With the Muller Cottage being taken over by its lesbian owners, Chris, Thom and I were homeless in the Pines as the light began to change in September 1996. We three represented just 11% of the people who had shared the house for the past eight summers, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of fickle gay commitment.
Carol at Island Properties pulled a classic real-estate agent move: she showed us a couple of dumps before taking us to a brand new house atop a dune at the far east end of the Pines. It had "aspects" for Chris, with views of both the bay and the ocean from upper decks, and a pool that got sun nearly the entire day for Thom.
Although what we eventually christened the "End House" didn't meet my sole criteria--I wanted to be west of the harbor to be closer to the Meat Rack--Chris accused me of reacting like a Long Island housewife seduced by a fresh paint job. And our distance from the harbor, too, came not to matter (it increased our step count, long before walking became a boomer thing) unless, of course, you forgot a crucial dinner ingredient at the Pantry.
I did marvel at the kitchen. "What are we going to do with two dishwashers and two microwaves?" I asked, incredulously. All four appliances got fried a couple of summers later, when lightning struck the house in our absence.
The idea behind these exhumed photos--cheap printing ensured their fading and discoloration--was to use them to market vacancies. I will never forget Thom's quip at the Share-A-Thon, an event we attended to fill the house when asked if the house had a drug policy: "Yes. Lots of aspirin!"
We had three bedrooms--all downstairs and of unequal size--to fill for an entire summer. Thom claimed the deluxe master bath.
The landlord's wife did a bait and switch on this dining table and chairs by the time we moved in, replacing it with glass and blue velour. We rebelled.
My housemates gave me hell for building spring and fall blazes with treated wood that we found under the house. P.S. We're still here.
1997
Princess Diana's death makes it easy to remember the year we moved in. Someone calling from New York with the news interrupted a late dinner Labor Day weekend and we had to rely on the radio and phone bulletins for updates because the house lacked a television. I celebrated my 44th birthday shortly after the maelstrom with cupcakes that Barnet brought, including a Yellow Rose of Texas. I inherited the square plate from David, who bought a complete dinner service from a place called "Resales for Retards" in West Palm Beach! Times have changed in so many ways.
But Diana was only one of several celebrities who unexpectedly met their makers during our tenure at the End House. After JFK, Jr. and Gianni Versace both died tragically during my week-long vacations in the Pines, Barnet starting asking "Who's next?" whenever I scheduled another.
Flooded with natural light, indoors and out, the End House provided the perfect backdrop for portrait photography.
Joe wasn't entirely over the Pines. Yet. He certainly wasn't over Thom.
Chris claimed a shady spot poolside to read. His DC connections had snared several new housemates, including a lovably pretentious keeper.
Victor had visited the Muller Cottage five years earlier ostentatiously sporting a press pass for the Democratic National Convention--the one that nominated Bill Clinton--around his neck. He recently had moved to New York and begun working for an international non-profit organization trying to develop an AIDS vaccine.
Victor was in the throes of early romance with Jean-Marc, his very tall very French boyfriend whose anathema to socialism brought him to America where he aspired to make a fortune. They spent a lot of time cuddling in the living room. "You need to make a reservation to secure a spot on that couch," I groused.
Pat, who worked at the Smithsonian, commuted from DC, something Chris eventually would do for years. 1997 was his last full summer in the Pines although he continued to purchase at least a quarter share every season until the covid pandemic.
Daniel, who worked in advertising, was a friend of Ted's, who had taken responsibility for organizing a quarter share of the house one weekend a month. His sly wit made me laugh as much as Barnet's Borscht Belt schtick. A Missourian with plenty of folksy expressions, Daniel described Dinah Shore as having "a little touch of the tar brush." He made a juicy apple pie, too, with crust from scratch.
Note the ball in Daniel's arms. Print media hadn't quite collapsed. HX featured beautifully photographed hunky guys and drag queens on its covers to lure buyers. The publishers hired young men using little red wagons to distribute copies to every house in the Pines, a gay marketer's wet dream in terms of demographics.
We should have recognized Rick's MO when he mentioned that his best friend Michael didn't have any space available in his nearby rental. He and Chris C. ranked pretty high on the list of "do-nothing" housemates. But Rick did at least contribute friendly relations with our neighbors and he sure knew how to kill two birds with one stone, inviting them over for meatloaf dinner the only night he ever cooked for us.
