels like forever since your lips have been graced with all the possibility that a boy’s lying lips seem to promise, and tonight you feel like a Lip Syncing Missile as you mouth the words to some Disco song that’s even older than you.

Low Tea ends just when the sunset turns the western sky a lovely shade of Planter’s Punch, and you and the Kinsey 8 drag the San Francisco Treat down the dock and up the stairs for his first High Tea at the Glow Lounge. Luckily the music is a little more M People than Village People and you and your Planters Punch quickly Hustle yourselves over to the DJ booth where people are actually dancing without the aid of a ‘70s line formation. You are Mercifully drawn to the one Real Girl who is shaking her Fake Tits to Duffy and the two of you start to tear up the Pergo. There’s nothing you love more than dancing, and there’s nothing that Real Girl loves more than shaking her Fake Tits, so the two of you make a fantastic pair, flitting around without ever spilling a precious drop of your respective cocktails. It’s almost like an episode of Dancing With the Bars. But that’s when you see him. Leaning against the wall. Staring at you. Smiling at you. You flash him some dimple and abandon your Real Girl for the promise of a Real Kiss from a Real(ly) Cute Boy.

You quickly ingratiate yourself and are quite surprised when the whiskered boy puts down his Scotch Whiskey and introduces himself with a thick handshake and an even thicker Scottish accent. The talking quickly disintegrates into kissing, and you find yourself mashing against the wall between the DJ booth and the dark harbor sky which pours in from the open window. It’s really, really nice. You try to convince yourself that Hairy is the new Smooth as your clean-shaven face scrapes up against his unshaven one, but even you can see through your drunken denial as you can’t help but compare Scotch Whisker’s kiss to Blonde Beard’s. But he’s tall. And foreign. And available. God knows how many songs or how many kisses go by before The San Francisco Treat taps you politely on the shoulder to remind you about dinner, even though your intense appetite is no longer hungry for food. Scotch Whisky informs you that he, too, must head home for dinner and the two of you share one of those awkward “Where do we go from here?” moments. You assess the situation, and then decide, instead of asking for his number, to find out if he’ll be going out afterwards. When he says, “Indeed,” you smile and tell him, “Good. Then I’ll see you at Sip N’ Twirl later on.”

You get one last taste of the Dewar's on Scotch Whisker’s sweet breath before he leaves you standing alone on the dance floor. Although, you should probably be racing home for chicken that The San Francisco Treat has soaking in Red Wine for at least as long as you’ve been soaking in your own Vodka marinade, instead you find yourself pleading along with Rihanna for the DJ to “Please Don’t Stop the Music.” This moment is yours and you are floating with the evening’s new potential. You could give a shit that you are the only boy in the whole bar dancing. After all, it’s not the first time and it definitely won’t be the last. And you just Keep on Keepin’ On even when Half Share yells from across the bar, “Come on, Elaine!” as he throws his thumbs out, mimicking both you and Elaine Benes’ disturbing dance moves as he leaves the bar for another $90 Tuna Fish dinner. You just smile and wave goodbye, thumbs and all, until a small statured acquaintance who’s (allegedly) into fisting, locks arms with you and begins to drag you (fist first) and your good mood off the dance floor. You try to imagine a man’s hand rammed up your little friend’s bum as The Muppet pulls you away, showering you with patronizing tidbits like, “Come on honey, it’s really time to go home.” And you are instantly annoyed because, although you are, of course, drunk, you’re not that drunk. You’re just happy. Or at least you were until The Muppet had to go shackle your buzz. So you send The Muppet back to Sesame Street for a three way fist fuck with Burt & Ernie as you make your way back to dinner.

Dinner is on the table when you finally get home and the San Francisco Treat has really outdone himself tonight. Everything is made from scratch and there are no empty Rice A Roni boxes to be found anywhere. Even though it’s absolutely delicious, you find yourself racing through dinner so you can get over to Sip N’ Twirl and meet your Scotch Whiskers for another reassuring round of razor burn. You even, *gasp*, pass on the wine because you don't want to be too sloppy when you meet up with Scotch Whiskers. By the time you get to Sip N' Twirl you are relatively sober, especially for a person who started drinking twelve hours ago. Although you are tired, you are a man on a mission, specifically to be in the missionary position before the night ends. So you circle around Sip N' Twirl, over and over. And over. Even though it's dark and packed with boys, you search that gaystack from Tops to Bottoms for your lost needle, but you never find your Scotch Whiskers. By 2am you are practically falling asleep so you decide to call it a night and head home, alone, for a no-night stand with your right hand. But as you head out you notice The Muppet headed your way. Even though he's not dancing, per se, he is convulsing in such a disturbing way when he makes his way over, and his pupils are the size of frying pans as he traps you on the dance floor and shudders with a stutter, "Hey! Wanna dance?" You force a smile for the tweaking Muppet, and although you feel like you should probably call 911 and have him airlifted to a nearby hospital, you decide to let someone else lift him with their bare fist as you say, "No thanks," and head home.

The next morning you wake up bummed, wishing you had given Scotch Whiskers your phone number because now you fear you will never see him again. Eventually you pull it together and end up walking to town with Rice Queen #1 to pick up a dozen $8 eggs. Since #1 stayed in last night to Dingle the Donger, he's curious about what ultimately happened with Scotch Whiskers. And just as you're telling him your sob story of being stood up, guess who passes by on the boardwalk and calls out your name? Scotch Whiskers seems as genuinely excited to see you as you are to see him, even though he is walking with a boy who may or may not be his boyfriend. You decide to play it safe and introduce your friend first with the hope that Scotch Whiskers will introduce his friend sans moniker like, "This is my boyfriend." Which he does not. So then you say, "I looked for you at Sip N' Twirl last night, but couldn't find you." Scotch Whiskers explains that he was there, late, but he didn't see you either. You almost want to say, "I was the one running around all night looking for you," but then he says, "It was so crowded. We should have exchanged numbers." To which you find yourself responding in an unusual, yet appropriately pushy way, "Would you like my number?" Usually you never, ever offer up your number without being asked, but Scotch Whiskers, of course, says yes (what else is he going to say?) as he taps your number into his iPhone. You're kind of unsure about the impromptu interaction as you walk away, but Rice Queen #1 seems to think it went well and goes on and on about how lucky you are and "What are the odds of ever running into Scotch Whiskers again!?" You tend to think that the odds should have been higher for running into him last night at Sip N' Twirl, and you end up winning the bet (or perhaps losing it) when you never, ever receive a call from Scotch Whiskers. Anyway...