Posts tagged ‘fire island’
If you’re like me, you are taking this frigid cold, anti-testicle winter weather as an opportunity to think about this coming summer. I am so fed up with this weather, if Mother Nature actually existed, I would track her down and do the Harlem Shake all over her face until my taint gave her a wicked case of rugburn, much like the Nebraska Men’s gymnastic team (except their rug burn was on their foreheads). So naturally, I stumbled upon these photos of Anthony Gallo shot by Greg Vaughan and I had to share them. They remind me of Fire Island for two reasons:
1. I am pretty sure they were shot on Fire Island. That pool deck looks familiar. I feel like I have been face-down drunk on it before.
2. Every photo of a guy in a speedo reminds me of Fire Island. Even though I wonder if Fire Island is over (like Hurricane Katrina, it just hasn’t been the same in the past years. Chalk it up to mis-management), I am pretty sure it still has a couple seasons left. I will never forget my first New York summers spent traipsing around the beach in a speedo, biting people’s faces, getting a tick on my balls from giving my boyf a beef in the meat rack, and all the friendships I made (and by friendships, I don’t mean hookups. Those only lasted 30 seconds).
So enjoy the speedo pics and get into the spirit of things. If you need help, I added some friendly captions below.
I finally made it to the Americas. That Michelin tire didn’t last long, and sharks ate all my clothes, but I see a Taco Bell already, so I feel right at home. Viva La Puerto Rico.
When dildos just aren’t available, heels are the next best thing. Just make sure you lotion up or it’ll be like Read more…
I’ll straight up now tell you (thank you Paula Abdul) that there are some girls I fugging love. Amongst those are my sisters, a miniscule number of my best friends, and some randoms that I enjoy partying with. All the girls I actually like though, have one thing in common: They aren’t snively (rhymes with Blake Lively), whiny (rhymes with vaginey), dramatic (rhymes with idiosyncratic) high- maintenance (I fold) bitches. I am obviously not saying that all girls suck, but I think its safe to say that a lot of them do. So lets explore the complex relationship between girls and gays, and how truly unhealthy it is.
Here is a run-down of the few worst girl-and-gay relationships.
The girl and the gay met at a time in their lives when they really needed someone to love. Maybe they met in high school. She was grotesquely obese and wore LA Looks gel in her hair, he was skinny and acne-ridden and so gay that he couldn’t fart without painting a wall with glitter. They latched on to each other and sat on the beach late every night (their parents were just glad they were attempting a social life. The gay’s dad gave them condoms) cutting each other with butter-knives and making blood pacts that they would move to the city when they grew up. This relationship was built on a mutual need for affection. It makes sense, but its not exactly the healthiest dynamic. If the gay grows gayer and wants to branch out, or the girl grows gorgeous and gets wrapped up in the first thing that puts its dick inside her, this relationship can become very strained. The only successful path to take is if both the girl and the gay grow up, end up loving their lives, and keep in touch (or at least think of each other every time they see the word KoRn carved into their fore-arms). This is assuming, of course that the relationship survived the girl falling desperately in love with the gay (this is typical fag hag behavior-its in the bible).
The girl stalked the gay because she wanted a shopping buddy. Yes, everyone in the known world has seen Sex and the City, even poor people in third world countries who are just now listening to Salt and Pepa. Everyone knows that in order to be a fabulous girl you have to have a fabulous gay at your side. The problem is, gays aren’t accessories, they are just people that are well accessorized. And contrary to popular belief we don’t all like shopping (although I kind of do). This relationship is built on the girls need to appear to be something she isn’t. Normally, these girls are whiny, high maintenance bitches. They often Read more…
Let me start of by saying that my new roomate doesn’t have a job just yet (he just moved here). So since I work from home we spend a lot of time together nowadays and sometimes we get a little stir crazy. Sometimes we paint faces on volleyballs and talk to them, form tribes and murder fat kids named Piggy and break down bathrooms with axes to kill our manorexic wives. So we decided to go out last night.
We started of at Calypso, which is on the rooftop of XVI (where highbar was last summer).
