The first time I went to Fire Island was with my then-boyfriend six or seven years ago. We left Brooklyn early, taking the LIRR to a shuttle bus to a ferry, all in all about a three-and-a-half-hour trip, and got off the boat at Cherry Grove looking like the Clampetts. We were loaded up for our daytrip with a cooler, a few bottles of four-dollar Lambrusco, a beach umbrella, and bags stuffed with sunscreen, books, magazines, crackers, towels, a blanket, water, and a Frisbee.
We bought sandwiches at the deli and then we wandered through the boardwalk grid—past all the terrifically expensive elevated tree houses, with their weathered wood fences blocking off private pools and private gardens and private verandas from our view—until we got out to the beach to claim our spot. Then we lay there, occasionally wandering into the water to cool off, until several hours later it was time to head home and retrace our route in reverse.
Towards the end of that first trip, at the point of the day when it became necessary to pay attention to the time and determine which ferry we’d need to catch, we were approached by a pair of older guys. They were good looking, fit and tan and dressed in what looked like expensive, tailored beachwear. Without us doing anything to solicit conversation, they just walked up to our blanket, where our crap was strewn all the way around us in a rough protective barrier, and started talking. I can’t even remember what all we talked about. They were friendly, and I suppose we told them where we lived and how long we were out there. I only remember that a few times the one who did most of the talking pointed to a giant, beautiful house a couple hundred feet away, told us that it was his, and he invited us over.
“So anyway,” he said in closing, “if you want to come take a shower or have a drink, or if you want to hang out around the pool, have something to eat, and take a shower, or you know, if you guys just want to take a shower and wash off all the sand, well, that right there,” he pointed again, “is my house, and you should feel welcome to come over if you want to take a shower.”
We thanked him for the offer and after he got out of earshot we laughed and laughed, all the way home. “Don’t mind the surveillance cameras,” we joked as we packed up our stuff. We imagined him and his friend handing us a single washcloth each, then pushing us in the direction of a giant communal shower walled with one-way mirrors.
Whether we’d missed an opportunity or dodged a creep, the fact is that a not negligible part of me found it flattering. For the four or five years that I’d lived in New York at that point, the idea of Fire Island terrified me. It's some kind of creation myth if a secluded beach town can be that, with sex out in the pine trees, and perfect tans and perfect bodies and swimsuits that know no shame. I didn’t identify with or know how to appropriate any of that myself—it made me feel inexperienced and intimidated. I found it all so overwhelming to think about that I never paid any attention when someone tried to tell me how incomparably gorgeous the Fire Island beaches are. (I had been missing out.)
But perhaps that day I cracked the code? I just had to lay out there on the beach, even with all my daytrip detritus strewn around, and the rest of it would fall into place. In a figurative sense, Fire Island seemed a little bit more accessible, allowing me a thwarted sense of agency in the endeavor.
I recalled this story for Macartney and Mike the other night when were having drinks at Nowhere.
“That won’t happen ever again,” Macartney said. “How old were you? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
“Twenty-four—maybe twenty-five.”
He nodded sympathetically. “Well,” he shrugged, “you’re not going to get picked up like that again. You’re too old!” We were at this bar to celebrate Macartney’s thirtieth birthday, which might account for some of his doomsday tone.
I hadn’t thought that age had much to do with it, and over the past six or seven years I haven’t paid much attention to how my being older is affecting how I conduct myself or am perceived. I have a friend who’s in his forties, he tells me that you’re only as old as you feel, and he says he still feels like a twenty-seven-year old. I wonder if a lot of gay guys pick that age as their mental home base. Twenty-seven was a good year, a fine intersection of looking and feeling good, and starting to experience some wisdom but without any of the weariness.
