Monday, September 19, 2011

Ring of Fire Island: Part Two

I often cogitate about high-powered women. The slender pout of legs accentuated by taloned heels, a cinched waste drawn tighter by the pull of polyester draped over shoulder padding and lips stained so darkly red they would make the color black shudder all personify the personality beneath the facade: a raging bitch. I fancy myself a high-powered-shoulder-padded-bitch-LITE, constantly attempting to evoke the melodrama, nuances and fisticuffs of Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Joan Collins, Julia Sugarbaker and Kanye West. Dwelling in such delusions of grandeur certainly makes for an interesting life. I'd survived Johnny Cash and the Ice Palace Underwear Party and dreamt that night of Joan Collins. In my dream, she sat on a large mushroom and proceeded to primp, applying her CVS-brand cosmetics and wearing Halston shoulder pads with wingspans rivaling an albatross's. Leona Helmsley and Jennifer Lopez were chained underneath her and making out furiously. Alexis Carrington hopped off the overgrown fungus, and I awoke from my Fire Island slumber. In my groggy, hungover state, I conceived that by the end of the night I'd either be sleeping on a mushroom or over-acting in my own saga, Dynasty: The Pines, The Pains, The Penis.

Once we dismounted our IKEA beds at the crack of gay dawn, 1:00pm, the next day, we took to the Hotel Ciel pool. The pool scene severely lacked appropriate talent, so I ordered a frozen martini from the Blacktino, speedo-laden pool boy, literally ushered him away with the flick of my wrist and encased my ears with the lovely melodies of the 80s on my iPod. Twenty minutes later, loud shouting prodded me out of my reverie within "Bette Davis Eyes." I lowered my sun reflector from the George Hamilton collection to identify the ruckus and berate Dax* with a "What the fuck. How could you let my frozen martini melt? And, what the hell is with this goddamn…"

The source of the overpowering noise emanated from a white drag queen about the age and stature of Michael Douglas post-cancer. She painted her face like the worst kind of groupie slut for Mötley Crüe with heavy black liner etched over antacid-pink eye shadow, while her disheveled, rusty blonde wig was I'm sure taken straight out of the filter in a vacuum. Her legs also housed more hair than a Russian woman's upper lip. I couldn't quite focus on the dress, for I'd noticed that she was performing in her own drag show, reenacting the scene from Precious where Mo'Nique verbally assaults her daughter before throwing shit at her:

You're a dummy, bitch! You will never know shit! Don't nobody want you, don't nobody need you! You done fucked around and fucked my mothafuckin' man? And had two mothafuckin' children? And one of 'ems a goddamn animal, runnin' 'round lookin' crazy as a mothafucka? [ . . .] I think you tryin' to fuck with me. You fuckin' with my money... and you gon' stand up there and look at me like you a mothafuckin' woman? I'mma show you what real women do, bitch...

Midway through the diatribe, Miss Take, for this was her name, waded into the pool in a shredded mesh dress and a cigarette dangling from smudged, post-oral-copulation lips, and splashed around with herself, struggling with an imaginary, large black woman. I beheld, aghast and in awe, this Sybil-ized tranny version of Alexis and Krystle's epic girl-fight scene in the fountain, except on meth and much poorer. After the performance, I introduced myself to Miss Take, offering congratulations for her bravura rendition, but told her she should really wear water-proof makeup in the future as to not cause further chlorine pollution or drain-clogging. "What nerve and balls you have," I snapped.

The night failed to improve. Timmy* and I left the other homos in our posse and traipsed along the boardwalk to a house party hosted by the friend of a friend of a cousin of friend of a hermaphrodite. We arrived, and I delved into misery, a personal hell of unknown gays pretending to be frat guys playing Flip Cup with tequila. Timmy found himself in heaven, joining the frat-tastic game. Five rounds into the game, as Timmy's eyes started to glaze over, a handsome fellow initiated a conversation with me. I quickly became annoyed at Timmy, my Asian version of Krystle (yes, people…I am and always will be Alexis), for devolving into a raging disaster of a pork dumpling dipped in tequila. Seven shots in, I pulled Timmy away from the game and apologized to the handsome fellow, for "Koreans cannot hold their liquor…or is he Vietcong?" I physically smacked Timmy down into a chair in the corner of the kitchen and informed him he was in timeout. Timmy eventually escaped my clutches and staggered back into flip-cupping for three more rounds before asking half of the party attendees if they wanted to have sex, lamenting over and over: "I am so horny. I just want to have sex." Finding those requests unsuccessful, he barreled through the screen door, ripping it from the frame, and collapsed onto the patio.

