hide your public liquor!

The next day, still on Fire Island, I was waiting for the ASFKAB and his gaggle of gays to show up from Westbury.  Apparently, this was the place to be if you were young and gay the night before.  Apparently, D. Kareem prefers a bed to a couch.  Around 2, I kissed the Architect goodbye and met up on the beach with France Pants and his friend Ernie (sans his partner, Bert) who had come out from Manhattan for the day with his very cute friend.  ASFKAB and his crew were just getting to the ferry around 3, so obviously they were waiting on ASFKAB’s forthcoming ‘procedure’ before they hit the beach for the first time this season. 

 

They weren’t missing much because it was a tad cold for the beach (but France Pants insisted on going in the water again).  We eventually went to Tea, which took a while to get going.  It was closer to 6 when I finally saw ASFKAB and his people roll through to the dance floor.  After almost getting fisted through my pants by an obnoxiously drunk (yet very hot) Persian body builder (note: linen = not Crisco), we caught the 7-something ferry back to the mainland.  France Pants had left to get his bag from the house where he was staying.  20 min later, he texts that he’s staying another night.  With his “friend”.  Luckily Bert’s friend had driven out (in a LAND ROVER!), so the trip back to Manhattan was much more comfortable than expected. 

 

No Parking (my fav gay bar, which just happens to be in my neighborhood of WaHi) was the usual for No Parking until I ran into an old fuck buddy whom I haven’t seen in at least 6 months.  Let me tell you, after 5 years of Spanish classes and living in Santo Domingo (i.e., Washington Heights) for a year, I am convinced that the only Spanish I will understand from a group of Dominicans that have been drinking is the last word of every sentence.  Almost every sentence. 

 

On Memorial Day, I get two different texts to meet up at ‘the Pier’ in the afternoon (including one from Urban Sprawl that includes the word ‘picnic’).  So much for doing laundry.  After what feels like 5 minutes of sleep, I get myself together and head downtown to the Village. 

 

I get there around 1:45, and, surprisingly, Urban Sprawl is already there (running on neither Gay nor Latin People Time).  Apparently, a lot of people are on their way.  We try to reserve a bit of space but it’s the first nice non-work day in about 3 weeks, so it’s a sea of (pasty) bodies.  I notice that my Beach Sheet seems luxuriously spacious today. 

 

The Ivy League Crew trickles in first with the usual Gatorade bottles of liquor.  Someone left discretion to the wind and brought a small Absolut bottle (how many time have I told them: hide your public liquor!).  Then, some of the outer circle of the ILC starts to show up.  Apparently, they took the meaning of ‘picnic’ rather literally.  Before I know it, we have wine (white and red), champagne, French bread (but not France Pants), brie, pate, tarts, foreign soft drinks.  I really couldn’t deal.  “Can I get some more champa-”  “Shhh!  Grapes!  You want aged grapes!”  “Yeah, I’m black; I don’t deal well with police or parks and rec.”

 

Eventually, we had gone through most of the liquor and started on the champagne.  And with all that liquid in a girl’s system, she’s eventually gotta break the seal.  I had packed a pair of hot pink square cuts that turned out to be just as pink as the picture on the website they came from (which shall remain nameless… the last thing I need is to show up to the Pier and see 15 clones with better bodies… but if you’re fat, I’d be happy to email a link), and I had worn white Timberland boots (ALL white, the likes of which I have only seen duplicated with a wheat sole), which I had taken off to lie out.  If any of you have been to the Pier, you know how scary their bathroom is, so I put my white Timbs back on with just my midcut shorts and asked if anyone else needed to un-wet the other half of their whistle. 

 

Of course, the 3 black girls are syncro-menstruating. So the Med School Mess, The Bottomless Pitt (known for her insatiable thirst for whiskey or any other available liquor, and also for her weekly and-that-was-the-first-time-I-bottomed story), and I put on just shoes with our speedos and strut to the bathroom.  Ironically, I use the word ‘speedo’ quite loosely.  On the way out, I suggest we take a gratuitous lap around the grass on the pier.  “Cause a few wet dreams” as The Bottomless Pitt put it.  As we’re walking, BP points out that we’re like Destiny’s Child (obviously).  MSM: “oo, yeah!  Wait, that means I’m Michelle!”  BP: “Yeah, remember when that bitch fell on stage!” *push* 

 

By the time we had packed up, I’m sure all the goodies were gone, and I had all kinds of crumbs and stains (including ranch dressing) on my sheet.  Great.  We all stumbled down to Pieces, our fav West Village dive, for, that’s right, more booze.  I briefly talked to a guy in an NYU Football shirt (he can’t be that bad if he’s gay, right).  The convo ended soon after he told me the shirt was ironic because NYU hasn’t had a football program since the 60s.  To tell you the truth, a few laps in pads wouldn’t hurt him, but that’s not what this post is about. 

 

So then, as often happens when I’m drunk in the village, I drag everyone to Chi Chi’s, the main black gay bar in NYC (yes, even in NYC the scene is still somewhat segregated) to laugh at people doing karaoke.  Slowly, but surely people started to drop off.  I ended up talking to this Caribbean guy with the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen (don’t even get me started on the accent).  Meanwhile, the Bitter Commie Grad Student and the East Village Latina (the two of whom I thought were good friends, but I soon realized we just had many friends in common) were making out like crazy.  I mean, going AT it!  I mean… well, anyway, they eventually left.  I never got making out in public for extended periods of time.  Not for propriety’s sake, but for practicality.  I mean, all this time we’re putting on a show, we could have been in a cab to your place and naked by now.  And that’s that much earlier that I can get to bed so I can go to work tomorrow.  Did I mention that I’m too practical to be a romantic?  Yeah.