Of course we were talking about sex. It was Thanksgiving weekend, which always seems to be a big party weekend for the gays. MartiniFun was visiting from Chicago, and we were out at Therapy with a few friends. No one ever remembers how these conversations start, but we were talking about sleeping with boys, their friends, or friends of their friends.

“Does sleeping with a friend of a friend put you 2 degrees away from sleeping directly with that friend?” I asked.

“I'd be hard pressed to be 2 degrees from any of you,” AuntPharm said.

“Hell, 1 would be rough,” I replied, noticing that I’ve actually slept with most of my friends at some point. “In fact,” I went on, “I could probably go up to any stranger in this bar, and say ‘I've slept with one of your friends.’ And it would probably be true.”

“And how does that make you feel?” AuntPharm asked, laughing.

“Like it’s time to leave New York?” I quipped sarcastically.

But it did get me thinking about how many men I’ve actually slept with in my decade in New York. Was my number too high? Or was I just a typical New York gay?

I was immediately reminded of a conversation that took place, of course, on Fire Island. There, it seems, all conversations are about sex. That night in July I walked into the kitchen was no exception.

“So he was blowing me on the roof of his house,” one of my housemates was saying. “Everything was going was going great until he looked up at me just as I happened to be checking my watch...”

Everyone laughed.

“Do straight guys have this much sex?” TastyCake suddenly asked.

“What guys?”

“Straight-huh?”

“Who cares?”

“No, seriously,” TastyCake went on. “Ok, so there was this hot guy at the gym, and we were cruising each other, and we hooked up in the steam room. And he kinda looked familiar, but I couldn't remember him. So later on that day, I suddenly get a text from him. He knew me, he had my number, and... his number and name were in my phone! Can you believe I didn't remember him!?”

“Hello!” D2 cried, rolling his eyes. “This afternoon you introduced me to someone on the ferry that I slept with 5 years ago, and I just realized it now! I mean, sometimes I see a guy and I'm like, ‘I think I had sex with that person, but I’m not really sure...”

“Well,” TastyCake said, “how many guys have you slept with?”

“Oh, no!” I scolded. “We’re not getting into that game!”

“C’mon,” he replied. “100?”

“Easily,” I admitted.

“Totally.” added D2.

“This month,” chimed in Madambien, as everyone laughed.

TastyCake continued, “I can't wrap my mind around that number. Straight guys would say 5.”

“But,” I replied, “you can’t compare that. Straight guys live in a totally different world.”

Maybe, I realized, that was the key. It isn’t about being a Fire Island gay, or a New York gay – it’s just about being gay. It is a totally different world. But then I wondered, do all gay men live in that world? Or just the men I know?

Earlier this year, I went on a date with a very cute boy that was actually a set-up through a mutual girl friend of ours. He was sweet, smart, and funny – but I could tell right away we were very different people. The dissimilarities started when we were arranging our meeting. He worked very close to Hells Kitchen, so I suggested gay bars where we could meet. Vlada, Barrage, Ritz... He hadn’t heard of any of them. I was shocked. He’d lived in New York for 5 years, he was a gay man... how could he not know any Hells Kitchen gay bars?

Our separation became more evident as we chatted over drinks. We were discussing recent vacations, and he spoke of a camping trip where he’d spent a week in the woods with bears, snakes, and 4 straight girl friends. I spoke of the gay cruise, where I’d spent a week on a boat with bears, twinks, and 3000 gay boy friends.

“Well,” he announced, “we both slept in a cabin!”

I laughed. And then, I asked him point blank the question on my mind. “You’re just not... in the Gay World, are you?”

He smiled. “Not most of the time,” he admitted. “I like the gay world. I do! I just can’t handle it on a daily basis. But when I visit, it’s great fun. It’s like a big costume party! And who doesn’t love a costume party?”

I know I do.

Tuesday night at XES for a friend’s birthday turned out to be sort of a Fire Island reunion. As one frequent guest of our house remarked, “It’s so weird to see you all in clothes.”

The Sexican and I were chatting about, of course, sex, when a housemate who shall remain nameless announced that he had recently slept with a 19-year-old. I shrugged, having made the same admission once or twice in the past. But Sexican, a little tipsy, acted horrified.

“Oh my gawd!! Nineteen???”

A sheepish nod.

“Wait. Did you BOTTOM with a nineteen-year-old?!”

Another sheepish nod, followed by a dash to the bar for more alcohol.

“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Sexican.

“What?” I asked. “He’s a bottom.”

“I never bottom for someone younger than me!” Sexican cried. “That’s the Rule!”

“It IS?”

I had never heard such a thing, though perhaps I’d been following it inadvertently all these years. I usually tend to top, at least during one-night-stands, which I’ve had a lot of. And I’ve always tended to sleep with younger guys, which I’ve had a lot of. But was there a correlation? It seemed ridiculous that something as silly as age could determine what sexual position someone prefers on any given night, in any given encounter. But, it certainly seemed to resonate with some people...

As I thought about it, I recalled something that In Bocca Di Lucas had written once on his blog, Top To Bottom. Some quick research found me the post, Now Step I Forth to Whip Hypocrisy. He wrote about a partner of his that wanted him to bottom, apparently a request he gets fairly often, the reason being his looks. The point of his post seemed summed up when he, at height 5’4”, wrote: “I have just as much of a right as any other guy to like it better on top...just like all these 6'4" bottoms I've been meeting have a right to take it up the ass.” However, just one line before that, he himself admitted: “I am fully aware of the fact that I look like a bottom. I'm short, slim, boyish, and I have a killer ass.”

(Sounds good to me!)

So some people, I reasoned, determine position preference based on body type, which is purely physical. Others clearly rely on age, which encompasses both the physical and the emotional. And I soon realized that other people associate it with the totally emotional quality of personality.

I was walking in Chelsea with Travelocigay, after we had finished dinner at Tia Pol, an amazing tapas restaurant on Tenth Avenue. He wanted us to meet up with some friends, and pulled out his cell phone to call one of them. I listened to his end of the conversation:

“Hi... Where are you? ... Walking on Tenth... Tia Pol... Where are you? ... Ohhhh... Where is that? ... Ohhhh... Yeah, we should meet up... Ummmm... How long will you be? ... Um...”

Finally I could no longer take the indecisive babble.

“Where are they!?” I demanded.

“Nisos,” he replied.

“When are they done?” I questioned, already mapping Chelsea in my head.

“They’re on dessert,” he said.

“Ok, were going to G. It’s a block away, tell them to walk over whenever they’re done.”

Travelocigay relayed my message and hung up. Then he turned to me and said, “I love that you’re a top!”

Who can say whether being a top or a bottom is determined by age, or height, or attitude. Maybe it’s a combination. Maybe it’s a spur-of-the-moment decision. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, and once they’re at that point, boys just wanna have fun.

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.”