Gay Vacation
"You look like you belong here," YT said as we walked along the Bayview boardwalk winding through Cherry Grove just after sunset Thursday night. It's true. I have the beach running through my veins. I think it was injected at a young age. Growing up in Massachusetts, I had fairly easy access to the beach in the summertime. My parents took me to Mexico when I was two. My mother is a die-hard summer person. She moved to Florida solely for the weather. There are pictures of me as a baby in a bikini lying on a beach towel in Puerta Vallarta and my first ever passport features a photo of me on the beach with a coppertone tan and my two front teeth missing, mugging for the camera down in the sand.
This is the third time I've been out to Fire Island. The first time was lovely. The second time was wonderful. This time around I'm hardpressed to think of any vacation during which I was so fucking happy. It's a kind of quiet happiness that tricks me into thinking maybe it's all in my nutbag imagination. I try to rationalize the happiness. Like, "I'm only happy because the weather is so beautiful." And "But I'm only happy because everyone around me is being so wonderful, and if there were people here who were acting like assholes, then I would be really unhappy and then there'd just be all of this negative energy..." and so forth and so on and so and so. Yes, this is how my mind works. Imagine if I wasn't medicated. Lord.
This is me being content. Not to sound all Drew Barrymore, but Fire Island, and particularly the Cherry Grove section, is magical. Otherworldly. Say hello to the city for me. I may not see her bitch-ass again for a long, long time.
