Greetings From Fire Island

Somehow certain moments seem worthy of posting even though I am not sure how to go about it. I am at the end of my week vacation – a week in Fire Island or maybe I should say The Pines. To anyone in New York or well steeped in gayness it is like saying Mecca to a Muslim. I am here with Phil, my companion, friend, lover and also I suppose my safety net though I am thinking that maybe I am ready to have the net rolled up. (Phil stays: just in the other roles.)


I have been thinking about Sis this week. For the past two years she has kept a helmet in her garage with my name on it; when I would send her my “Maybe I’m not so gay, maybe I can re-constitute my marriage” e-mails she would strap on the helmet and bang her head against the wall. The helmet has progressively been getting less use of late but as far as I move along the path that is my new life, I still have those small moments of back sliding.

After this week, I think the helmet can be retired. It has been a gay week in gay Mecca. It shows itself in the ways that are quite G-rated and then there are the moments where this Blog may need to have an X or three in front of it. I think back to a day mid-week, sort of overcast. A few nights earlier we had met a nice man at the bar and we cruised over to where he was staying to kill some time. A pleasant hour and a half of conversation later, we meandered back home and to our beach. There we again crossed paths with a thirty year old from England who could have been an Abercrombie model minus the pecs. It seems these English lads like older men and having seen me nude on the beach, I passed the test.

I have to confess, we had met him the day before also on the beach and Phil and I spent the evening trying to decide what was wrong with the picture – was he getting ready to hustle us, should we be hiding the proverbial silver. This of course is quite the commentary on our own self-image. I suppose our questions were answered when he agreed to meet us back at our room and the three of us quickly found ourselves in all positions of kissing and sucking and more. I can get hard again on the memory of playing with my first uncut, figuring out what one can do with a tongue and foreskin.

That night again to the bar and now another lad from London: we spoke for an hour or more before going our separate ways, much talk of straight things and some of how I came to be here. And somewhere in the middle of all this is our landlord, a wonderful sweet man – a mature gentleman heading towards seventy. He does not normally play much but the chemistry was there and our threesomes are almost daily.

I write this not to brag (thought the ego is quite stroked by it all) but for the realization of how well it all fits – the new friends (if only for the week) who we just spoke with, bent an elbow at the bar and the new friends where much more was bent then just an elbow.

The only way to get here is by a Ferry and as the week has progressed I have come to the final acceptance – the ferry is docked and the helmet can be laid to rest.