Old housemates like Michael, who found love with an artist in Key West, were always welcomed even if he did fire Isabella Rossellini from Lancôme.
I nicknamed Jerry the "Encyclopedia of Camp." He loved Susan Hayward in Valley of the Dolls as much as I did, but he could quote long stretches of her dialog from memory.
For decades, Spanish John, a Colombian friend of Thom's, visited annually.
Thom designed another batch of custom-made outfits for the final Morning Party on the beach to benefit GMHC. "Express Yourself" must have been playing when this shot was taken. They're hard to see, but sparkly sequins adorn our black trunks.
John joined us.
Joe cast yet another adoring look while his boyfriend and John smiled for the camera.
Bitch, pleeeeze!
1998
Randy returned to our fold after a teary break-up with a boyfriend whose house he regretted joining upon leaving the Muller Cottage. Guy, a South African friend of Jean-Marc's and a new-quarter share, served as Randy's convenient but short-lived rebound romance.
Jean-Marc knew the value of having an ally in a share house, no matter how skillful you are in making crème brûlée. I used to call his back issues of Gourmet magazines "food porn," because few of the dishes he pored over ever made it to our table.
Guy single-handedly put together an impossible Marilyn jigsaw puzzle that I bought for rainy days at the beach. He lasted only a single season but he left a good impression. Cameos can be an excellent strategy for surviving house politics with your reputation intact.
Philip, Daniel's best friend and an executive at the Limited, joined the house roster, too. It wasn't until I read Blake Gopnik's well-sourced biography of Andy Warhol years later that I learned he hung out at the Factory while starting his career in apparel at Fiorucci. It might have given us something to talk about; despite the fact that we both grew up gay in Texas, we had absolutely nothing to say to one another.
Shortly before Chris became an expatriate, he purchased an ocean kayak. I got a lot more use out of it than he ever did.
Anthony, an occasional visitor, may have, too. It was much easier to launch in the bay.
Thom spent as much time as he could in the sun. Some things never change.
Robert, a Cuban friend of Thom's who also worked in the rag trade, visited from Italy.
1999
Memories of a share house blur; I thought Dan was always with us at the End House, but this is the first photographic evidence of his presence. Believe it or not, Chris was in from Kiev for a week, the first of many postings that gave him bragging rights about traveling the farthest distance to get "home" to the Pines.
I also began my Jane Fonda routine on the pool deck, trying to avoid the inevitable which Murray Bartlett expressed so eloquently as Dom in Looking, still my favorite gay TV series. "When you turn 40 on Grinder, they send you a death certificate." Home ownership in the Pines, however, can extend your "sell-by date" for decades. Just ask Victor.
2000
Chris, Dan and I enjoyed each other's company so much at the End House that we hatched a plan to travel alphabetically around the world. We started the following Thanksgiving in Amsterdam.
You'd never guess from these photos that I banished Jean-Marc, whose drinking and drug use had gotten out of control, from the house.
The tipping point occurred early one morning when he insisted he had used the blender because he thought I would like breakfast muffins. "It doesn't matter," I screeched, rushing upstairs to the kitchen with little sleep and even less patience for his increasing lack of consideration. "You're persona non grata in this house." Nothing like a little house drama to end the weekend.
But people often criticize others for their own shortcomings. My addiction to anonymous sex, facilitated by the Ramble, the Meat Rack and AOL, grew even more consuming because I feared it would be coming to an end as 50 loomed on the horizon. Here's how I described the feeling in a journal entry I titled "Sexpose":
April 5, 1999: When the phone rang late one weeknight, I knew it was "New Jersey Bottom Boy" (NJBTM) on the other end. He'd already left one overeager message after responding to the personals ad I had placed here under the screen name "Piston." My strong sense of individuality prevented me from describing myself as a "top," so I had tried using a metaphor to communicate my sexual preference. A more worldly friend suggested "Piston" might have another meaning for people into water sports so I headlined my posting ATTENTION ALL VALVES. I guess I was hoping some hunky mechanic who liked to get f**ked while changing the oil would respond, a fantasy a lot less specific than some of the others I'd seen posted.
But the internet is no place for metaphors, no matter how butch. Whoever called television the vast wasteland obviously never visited AOL where Oscar Wilde always plays second banana to Jeff Stryker. (You'd think I might have learned something from my one previous attempt at disembodied cruising. It was during phone sex that I first seized upon the piston metaphor, after I got bored with repeating "You love my c**k in your a**, don't you?" I tried substituting "Can you feel my piston pumping in and out?" but the guy on the other end said "Huh?" It broke the rhythm).
