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…

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