This past weekend, the Hawaiian shirted boyfriend and I headed to Fire Island with our two friendly hosts. We stayed in a little house right on the beach, drank lots of strawberry daiquiris, and tried to avoid turning a complementary shade of pink. It worked, mostly. (Please forgive the iPhone pictures.)
Fire Island is a long, skinny skinny spit of land about two hours train ride from Manhattan, off the coast of Long Island. It's a very popular LGBT vacation spot, which means boyfriend got catcalled by fellow male vacationers multiple times a day. It. Was. Awesome. We saw a few drag shows and got invited to an underwear party at the Ice Palace, so I guess you could say we're regulars now.
Aside from the nightlife, the properties are gorgeous, the views stunning, and the people amazingly friendly.
I only get sunburned in strange places, apparently.
And he gets the best burnlines.
A drag pool show that managed to keep us entertained for hours.
Which is where I made friends with this little guy.
As far as I'm concerned, Fire Island ticked all the boxes: relaxing stay, fractionally increased tan, little to no attention paid to my bathing suited body (gay), and ability to suck down frozen drinks within mere feet of lapping water. Win/win/win/win.