When cruising the AOL boards, numbers are critical. The lower the better in terms of age and waistline; the opposite principle applies to penises, biceps, pectorals and how often you say you go to the gym. As a man of a certain age, I decided to play it coy on my member profile. Under birthdate I had entered "Eisenhower Administration Virgo." I figured this could cut me as much slack as seven years. Big mistake. Anything before the Carter Adminstration is ancient history to most twenty- and thirty-somethings assuming they're even up to the effort of decoding a forty-something's attempt to stay in the game. If your age doesn't begin with a 1, 2 or 3, you might as well wear a scarlet "O," for OLD, in an environment where a man might admit he's 31 and then add "but I look younger, honest."
NYCMAN64, the first person to respond to my posting, taught me this lesson. When I read his profile and downloaded his "gif," I felt like a mail order bride who had hit the jackpot. A good looking partner in a midtown law firm waiting for the "right guy," he said he had liked my ad and picture (posted in Libraries on Q under Relationships Male) and decided "to throw his hat in the ring." Like he thought he had lots of competition in the suitor department.
After a brief exchange of e-mail, NYCMAN64 told me to give him a call and when I did, we had a pleasant conversation. He sounded like a nice guy, if a little too deep into the closet. This didn't come as much of a surprise because he had written "no one would know unless I told them" as his favorite quote in his member profile, but it did make me wonder about exactly whom he thought he was kidding: a 34-year-old single man with a lap dog named Barney doesn't exactly scream heterosexuality.
Still, any misgivings I might have had about him quickly became moot. When he asked if we could meet for coffee I said yes but then added that I thought he should know I did not fall into the 30-38 age range he'd indicated in his profile. "Oh, that was just a ball park figure," he explained before asking "How old are you?" He giggled nervously when I answered 45 but insisted it didn't matter. I knew I would never hear from him again.
NJBTMBOY appeared to be oblivious to my age and the terseness of his e-mail appealed to my sleazy side. In his first communication he said "Let's light a fire." I responded with "Ready when you are" after determining that the gif he sent me and his somewhat vague profile could be the same person. Impulsively, I also included my phone number. Why not? He was cute in a realistic way, unlike some of the faux Adonises I had seen pictured on-line. And besides, New Jersey was just across the river and probably home to a lot of guys with less attitude, I rationalized.
But on the phone, NJBTMBOY cut to the chase rather too quickly. He launched into a vivid description of his sexual preferences, concluding with "if you're looking for a totally submissive f**k boy, then all you have to do is come and get it." However "Come and get it" meant driving for two hours to southern New Jersey! As exciting as it was to hear that a cute 32-year-old whose day job could have been directing porn had the hots for me, I couldn't decide if I was horny enough to suffer that kind of inconvenience when there was plenty of off-line anonymous sex available right here in New York City.
Though the explicitness of NJBTMBOY's offer kept me tossing and turning the entire night, I declined his invitation the next day, counter-offering via e-mail to show him around if he ever had the urge to drive to the city. He never responded but for some reason I decided to check out his profile again. Call me naive, but I was startled to discover that it described a completely different person and geographic location.
Still, placing the ad did offer a couple of ego-gratifying compensations: an effervescent chorus boy sent me an e-mail congratulating me on my copy and some company offered to pay me $150 if I agreed to shoot an amateur wrestling video in my Speedo. They didn't ask me my age. Finding myself in a headlock might be more conducive to romance than the AOL head games I've already endured.
I really worked the "masc" thing, now completely out of favor, with Pines backdrops in my online photos.
2001
In some respects, it was a lost summer punctuated by an awful event that would eventually have a profound and positive impact on my career. It began with the freedom to experience my mid-life crisis in style after resigning from the National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence early in the year. I started Chasing Rapture, my first blog, which chronicled "the picaresque adventures of an unemployed gay sex addict in Manhattan and Fire Island Pines." The ever-perceptive Randy, no stranger to sexual adventurism, observed that I pierced my navel "so you'd have something to write about."
The attack pretty much obliterated any specific memories of the summer, although I do recall seeing a straight wedding on the Pines beach that offered reassuring evidence that life would go on as before.
