FLASHBACK: 447 Ocean (Summer 2006)

Our fifth house in the Pines was almost as far east as 448 Boulevard and inequitable bedrooms made it challenging to share but we loved the pool.  It got sun all day, something 485 Tarpon had lacked.

 

We hadn't known that Mark, one of our housemates and newly single, would buy the place before the season began.  What would it like be living with our landlord?  That turned out to be the least of my problems.

Nearly everyone from the summer before--including Steven, Randy, Thom and Andrew had returned.  For some reason I didn't take a lot of housemate pictures.

The roof deck offered great views of Casa Debris, with its ever changing cast of characters. Unfortunately, the spiral staircase to get there made it a pain for cocktails although Thom managed to serve a fabulous focaccia as the sun set late one afternoon.

More shore beauty.

There were several colorful guests, too, none of whose names I remember.

Except for Matthew & Wolfie, on his last legs.  Apparently the crew was headed to something called "Brendan Nights."

Long walks appealed to me more than other people's parties.

I negotiated for the least favorable bedroom--an angular sleeping loft off the staircase with a window that didn't open--in return for unrestricted guest privileges.  Florian flew in from Chicago.

He was very happy to be back.

At 52, I long ago had realized darkness and distance were my two best friends.

Chris joined us for another long beach walk.

But leaving Florian at the house on his own for a week during his second visit proved to be a mistake. After I discovered he had hooked up with both a porn star and a reputed Kohler--from the family that made a mint manufacturing bathroom fixtures--our relationship went down the toilet. Lots of drama ensued when I put him on the ferry back to Sayville, several days early.  It personalized a belief I've always held about the Pines:  it's a candy store that can be toxic for couples.

I'd kicked my best pal out of paradise.

You can't beat the Grove for crafty wit!

My days working for the American Red Cross September 11 Recovery Program would come to a planned, well-compensated end in November.  Jeanine, Rosemary and Melvin celebrated their earlier RIF (reduction in force) packages with a day at the beach just before Labor Day.

Gray weather discouraged less intrepid colleagues from making the trip on the LIRR.

But Ted (far right) joined us. Melvin, who had a great eye, took this photo.  Covid killed him in November 2020 after a six-week fight.

Nature, like art, offers a lot of solace.

At the end of the season, developers tore down the Pavilion--where I had spent nearly twenty seasons drinking at high tea and dancing after midnight--to make way for a new nightlife complex, a gym and a store selling prepared foods.  The Pines was definitely changing, and not always in a good way. Holmes never would have approved of serving prepared food for dinner.

But the place never has lost its natural beauty.

FLASHBACK: Schnell Verliebt (2005)

How many times had I given my phone number to guys I met in the Ramble without ever hearing from them?  But Florian called me.  The same night, shortly before I was about to leave for Copenhagen.

He had plans of his own for his first American Thanksgiving, marching in the Macy*s parade as an elf.  I would have killed to get a picture.  Instead, I brought him back an ankh from the Glyptothek.  "He might get the wrong idea," warned Chris and Dan.  "Or the right one!" I retorted.  We began spending a lot of time at 47 Pianos, for obvious reasons.  I was smitten, a one-man audience.

Florian, an actor studying at HB Studio in the West Village, shared a one-bedroom apartment in Pavonia Newport in a high-rise building with incredible views of Manhattan.

While thumbing through his photo albums, I discovered his complicated living arrangements.  His East German roommate was actually his landlord and a former lover who supported him.

It didn't matter (until it did).  When I put my arm around Florian at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas during Sideways he shrugged it off.  Afterward, when I asked him why, he used a German phrase to describe my feelings:  schnell verliebt meaning "quickly in love."  He was absolutely right.  Chiffon even made a playlist with that title.  

The feeling couldn't have come at a better time.  I had just turned 51, not an easy age for a single gay man.  During a walk in Central Park, I actually cried tears of joy, thinking about my answered prayers. 