Mortified, I exchanged numbers with the handsome fellow and began to haul Timmy out of the house. However, the little shit refused to cooperate. I had to wield my frail arms around his compact, yet solid body and lug him out and down the boardwalk to our hotel. We fell several times…one time almost into the harbor. Timmy eventually found the use of his legs and started to skip down the boardwalk, singing his alma mater or something. In between the phi betas and rah-rah-rahs, the drunken dumpling also managed to yank down bamboo trees, bash address posts and play the congo on private residence fences. In between fits of property destruction, I managed the wherewithal to ask Timmy a series of questions to keep his mind focused and his legs moving. We covered: number of sexual partners, fiscal irresponsibility with Republicans, ball-sack shaving, and being a top or a bottom. He's a huge bottom but refuses to admit it. Like any good diva of the twenty-fourth century, I whipped out my iPhone and recorded this fifteen-minute trek back to the hotel, strictly for future blackmail purposes and/or pure viewing enjoyment. As soon as I figure out how to post to YouTube…

Three near-death experiences later, we scrambled up the stairs to our room. I kicked myself for not bringing my Baby Jane Bjorn, so I opted instead to grab his Polo shirt collar and drag him up, stair by stair, like a Jersey Shore reject. I threatened and cursed him every inch. As we reached the third-floor landing, Timmy went balls-out crazy and thrashed about like the cheekbones beneath Marc Anthony's skin trying to escape his skull. One swing of his arm knocked me into the balcony railing and almost made my fall over. The other arm lunged for the door to our room and smashed against the window, shattering one of the panes.

"You almost killed me, you mothafuckin' dummy," I screeched. I slapped Tony across the face, giving my best Joan Collins snarl. As my strike reverberated on his eye socket, he looked for a moment like Margaret Cho when she imitates her mother’s state of shock.

Lex woke up and ushered us in, thinking someone was breaking in to ass rape him. I threw Timmy onto the floor, picked up an open water bottle and doused his head in it. His eyes rolled back, immediately passing out, and Lex crashed back into his bed, causing the IKEA slats to collapse and the mattress to fall through the fake beech wood bed frame. "You two bitches need Jesus," I lamented before turning on my heel to head back outside.

Eight minutes later, Lex called me at the most inopportune time:

Lex: Timmy's throwing up blood. I don't know what to do. Should I call a doctor?
Me: It’s not blood. It's just the red punch mixed with tequila.
Lex: Timmy! Timmy! Ohmigod, ohmigod. Not the floor...Click.

I busted back into the room, which resembled one of Miss Take's abortions, shrewdly announcing "fasten your rectums…it's going to be a bumpy night."

*Again, names changed…

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Ring of Fire Island: Part One

Summer coiled around the city this year like an ill-fitting bra found in a dumpster outside of a Vietnamese nail shop – too high, too tight and covered in pumiced skin, all the while cleaving the populace into two overheated sections. Luckily, one people-boob was fortunate enough to escape the hottest days, basking in the solace of beaches and oceans. The other boob lactated inside subway stops. I immediately whipped out my tank top collection, affectionately coined "Lady Scoop Necks," and began the summer's diet of starvation, spray tanning and misery. People incessantly inquire to my personal assistant, Big Glitter, about my weight: "How is Chad so skinny? If I was his size, I’d eat everything in sight." Well, obviously, you feebleminded bitches, I maintain this size because I DO NOT eat like Precious on a daily basis, stealing buckets of fried chicken and bolting down 8th Avenue with enough friction between my legs to jumpstart a car. However, I deign a slight confession, for I do have my Precious moments every so often, sans the rape. Keeping Precious at bay with my tank tops, I readied alongside the boob of people leaving Manhattan and starved myself into a skimpy bathing suit. Hours of anorexia later, I finally ambled to my benchmark, licking my goal weight within tenths of pounds. It was time…my body was equipped for Fire Island.

Fire Island, nestled on a skinny sliver of sand dunes spitting distance from Long Island, promulgates its iconic reputation with two indisputable objects of nature: gays and geography. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, Northeastern queers congregate on the island after a train, bus and ferry ride from their respective locales and separate themselves into one of two enclaves: The Pines and Cherry Grove. The Pines attracts the glossy gays, toned, buff, roided, starved, grossly handsome, cunty, "gougie" (gay bougie), emaciated, bronzed and/or shellacked, in addition to the audacious wannabes and the aging daddies (daddies whose sixty-year-old skin resembles loosened leather flapped over muscular bodies). Cherry Grove beckons the lesbians and the older, hippie gays with micropenises. Floating between The Pines and Cherry Grove, "The Meat Rack" extends about a mile, adorned with sand, swamps, and woodsy areas to separate the two areas. More on the Meat Rack in a mere moment…

My friends, Dax*, Timmy*, Chuck* and Lex*, and I purchased two nights in the only hotel in The Pines, Hotel Ciel. We opted not to buy a share because I can barely make that kind of commitment to my apartment, much less a house on the beach for a week each month. Ciel is a cinder-block hotel that reeks of a 70s-era mental institution dropped in the ghetto part of South Beach's Deco District. Perfect for gays on a raunchy vacation. Our top floor suite consisted of a king bed and two twin beds, and everything, from the furniture to the lamps, hailed from IKEA. My favorite feature of the room engaged the bathroom sink, with its back end fastened loosely to the wall and the front end supported by a broomstick and metal crutch serving as legs. Gynecologist exam rooms also enjoy more privacy than this bed chamber, so we knew in an instant a fornication schedule proved essential.