Dan eventually held the record for bedding the most guests at End House. Here's his first, a bear named Matthew from San Francisco.
No question about it, Dan was looking pretty good.
But neither he nor Chris, who flew in from Moscow, had much success with the kayak in the ocean.
I'd had a lot more practice.
They did excel at Scrabble, however. No one knows his two-letter words better than Chris and Dan bluffs as well as a world-class poker player. You can't be sure if the unfamiliar word he just played really is an exotic species of deer, because he's such a wildlife aficionado, too.
Thom hosted a couple of friends, including Jerry
Bitch stole my wig!
2002
"Say something once, why say it again?" sings David Byrne in "Psycho Killer."
That's exactly how I feel after blogging in real-time about sharing the End House for an entire summer using pseudonyms to protect the identities of the guilty. Freelancing gave me plenty of time to work on The House of Six MEs but it never took off even though I sent a link to every e-mail address in the Pines Phone Book.
The Curmudgeon and I continued pursuing the Sisyphean task of perfecting our online cruising photos.
The Expatriate introduced Chris, a friend from Moscow, to the Curmudgeon. Their mutual seduction led to a very awkward morning-after and a lot of unresolved speculation about exactly why!
Michael and Vatche, aka the Ingenue and the Prince, lasted only a season, until the Prince rented his own house.
A decorator's gotta decorate! Don't ask me who any of these guys are. But definitely "not our kind."
The Expatriate, the Curmudgeon and the Sun Queen stared down the late afternoon sun in front of a rainbow umbrella.
Not usually a touchy-feely kinda guy, I must have been high on E when someone took this photo with the Curmudgeon and Der Fuhrer. I call it "Circuit Seniors" and am forever grateful I didn't partake in that druggy scene until I was old enough to handle it. But oh what a rush it was, butt dancing and peaking on floors in the Pines, Miami, Palm Springs, DC, and at New York City's Black Party and Allegria! I looked forward to the next one as eagerly as a child does Christmas for several years.
And here's one of my all-time favorite group shot taken in the Pines. I hand-delivered a framed copy of "Happy Hour" to the Expatriate when the Sun Queen, the Curmudgeon, Der Fuhrer and I flew to Moscow to visit him over Thanksgiving.
2003
The purchase of my first digital camera certainly increased the frequency and quality of my photography. I took pictures of EVERYTHING and then sequenced them for a slide show that I premiered during the 50th birthday party that Barnet threw for me. "That Jeff's always looking for new ways to sell shares!" cracked Anthony, who had resisted my entreaties to return for years.
Guilty as charged. Apart from our core group, it had become harder and harder to fill the house as people coupled and moved on with their lives. Testa Grande, oops, I mean Randy, enlisted Mark, a Hoboken real estate agent, and Bart, a human resources director at Yum! Brands, at hot nude yoga.
Easy on the eyes, they also introduced jenga to the house. Mark and I often butted heads--he insisted on serving lobster one night and I refused to eat it--but we eventually came to respect one another.
We recruited some losers, too, although I don't remember how: Dimitri and David. They broke one of the cardinal rules of house-sharing: vacating when you're supposed to. We expelled them but not before they picked an odd closet to pilfer: Chris's! He was back from Russia and had begun commuting from DC.
A younger, darker Jeff, another Randy find, failed the middle letter of my CPR test: courtesy, participation and respect. He lacked even conversation skills, the last resort of the truly lazy.
My slide show documented an entire weekend at the End House, from Friday evening arrival to Sunday afternoon departure.
Dan's dinners were typically more elaborate than mine. This one called for prunes.
Appletini's were in vogue, at least with us.
A credenza at the house entrance displayed years of my beach combing bounty.
Friday night meals tended to be simpler, and cheaper. The weekend food kitty fee had doubled to $40 since our Muller Cottage days when it included margarita mixings, too.
Conversation during our Saturday morning kaffeeklatsch, with everyone sober and caffeinated, was always a high point of the weekend.
We tried to get to the Pantry for more food shopping before the lunchtime sandwich rush, pitying the guests at the Botel as we passed.
After lunch, everyone pretty much went their separate ways. I always ran or swam and rewarded myself afterward with a walk in the woods.
Visitors like John, center, occasionally stopped by. And Randy always made room in his bed for James, a branding guru, when he flew in from London every summer. We all had trouble understanding his Cockney accent.