Like Leon, my previous relationship, Florian was European and 14 years younger.  He'd been trained as a chef in Herborn, his hometown, and served in the German army before deciding to become an actor.  It almost looks as if he's channelling Alex from A Clockwork Orange in this photo taken before he moved to the United States.  He was Andreas then.

He loved nothing better than to dress up and mug.  He frequently arrived at 47 Pianos with costumes or a bag of tricks.

I saw him perform only once, in a production of Zoo Story at HB Studio.  A one-acter about two men of different stations in life who meet on a park bench, it resonated.  Albee with a German accent.  I was impressed but couldn't understand why Florian never auditioned.

Trust me, Florian was the only person wearing a white vest at Folsom Street East outside the Eagle.  I called him "schatzi," the same name my father used to describe attractive women he encountered in Germany.

"Schatzi" had a pal named "Snakey."  He also watched Boobah, a British TV show for toddlers.

Florian even took Snakey to Gay Pride.  I was mortified but secretly thrilled when a New York City cop told him he couldn't ride the C train without a shirt.  He wasn't at all shy about showing off his Marky Mark physique, or sharing that the Boston rapper had been his inspiration.

But what I liked best about Florian was his desire to see everything.  We explored the outer boroughs of New York on long bike rides using routes that he mapped out in his head before departure.

This one took us across the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey and south to Pavonia Newport.  Florian favored Abercrombie and Fitch apparel.

Staten Island?  Here we come--frrom New Jersey!

He had a scooter, too.

Roland, his roommate, occasionally loaned Florian his van.  We visited Old Westbury Gardens one cloudy weekend afternoon.

"You look like Max, the German chauffeur in Sunset Boulevard," I teased.  He never got my pop cultural references, although we did enjoy the same music.  

The shell mosaics decorating the pool house provided the perfect background for a photo shoot.  I've never had a more willing model.  

Our longest ride took us through the Bronx to City Island

. . .  with a stop at Orchard Beach.  We rode the subway home after dinner, exhausted.

Florian had a thing for brightly colored sun glasses.  You can see his apartment building across the Hudson just to the left of his temple.

Florian joined me in the Pines as a regular guest that summer, one of my happiest.  Call me besotted.

Our far-afield explorations continued on foot.  

Nobody batted an eye at his gay attire in Sailor's Haven.

We took the water taxi to the Fire Island Lighthouse 

. . . and climbed to the top.

It took nearly four hours to walk back to the 485 Tarpon, a distance of more than seven miles. We marched proudly through all of Fire Island's straight communities.

Florian really did seem like a fantasy come true.  I'd always wanted a playmate in the Pines.

We got a lot of off-label use of the outdoor shower below the house.

Our season in the Pines that started much earlier and lasted longer than ever before, well into October when Florian and I had an entire weekend alone.  I will never forget it.

We stomped on the beach to stimulate bioluminescence, a natural phenomenon he had never experienced, and burned dried hydrangeas in the fireplace.  Both were apt metaphors for our relationship:  brief and incredibly intense.

Florian LOVED New York so I found it very surprising when he told me that he would be following Roland to Chicago.  "You can move in with me IF you start auditioning or get a job," I said.

He declined the ultimatum but we managed another trip to our beloved Fire Island before he left.  Just a week before Christmas, we trekked west from the TWA Flight 800 International Memorial at Smith Point through the Otis Pike wilderness area to HoHum Beach, where we had walked east from the Pines with Chris in July.

Making that connection on the map gave us unique bragging rights, at least among people we knew: Florian and I had traversed 20 miles of Fire Island National Seashore on foot, something not possible today.  In 2012, Superstorm Sandy breached the barrier island, joining the Atlantic Ocean to Great South Bay along the route we took in December, seven years earlier.  The breach, however, wasn't a bad thing; it flushed out the bay, reducing nitrogen levels and improving conditions for marine life.