 |
|
|
|
|
The
short and the long of it;
|
|
|
 |
From
Page Six in the New York Post:
July 18, 2003 -- THE Hamptons have gone gay.
First, several men were busted for sex acts on
a public beach where men like to cruise at night.
Now some Hamptonites are shocked over incidents
reported by Southampton Press "Beachcomber" columnist Steven
Stolman. One society grand dame points
to a recent story on the "800 suntanned and
sun-kissed gang of fellas at Rick Marek and Ken
Lewis' beachy bash." Our high-born
source says she's dismayed by "the sleaze
that has invaded the scene this summer.
Although I missed this one, I’ve
been to a couple of those “beachy
bash” parties given each summer by Mr. Marek
and Mr. Lewis at their sprawling waterside property
in Southampton. It’s an annual Fourth party on
a rambling manicured back lawn that runs down to the
bay.
It’s a big crowd, but 800? of the “suntanned and sun-kissed?” Sounds
like hype to me, especially considering that Mr. Stolman is in
the retail business by day and Mr. Marek made his fortune in real
estate – two professions where they’re always throwing
big numbers around.
Other than that, it’s is one of those humongous cocktail
parties in a lovely setting. Except. The guest list. Mostly men.
Beach-duded up of course; with no small preponderance of Ralph
Lauren. Age range from twenty-something to over-the-rainbow. Mostly
known to be gay. Except for those who are known to be not — which
may or may not include the female guests, I don’t know.
All very civilized and mild, this annual do. Perhaps the most exciting
thing that ever happened to this party was that it made Page
Six.
|
 |
And
as for the boys at the beach in East Hampton – that’s
another story, and a very old one to the denizens of that community.
Old as the neighborhood, even older. And so are the arguments
for and against.
Now, I’m told the main objection comes from one of the newer
residents along that beach. Someone who paid millions for his property
and doesn’t like the idea of men cavorting in the dark down
by the oceanside at all. Period.
The beaches out there are abandoned after the sun goes down, and
dark and remote. Except for the great big houses dotting the landscape
every few hundred yards, lighting the night like beacons of the good
life as imagined by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
So why do people go down to that beach to have sex? It
sounds weird except when I think back to my teenage years, when that
kind of nocturnal activity was commonplace; it was called “necking.” It
was always at some remote spot, boys and girls – on a beach,
overlooking a river, up on a hilltop. Although days people stayed
in their cars. Although who knows.
Beaches were always the best place to go, of course, with all that
soft sand and the surf thundering on the shore — the 21st-century
reality TV version of “From Here to Eternity.” 21st-century
style.
Sex. These days a lot of people don’t stay in the cars, their
houses or, god knows, their clothes. And they don’t care what
you or I think. Some even go on television and do it. Men and women.
About ten years ago when I was first back in New York and living
at a friend’s apartment at 10 Gracie Square, I got home one
night about quarter-to-two and noticed a naked body, lying supine,
knees propped up, arms spread, lifeless on the pavement; right under
a streetlamp, just a few steps from the riverside.
Alarmed and thinking maybe I was looking at death, I tentatively
walked the few yards over to see if it was what I thought it was.
And it was. A naked body. A fifteen-year-old girl who lived in the
building. She was lying there while a young boy who looked to be
about the same age, lying prone below her waist (his clothes on),
with his face between her legs. Aware of my presence, he stopped
what he was doing, propped himself up on his elbows and looked up
at me. And then she opened her eyes and languidly gazed in my direction
also. Then they went back to their business, no problem.
And I? I went back to the building’s entrance, dumfounded,
and told the doorman. Like: “there oughta be a law..!!” Well,
the doorman wasn’t going to do anything like call the cops
because the girl lived in the building. He wasn’t about to
cause trouble for her parents. Or, most importantly, himself.
Me, I went up to bed, preoccupied with thinking how those two didn’t
have to “do it” under a streetlamp only yards away from
her father and mother’s front door. Unless they wanted to.
Which of course they did. I can understand that. But it annoyed me,
call it prudish, call it hypocritical. It annoyed me.
Outside! Under a streetlamp! On the dirty pavement where (yuck)
my dogs pee and dump everyday! Couldn’t they have been private
about it? Why not in the grass of the park, splendor in the grass
only a few more yards away? Yeah, David, why?!
I saw the girl in the elevator a couple of times after that, Always
with her mother. If she had any recollection of that night, I couldn’t
tell. Not long after the family moved away.
When I was a kid, my older sister had a school notebook in
which her friends wrote little jingles and rhymes. One of them seemed
funny to this boy, although I had no idea what it meant at the time,
and has stuck in my craw to this day:
Don’t make love by the garden gate.
Love is blind but the neighbors ain’t.
And they talk. And some will even call it sleaze. Which is a thinly
veiled term of prejudice. Nowadays. |
|
|
|
|
