June 12, 2009

It was not your typical Saturday on Fire Island. At least not for me. The times I've spent there over the past decade or so have usually been booze-fueled and loud and ridiculous. Not this time. After having spent a relaxing day poolside and after having concocted the most amazing meal (fresh pico and guacamole, pickled cabbage and onions, grilled chicken tacos, crudités, etc) I found myself at tea, sober. And it was loud and fun still. I sipped a beer and I danced a little to a set list that included Kelly Clarkson, Gloria Gaynor, and that Dive in the Pool song. Really. And I danced rather than turning my nose up. And I saw some friends and watched as they, obviously, had fun.

There was a voguer there. A good one. White guy, 50s, and he walked as this guy I see at the gym stood, shirtless, watching. We all watched. It was good fun.

And then we left. Georgi and I, leaving at the peek hour, the moment all these grown men either began to really feel the alcohol. Or the music. Or drugs. We left, escaped, that wildness.

Newly dark, the paths were silent, dark, and motionless. They were not, however. scary. The moon was huge overhead. The light was intense. Unlike most moons. It lit our faces. And we walked on our way to dinner with Georgi's friend and mentor.

The food was amazing. The conversation, ranging from banking to ex boyfriends to Broadway shows, was perfect. We drank water.

Georgi's friend, Marty, and I discussed our tattoos. The bird on his chest was beautiful. Why hadn't I thought about using yellow ink? And then he showed us another tattoo, written in another language, which escapes me now. It translated to "The Gods guide us to those we have been seeking."

Walking home, music blaring from that same dance floor we'd escaped from hours earlier, I felt great peace and with complete faith in the God's plans for me, too. They've not disappointed in their guidance yet.