After we settled into our psycho ward IKEA digs, we prepped for an underwear party in Cherry Grove. The process to get ready (for me, at least) differs very little from a normal, clothing-required event. I showered and completed my hair routine, and Dax sprayed my ass cheeks with Neutrogena tan mist to match the darker shades I'd naturally acquired on the beach earlier in the day. Because I'm a flirt or a slut, depending on my menstruation, I kept the doors of our room open so that passersby could take a gander at me in my cute new underwear as I blow-dried my hair. We also needed to fumigate the room from the spray tan cloud slowly enveloping the space. My open-door policy worked, and a gaggle of gays in the room behind us introduced themselves and poured us a shot of whiskey, to which we all toasted the pious life.

Our walk to the Grove galvanized me even more than the whiskey, 5 Hour Energy and Ecstasy pills I downed, for it necessitated a trek through the Meat Rack. Before the trip, at least fourteen people regaled me with personal or rumored stories about this plot of trees and sand, where underneath the moon and stars, hungry men of all shapes and sizes would approach or stalk willing participants to fellate, fondle, masturbate or penetrate. I suppose these gentlemen become more willing to participate because it's too dark to see the face around the mouth engulfing their penises. Seriously, the faded moonlight speckled beneath the trees remains the only source of natural light at night, aside from iPhone displays standing in for flash lights. The Meat Rack is like Laundromats after hours for straight people; they serve as hotbeds for heterosexing with fabric softener lube with dryer rumblings providing the melodic soundtrack, akin to waves crashing on the beach.

I harbored absolutely no interest whatsoever in wielding strange, un-introduced penises in the dark, for I enact an exhaustive cock courting phase followed by a mole inspection…five minutes later and the risk of catching melanoma averted, I'm ready to begin service. Nevertheless, I was dying to venture through the place and listen for grunting or catch a glimpse of nude ass gyrations in the moonlight. No such charity visibly or audibly presented itself. Instead, Timmy treated us to frights by jumping out from behind trees to scare us. I blew my rape whistle in his ear.

We arrived in Cherry Grove as Meat Rack virgins, but I was determined to have a ball or two at the Ice Palace Underwear Party. I strutted into the club, arching my back and discreetly fluffing my package to signal that I would own this place. We shot three celebratory vodkas, grabbed some Mardi Gras beads and joined the near-naked gays jumping up and down on the dance floor to Rhianna. Twenty pop songs, three vodka tonics and five pounds of water weight lost from massive sweating later, I noticed that a significant amount of homos had disappeared from the scene. They crowded around a door leading to a room in the back, and I had to know why. After we cut through those surrounding the doorway, I adjusted my underwear, as it previously failed to hide my pubic hair, and we saw two groups of ten or so guys huddled on opposite corners in the darkened room. I asked Chuck what they were doing. "Are they watching a movie?" I inquired. "I don't think so," answered Chuck as he guided me to one of the corner pits. My eyes adjusted, and my naiveté quivered. I discerned blowjobs, handjobs and bears, oh my.

I am a simple girl from the South, so my natural instinct pushed me to gasp and cover my mouth, muffling an "OMG this is a sex party" under my breath. After thirty seconds, I quickly overcame the shock of it and greedily wanted to see more. Chuck and I weaved in and out of hands, reddened knees and musky ball sacks to obtain the full scope of the scene. Several hands attempted to grope me, inviting me to participate, but I held my ground and my penis while swatting them away. I was merely watching. After five minutes of the status quo, I'd gotten rather bored and exasperated as an old man in white briefs with neon green darting, personifying Johnny Cash on the verge of being a tranny, kept trying to molest me.

Me: Chuck, this is monotonously gay. I want to see penetration. Do you see any?
Chuck: Not yet, but it’ll happen soon I'm sure.
Me: Fine, I'm going back out to dance because I don't want anything accidentally squirted onto any part of my body or face. Come get me when you see insertion…

Chuck found me five minutes later and gleefully announced penetration had commenced. He was not lying. Unfortunately, my time comically watching a large black man having sex with a tiny white twink abruptly ended because Johnny Cash tried to put his hand down my underwear again.

Me: No thank you.
Johnny: How long are you going to hold out?
Me: Jesus fucking Christ, Johnny. You aren't going to have much success in this ring of rapid semen fire, let alone with me. You can sure as shit kiss my ass goodbye with a come-on like that.

I turned on my heel and walked outside, marveling at how much I sounded like Reese Witherspoon's June Carter Cash and craving some KFC.

*Fake names as to protect the innocent. Though, they are far from innocent, and if you've been of my Facebook page, you could probably determine their identities.