I pulled open the sliding glass door and was instantly hit with bright Fire Island sunshine and Beyonce blasting from the iPod.

“Heeey!” chorused a couple of my housemates. I did a “share” for the first time ever this summer – went in with 6 other guys on a four-bedroom house, for 6 various weeks throughout the summer.

Three of them were already up, one walking around the pool in a pair of clear high-heeled shoes we’d found left in the house from last week’s share.

“There’s coffee,” said TastyCake, who was my roommate for the summer.

“And vodka!” announced GarrettJuice.

“It’s ten a.m.,” I mumbled, still waking up.

He looked at me. “So?” Though he was definitely the house mother of the summer, I’m not sure I’d ever seen GarrettJuice not sauced. He pushed a pitcher of what looked vaguely like lemonade in my direction.

“What IS that?” I asked dubiously.

“Vodka and Crystal Light!” he replied proudly. “We have to watch our carbs!”

I shook my head and headed back inside to the kitchen, opting for the coffee and the uneaten half of my sandwich from last night. When I returned to the deck, Britney was blaring and the boys were in a discussion about women.

“They’re all just so annoying,” TastyCake was saying, “every single one of them!”

“I totally agree,” called Madambien from across the pool, as he danced around in the high heels to Toxic without spilling a drop of Crystal Light Vodka from his plastic martini glass.

“Aren’t you generalizing a little?” I asked TastyCake.

“Nope,” he replied, “I really hate women. I barely like my mother and my sister. And they're lucky they're blood.”

I laughed, and took a huge bite of my sandwich. Madambien was circling the pool, strutting her stuff back in our direction. As I went to take another bite, he plucked the sandwich out of my hands.

“That’s enough of that,” he said, and without pausing took the sandwich back into the house.
I stared down at my now-empty hands, and then looked up at TastyCake.

“Were you just put on a diet?” he asked.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“I told you, carbs!” scolded GarrettJuice, clearly taking the sand-burglar’s side. “Do you know that house 2 down from us? The whole thing is filled with models. All of them! A house full of models! It’s disgusting.”

Despite being miffed about my missing meal, GarrettJuice had reminded me of a story my friend AllWorkNoGay had told me before I left for the island. I shared it with the boys.

Several years ago, AllWorkNoGay was visiting Fire Island, and met a boy at High Tea. This boy was gorgeous – adorable face, beautiful body – perfection. It turned out, he was a model for a famous fashion designer, and in fact staying at the designer’s huge house on the island.

“Would you like to come back to the house with me?” ModelBoy asked AllWorkNoGay.

“Of course!” AllWorkNoGay was funny, charming and great to hang out with, but knew that he was no super-model, and couldn’t figure out what the boy saw in him. Still, he wasn’t passing up the opportunity. When he got to the house, which seemed more like a mansion, he realized this boy wasn’t the only one the designer had invited to stay. It was an entire house full of stunning male models.

At first AllWorkNoGay thought he was in heaven, but he soon began to feel like the odd man out. He was definitely suspicious that he was the butt of their jokes when they kept offering him food, saying “Eat, Eat!” when none of them ingested so much as a celery stalk.

Finally, he pulled ModelBoy aside and flat out asked him, “Why are you with me?”

ModelBoy, without a hint of sarcasm in his beautiful honest eyes, replied, “I like the simple people.”

My housemates all laughed along with me.

“That poor guy,” said TastyCake.

Suddenly, the sliding door flew open and D2 burst out onto the deck.

“I'm so stressed out you guys! One of my tricks might live with one of my other tricks!”

TastyCake gave him a confused look, while GarrettJuice immediately began pouring him a cocktail.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“O.K.,” said D2, sitting at the patio table and reaching for the drink. “I met this guy at Low Tea last night, and he was from Queens, and he was all about me, and we traded numbers, but then he disappeared, right? So then later at High Tea, I met this OTHER guy, who was also from Queens, but I thought, you know, whatever, there’s tons of people from Queens!”

He took a large gulp of his drink and went on. “So, I end up going home with the second guy, and we have crazy sex, and I’m there til like 4 a.m. And NOW, I just got a text from the FIRST guy, saying he’s lying in bed naked and inviting me over.”

“Slut.”

“Whore.”

“I’m so jealous.”

“Wait!” D2 cried. “So the first guy just texted me his address, and it’s the same house that I went to last night to hook up with the second guy! They’re both from Queens. Oh my god, they are housemates!!”