Randy also brought a rake and introduced us to clamming in the Great South Bay.
Housemates thirsty from their exertions knew they could stop by the Scrabble blanket for an appletini and begin pre-loading for tea.
We had Randy to thank for the fresh cut flowers, too.
After taking a cleansing dip in the pool, I'd put the Pet Shop Boys or Erasure on for our evening cocktails if Chris asked nicely.
My enjoyment of tea was directly proportional to my alcohol intake. I especially enjoyed playing "Kiss or Kill." Needless to say, the kills outnumbered the kisses.
We ate Saturday dinner on the ocean deck whenever the weather permitted.
The moonrise over the ocean could be as beautiful as the sunset over the bay.
Dan's brother Mark, and Joe, his longtime companion, were both artists and always welcome provided beds were vacant. Guests were never allowed to sleep on the couch, one of our few hard and fast rules.
It never occurred to me that taking pictures of your food would become a thing. I just wanted to tempt potential shares with our healthy and tasty cooking.
Don't let Chris's look of reproval fool you.
It may have been the only year he joined us for the Pines Party.
Why put on a shirt if you're only going to take it off?
Bitch stole my wig!
Somebody has to take out the garbage and make sure the deer can't get to it.
Joe chilled with a cigarette on Sunday morning.
Has there ever been a more apt name than Fabian for a Pines hurricane? The storm surge made it difficult to lay on the beach in an isolated area east of the Pines that Randy dubbed "Wanker's Way."
There was always the pool, where Thom lay comatose for much of the summer, exhausted from Friday nights at the East Side Club before driving out to the Pines on Saturday morning. Randy's green thumb worked magic on the deck.
The Scrabble competition turned into a cold war. After Chris mercilessly belittled one of his plays, Randy, forever traumatized, refused to play at all.
Would you believe this equable looking guy exercised the nuclear option, tipping the board over in frustration?
Leaving the Pines on a Sunday afternoon in August is difficult.
2004
Volunteer firemen from several communities on Fire Island race to a blaze in Davis Park, something I'd never seen before.
I tried to get my photos published in Newsday but crowd-sourcing had yet to become a journalistic technique.
People make or break group sharing in the Pines, where I found my gay family. Thom, Chris and I bought eventually bought a home together in Florida.
Anthony, happily married now, remains one of my closest friends.
Other housemates came and went like Garry, a real estate agent, who followed us to two more houses. He'll never forget the introductory tour I gave him of the Meat Rack but the Spartacus party at the Belvedere was more his speed. Just ask Thom.
His dog Charlie loved to deflate balls.
Joe definitely had retired from group living but he didn't object to Thom spending most of his weekends at the beach. "If you love someone, set them free" Sting once sang.
Randy always managed to find the best discards on the boardwalk at the beginning and end of each season.
He had purchased a share for Dan, but they ended their relationship before he ever became a member of the house.
They remained friends, and Dan, a live wire from Kentucky who commandeered the sound system with trance, could be as entertaining as he was exhausting. Dan also introduced us to a new suite of housemates.
This may have been the year that Randy had to rush James to the ER on Long Island.
Randy introduced us to Francis, a Greek chorus boy who got bitten very hard by the Pines bug. After giving up show biz, he became a successful contractor with his own home in gay paradise. We knew him when.
Bart and Mark continued with us through two more seasons until Mark bought his own place.
Bart demonstrated his ab-maintenance tips.
He and Chris hit it off.
Thom began his side gig as a dresser.
Bitch stole my wig.
Speaking of drag the weather couldn't have been better for the Invasion
. . . or Tiddlywinks. Or Twister. Or Wonder Bread. Who knows what inspired these colorfully coiffed queens?
Lee, a neighbor of Barnet's, bought a quarter-share with the intention of using the house only during the week, thus avoiding food and alcohol assessments. He also called me urgently in the city one night to report that a duck and her ducklings had invaded the pool. "How do I get them out?" he asked breathlessly. Not my favorite housemate for sure, but in spite of his cluelessness, he did come through by finding us a suitable place to rent the following season once we decided not to renew our lease at the End House.
I feared that these might be the last shots I'd ever take on the Pines beach.
Little did I know I'd meet a hot guy who would give me something I'd always wanted: a boyfriend to spend the summer with in the Pines.
Chris, Randy and I packed up everything for our move west.
It was only my third house in 16 years.
No comments:
Post a Comment