I thought of one of my favorite of Emily’s tweets, the blunt poignancy of which I’ve laughed about periodically for two years now: “Tonight I finally realized that I’m no longer an ingénue.” Macartney might be right, I am no longer an ingénue. Even twenty-seven was four years ago, and in my many return trips to Fire Island, I haven’t since been approached like that. The ship sailed, the torch has been passed. It’s a teeny bit of a shame that I never realized I was holding onto it while it was my turn.
Then the other night I admitted to Izzy an embarrassing fantasy I’ve had lately. I told her that I’ve been imagining that I’m cast as Lena Dunham’s gay friend on Girls. This is something that I’m not proud to share, especially since I’ve still never seen the show—it would make sense if such a character already exists—but nonetheless it has provided me a lot of entertainment during these cold weeks.
“I feel like we could make that happen,” Izzy said over gChat, indulging me. “You’d have to be, like, a little wise—her older gay friend.”
Older? Older than Girls? Lena Dunham is only four years younger than me—she’ll be twenty-seven in a few months!
I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, ready to let the reckoning happen. It’s not just a weird angle of the light; there definitely are a few dozen grey hairs scattered in there like wiry weeds. The lines on the forehead, too—they provide me a lot of expressive range, but they’re permanent.
Then I went to the kitchen and started making myself a birthday cake.
Fragrant Angel Food Cake with Bittersweet Chocolate Glaze
Cake based on this David Lebovitz recipe
With this cake I wanted an angel food cake that smells like sunshine (orange blossom water), and laced with a warm, sharp spice (cardamom), and then I wanted it topped with a drippy shellac of bitter chocolate. I found that freshly ground cardamom makes a big difference; smash several pods with the side of a knife to crack them open, then put the seeds in a mortar and pound until finely ground. Also, I didn’t get around to it, but I feel that finely ground pistachios sprinkled on top of the chocolate would be pretty and delicious.
Cake
1 cup cake flour
1-1/2 cups superfine sugar, or 1-1/2 cups granulated sugar pulsed in a food processor until sandy
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon salt1-1/2 cups egg whites, from 10 to 12 large eggs
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 teaspoon orange blossom water
Chocolate Glaze
3/4 cup heavy cream
2 long strips of orange zest, made with a vegetable peeler
4 ounces finely chopped bittersweet chocolate
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Sift together the flour, 1/2 cup of the sugar, cardamom, and salt. Pour any granules that don’t pass through the sifter back into the flour and whisk to combine.
Place the egg whites in the bowl of a stand mixer and whisk until they begin to foam. Add the cream of tartar then continue beating on high speed, gradually adding the remaining 1 cup sugar, until you have a meringue that’s voluminous, shiny, thick, and falls off the beater in plump ribbons, 3 to 5 minutes. Quickly whisk in the orange flower water and beat until just incorporated.
Transfer the meringue to a wide mixing bowl (the bowl of the stand mixture doesn’t work well at all for folding), then sprinkle the flour-sugar mixture over it. Gently fold into the egg whites until just combined, being careful not to deflate the batter. Spoon the mixture into an ungreased 9-inch tube pan (one with a removable bottom works best) and smooth the top with a spatula, taking care to make sure there aren’t any giant air bubbles trapped beneath the surface.
Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, until golden brown and the top springs back to the touch. Let cool on a wire rack for 20 minutes, then invert the pan over a wine bottle and let stand for at least an hour until completely cool. Run a thin knife around the edge of the pan, then release the cake onto a cake stand or serving platter and flip it upright.
To make the glaze, heat the cream and orange zest in a small saucepan until bubbles form around the edges. Fish out the orange zest with a fork. Place the chocolate in a mixing bowl and pour the cream over it. Let stand for 5 minutes, then stir with a spatula until smooth.
Arrange pieces of parchment paper around the base of the cake, to catch the glaze that drips down the sides of the cake and keep the rim of your cake stand clean. Carefully pour the glaze over the top of the cake, spreading it gently with a spatula to allow it to drip down the sides. Let cool until the chocolate is set, about an hour, then serve. The flavors in the cake will become more pronounced the next day.
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