Yes. Dennis Rodman’s Dick. Chloe Sevigney’s legging collection. Lindsay Lohan’s smoke scented extensions. Beef Lo Mein. Naked photos of senators. Tripe. Asian porn. That smell that towels get when they go unwashed for a while. 2xist men’s tank tops. leather mandals. Liver spots. Toupees. Britney Spears Kmart Feet. Kmart in general. Hospitals at 2 am. Albino babies. Toenails that fall completely off. Sascha Baron Cohen’s nutsack. The gym on Fire Island. Canarsie. And Sharon Stone.
Fire Island kicked my ass. It was an impromptu trip. I literally just rolled out of bed onto the floor on Saturday and remembered I had promised to meet Shindia there for a lawyer’s barbeque that afternoon. So I shoved every gay tank top I had into my bag and headed out to the island.
We were staying at the hotel which is awesome because its close to everything and not awesome because the toilet broke so we had to use the one in the trannie’s dressing room downstairs. Yes, I did walk in on a tranny. No, I didn’t ask her to move over so I could piss frozen margaritas into her makeup stool (read: toilet).
The title to this post is a little misleading. I am a trickster–just ask anyone who has ever believed I have AIDS or am in Jail on April Fool’s Day can attest to. (That would be every single person of importance in my life–as evidenced HERE. )
As I may have mentioned the key components to an amazing vacation are equal parts crazy time and down time. This post is about the times when I thought to myself: “Well fuck my ass, I am really lucky to have best friends like these. Not bad for a kid who used to sit at home watching Queer As Folk in Panama City and think: ‘One day I will move somewhere bigger and have a group of gay friends that I can call family.’”
Logan got the drop on me. He pulled the wool over my eyes. He bamboozled the shit out of me. While I was chatting up some North Carolina guys he said “Can I talk to you privately for a second?” I assumed he wanted to talk shit and went with him, completely trusting since I am normally the only sneaky bitch in the group. He took me over towards the pool and shoved me the fuck in, right in front of god, drag queens and queers everywhere. I wasn’t even upset that I had a drink in my hand. This prank was that awesome.
This weekend was too insane for a complete step-by-step recap(since it was 4 days long and I only remember about 12 hours). Also, most of the parties involved would not want their offenses listed because what happens in Fire Island stays in Fire Island. Exceptions to this rule are STD’s and Ticks.
So I have decided to make an anonymous list of things we did and things we witnessed:
One of us broke into a store at 3 am and had sex behind the cash register attempting to use spit as lube (an unsuccessful attempt since spit and latex don’t mix. They are like Katy Perry and strapless bras. Or Katy Perry and integrity.
Summer is right down the street ( I would say right around the corner but Mother Nature has been fucking with us so much lately I don’t want to jinx it. I would seriously take a sandblaster to Mother Nature’s asshole right now. I wish Eminem would put her in the trunk of his cutlass and drive of the Chelsea Piers. ) And we all want to look our best for the judgy drunk queens on Fire Island. So here is a piece of advice regarding speedos: If you wear them you will either look gay or Brazillian. If you are okay with looking gay or brazillian, make sure you get the perfect fit. An ill fitting speedo is like eating dinner right before you predrink–there is no point to it. In regards to speedos–a little tighter is much better than partially loose. Just take it from the photo to the left, where I am apparently auditioning for a role in Aquatic Chupacabras of the Gulf of Mexico (while it is a low budget film we expect to garner some of the buzz and excitement surrounding Sharktopus 3D and the upcoming Pirahnaconda.) And try to avoid sag-ass at all times. There is nothing worse than seeing a guy who looks great from the front, but when he turns around it appears he has dropped a 6 lb deuce in his drawers. Bringing him down to 92 lbs. My goal weight.
There’s something to be said about a guy that looks just as hot clothed as in a skimpy speedo (that’s after the jump) BUT there’s also something to be said for a guy who Read more…
This Hangover Diary is a little overdue because I have spent the last day or so tirelessly working on my other jobs–i.e. giving HJ’s at the port authority and selling drugs to kids at all the public schools above 66th.
This photo makes sense because it looks like I am hiding something behind my back. That something would be my swagger.
Sometimes you are on your game and sometimes you are not. I will readily admit that lately my game is so off track lately I’ve started calling it Lindsay Lohan’s Career.
I can’t get laid to save my life. When I go out and try I inadvertently get everyone around me laid instead haha.
So it was another Saturday night Read more…