August 10, 2009

After chowing down five pieces of bacon, a croissant smothered in Nutella, and a wilted greens quiche I traveled on an adventure throughout Fire Island. My companions, Adam Norbury, young, British, and pierced and Marty Chavez, equally as young, at heart, tattooed, and giggly, were up for the challenge. I wanted to do something different than lounge around a pool. I wanted an expedition.

And the day unfolded in fabulous ways. In the Meat Rack, a beach forest filled with sex cruising, we laughed and climbed trees. Plastic chairs sat next to piles of condom wrappers, mementos of previous encounters. We saw little sex. One man cat-called us from the brush atop a sandy beach hill. "Nasty girls!" he screamed. We giggled and wondered what drugs he was on. Out of the bushes appeared Joe, a friend of Adam and Marty, who had dined with us earlier in the day. He found us in the trees by following the giggling. We were having fun.

We walked into Cherry Grove. I have been a guest of Fire Island for ten years now. Here and there. But I'd never really left the Pines. The houses in the Grove are a bit more modest. The "town" a bit more charming. We followed Marty past the Belvedere and straight into the Ice Palace, a motel with a pool surrounded by neon blue decking. I adored it. And without knowing we proceeded to walk into a drag show. The queens were raunchy. Yet talented. They commanded our attention and our laughs and a few dollar bills too. They performed in and out of the pool. Yes, five inch pumps in the pool. And because water can wreck havoc on things like eyelashes and weaves, fortunately for us, and unfortunately for them, they too performed in and out of wigs. One wig lay submerged on the pool's floor, but that queen did not skip a beat. Running mascara and no hair on her head, she finished her number and we applauded. For nerve and her desire to finish the show.

It was a glittering oasis we stumbled upon as we explored the island. It was over much too soon.

Cherry Grove was full. Mostly of African American men and women. Not only did we stumble upon drag, but we also happened upon a gay black pride event. The place was packed. Adam spotted two gorgeous girls, well, we thought they were girls, and began snapping their pictures. I, always aware of a photo-op, called them Kelly and Michelle and snapped right into line. I posed with them leg bent, hand on chin, channeling Beyonce. From there we strolled to the beach, as packed as those in Rio, and then quickly back off and towards the sunken forest. After nearly six hours of exploration and what felt like six million bug bites my companions and I returned home. Smiling and still humming Dreamgirls.

My housemates, and other friends, made me laugh the remaining weekend. Maybe they knew I needed the cheering up as Georgi had just left for Bulgaria. I hugged Rahnee Foster. I picked steamed crabs with Michael Lucas and Richard Winger. I sang France Joli with Corey Reese. Snuggled with Monte. Painted my face for Dave Rak. Laughed and joked and ran around like a chicken with no head. It was a fun weekend. I ran 6 miles one morning along the nearly deserted beach. Sat in the sand and dived in the ocean. Did not shave. Ate pizza and danced the disco as Lina, coiffed with a bob, turned it out. I still hit those notes on Ms. Ross' The Boss.

And then three days of no iPhone and no work and no computer quickly gone. I drove home alone. Rested and relaxed. Went to Georgi's place, not mine. And he was gone. And I was sad.

Georgi posted on Facebook that he was "home but homesick." I'll sit here and hum Ms. Reese/Ms. Joli until he returns. I feel incomplete without my best friend and no longer have the beach, and its many characters and performers, to distract me from the fact that I'm alone.

Come to me.