Although he may have expected sympathy, all D2 got was a big round of laughter. I finished my coffee and announced, “I think I’m ready for a cocktail now.”

It was a perfect summer Saturday in New York City. I was walking through Hell’s Kitchen with a cute boy, who I’ll call Shirley Temple, as he was an adorable actor who doesn’t drink. We’d just finished an early dinner at Arriba Arriba, and were deciding where the night would take us. I’m not sure if I was craving a second margarita, or if I just wanted to sit outside, but we found ourselves at Blockheads in Worldwide Plaza.

Blockheads had been one of my favorite summer locations for several years, because of the rare combination of outdoor seating and cheap drinks. It was also great for people watching: not only was it in the middle of uber-gay Hells Kitchen, but on one side of Worldwide Plaza is a Bally’s gym, so hot boys wearing gym shorts and tank tops are always walking in and out. Unfortunately, this summer it seemed that the secret of Blockheads had gotten out, and that night, like the last couple times I’d been there, the crowd was looking very straight.

I automatically scanned the area for cute boys, something I normally wouldn’t do while on a date, but we’d been playing a game of “Who Will See The Most People They Know In Hells Kitchen,” and I was determined to win.

I saw a cute-ish boy, who was indeed wearing gym shorts, with a t-shirt and baseball cap. I only looked at him long enough to determine that I didn’t know him, but that apparently was long enough to catch his interest. As we stopped in the middle of the plaza next to the fountain, the boy walked by and continued checked us out. A lot. He was obvious about it, and we both noticed.

"He was totally undressing you with his eyes," said Shirley Temple.

"Ha. Yeah, it was a little much," I agreed.

"And," ST continued, "he’s walking back."

Sure enough the boy had stopped, began talking to a girlfriend, and was now walking back toward us with the girl at his side. Then it got interesting.

He passed us, and as he walked by he began "adjusting" his t-shirt and waistband, such that his shorts "accidentally" slid farther and farther down his ass. He wasn’t wearing underwear. For a good 15 seconds, half his ass was totally exposed, right there in front of Blockheads.

"And now," ST continued deadpan, "he's undressing himself. "

I was dumbfounded. I’ve been flirting with boys a long time, and will admit to getting cruised by some very forward boys in some very interesting places. But flashing your ass in the middle of Worldwide Plaza? Seriously?

"We have to go." I said. "This place is way too straight."

My friend The Photographer and I were walking down Ninth Avenue in SoPA (South of Port Authority) to get dinner at Market Café. Out of the blue, around 39th street, we were stopped. He was a young guy with a cute face and what looked like a nice body.

“Excuse me guys,” he said, with what sounded vaguely like a Russian accent, even though he looked more Israeli, “Can I ask you question?”

We waited, half expecting a plea for money. After all, it was SoPA.

“Can you tell me – where is gay bar?”

I was uncharacteristically speechless. Really? Just like that, no hesitation, or anything?

Photog recovered first, but not really. “He would know,” he said, gesturing toward me. Sell out.

The truth is, I know the Hells Kitchen gay bars in my sleep. I can name them north to south, alphabetically or by drag queen headliner. I was, for some reason, dumbfounded. “Uhhh... Well, there are lots in Hells Kitchen,” I blurted, vaguely gesturing north.

“I need magazine, yes?”

“Uh, yes!” I said. “HX, or Next. You can find them at any bar. The closest one is ... uh...”

Finally, Photog broke in “Ritz?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “Ritz.” In actuality, I was skipping over HK, but that was technically a restaurant, and only a gay dance party on the weekends. And also skipping over Cleo’s, technically called Ninth Avenue Saloon, and always called tragic. “Ritz is on 46th street,” I went on, anxious to recover. “This is 38. Just keep walking up Ninth until 46, and make a right. It says “Ritz” with a blue awning.”

“Forty-six,” he repeated in his ambiguously Russian, sexier-by-the-minute accent. “I see rainbow flag?”

“Uh, no...” I stammered yet again, “No rainbow flag...”

Photog jumped in with “It’s decorated like a ship!” and made gestures with his hands like he was helming a pirate vessel.

I struggled to say something else, but nothing came. What was wrong with me? Where were the obvious lines that should have flown out of my mouth: What’s your name? Where are you from? How long are you in town? And of course: Gay bars are all dead on a Monday, but my apartment is alive and well!

With his typical ambiguous-Russian directness, he took his leave. “Thanks guys,” he said, and headed north.

We were silent for a moment, and then Photog blurted, “What was that?!”

“I have no idea. But I suddenly need some vodka.”