It has to be the most exclusive gay resort on the planet-Fire Island Pines. Abbey and I were just a couple of your regular New York City gay guys looking for an escape from Manhattan's oppressive summer heat. But once we sampled the Pines and her butch men, we were hooked. We needed a full share in a comfortable beach house with a pool. Cute considerate housemates would be nice. That first season we did well. After late dinners, we'd all go disco dancing together, shirtless with our brothers in the Pines Pavilion, followed by some midnight action in the Meat Rack. In the full moonlight it was most beautiful. The houses we rented covered the whole spectrum, from a Japanese villa to an overgrown beach bungalow famous for its S&M leather parties. Eventually, Abbey and I bought our dream two-bedroom duplex unit in the Pines Co-ops. Halloween always marked the end of the season. They drained the pipes and we headed back to stingy Manhattan, reminiscing over summer's gorgeous lovers that got away. Winter was reserved for a final reckoning, and AIDS would soon have its say.
