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.

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