After finishing all the chardonnay, I ran to the edge of the ocean, pulled out my beloved ‘third arm’, and stood at the edge of the continent with my hands on my hips. I pretended to be admiring the Atlantic. There was a drip that flowed from me that would not end. A man with a dog approached from the East. A ball the man was throwing to his dog landed just inches from my pink toes. I just stood there, counting the waves. I could not bend over to pick it up, so the orange ball was captured by the tide. The mutt ran wildly to fetch the ball, but a golden wave came crashing down and the ball floated further out to sea.
“He does this all the time,” the man explained.
“What’s that?” I asked, not in the mood to chat with a rich Fire Island Queen. The man was at least half my age, had curly brown hair and a near perfect pedicure. I was admiring the tracks I made in the sand with my big drip, and thinking of all the people who I knew who were cremated and had their ashes scattered at this particular spot along the coast. I was not interested in running back to his beach house and fucking him in his pool like I had done to so many others here on this creepy, gay resort island.
“My dog—he always wants to play with strangers.”
“That sounds like the perfect gay dog,” I said while reaching down to pet the unusual breed. As the man and his dog walked away, I started to cry. Out of the blue, a chill hit me, my eyes fogged over, and I remembered the day, nearly twenty years prior, when I was not yet a jaded old queen. While cruising in the nearby dunes, a man with KS lesions all over him tried to join a ‘circle jerk’ in which I was the center of attention.
All the other men ran when the man with scabs all over him tried to join in. I stood there with my cock in my hand, not in the least bit attracted to the skinny homosexual, but I did not want to hurt his feelings. He smiled at me as the boys of summer vanished into the nearby thicket of pines. I stood there like a model for an artist—it was the kindest of charitable deeds I ever remember performing for my fellow man. Perhaps I was crying because I was proud of myself, I don’t know, but the tears came out of me like chardonnay pee.
I have dreamed so many times of that stranger with KS and the sadness in his eyes as all the other men ran away. I never wanted to feel like he must have felt that day, but the truth of the matter is, I have, even though that awful disease somehow never caught up to me.
As I stood there watching sea gulls glide over the waves, and wishing I had more wine, I realized that I was not so kind to the rich man with the dog ; perhaps I’m just jaded like the rest of the gays who come here every year wishing things would return to the way they were in 1970. That life is gone, the world has changed and all that remains is an old man crying on a beach with his dick in his hand.
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