July 25, 2012

Gawker's Rich Juzwiak's First Two Fire Island Experiences

In one of the most satisfying gay reads I've experienced in some time, Juzwiak talks about his first two weekends spent on Fire Island. I can ONLY imagine what I'd be like in these circumstances.

He begins, well, it's 2012, and: "We can go be gay in so many places, on so many beaches, and our visibility in straight society has the added potential of helping our cause of acceptance – more so, at least, than elected segregation that doesn't strike me as particularly cruisy, even. We no longer have to tuck ourselves away. We can just exist and if anyone has a problem with it, it's probably going to end up being a real problem for them. I dare someone to say something to me about me sitting my gay ass on a beach with another boy and listening to Mariah Carey and reading some trashy women's book (like Wifey). It hasn't happened yet and I've been doing it for years.

That said, the freedom to be as limp-wristed as you are or just want to be that day in the sun is a beautiful thing. I don't know if I made the most of that option during my Fire Island experience, but I appreciated it all the same."

But take a gander at these three paragraphs, three of my favorite:

"Determined to make our Saturday special, I simmered some weed in butter and put it on toast for my housemates and I. We ate it, did some more swimming in the pool and then R and I embarked to attend a few parties, leaving the rest of the guys behind. There was some confusion as to the location of the first, a benefit for the Abzyme Research Foundation, and we ended up following an older gentleman up to the gate of what turned out to be a nude barbecue for more older gentlemen. A saw a grill, a nutsack and a lot of baggy ass in the seven seconds it took for the door to swing shut – a portal to an even more specific alien world inside the one I was in. I couldn't hang with the underwear crowd, and so those guys seemed really, really advanced. I wonder what precautions they take to keep burger grease off their balls.

We found our way. At the benefit party, we were given a punch upon entry. We ascended to the roof, which provided a 360 view of the island, and as much water as our eyes could hold. Gorgeous. Paradise. "I think this is spiked. This punch is spiked," I said to R, my anxiety rising with every word. "No it's not. We're just really high," he said carefully. Indeed. We were coming up so hard and so quickly that we decided to stop babbling at the nice people nearby who seemed to have all of their brains intact. We excused ourselves to attend a Bastille Day party.

Outside, under the speckled shade, I realized that I was high-school high. Literally, I had not been that lifted in 15 years, and during the specific time I'm thinking back to, I thought my legs had stopped working. I was convinced I'd die from a THC overdose and I couldn't imagine how embarrassing that would be for my family. On Fire Island, I thought about how logical it would be for me to fall on my face right then, right there. I'd do everything I could to keep from doing so, but I decided that I'd understand if it happened. I felt out of control, vulnerable and terrified."


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