There are no cars, paved roads, or traffic lights.
The Pines is where sexual hierarchies meet arcane property laws, allowing the place to maintain a rarefied air of nostalgia. Since the ’30s, the narrow strip of sand on the eastern side of Fire Island has been a vacation hideaway for gay men of means or pluck: artists, photographers, white-collar executives, personal trainers, influencers, and Long Island teens working summer shifts at the Pantry. At this moment, high as Mount Olympus, he can look down at his naked body with his third eye open and agree: He is fucking hot.įire Island Pines is a charged setting for such revelations. Still, there is always a difference between knowing something and feeling it. He has measured it upwards of 10,000 times and knows it is an objectively good dick, a gorgeous dick. He stripped, got hard, and now is staring at his reflection. At some point, Booster peeled off and went to the bathroom. For dinner, they made junk carbonara from pantry leftovers. They took a walk back home that lasted for what felt like an eternity (ten minutes), during which they listened to Lorde and SOPHIE and split open the most delicious pineapple in the world.
Earlier, they had gone to the beach, where the sand oozed between their toes and time lost its militant edge. It’s 2018, and he is tripping balls from the LSD Oreos he took with his housemates on their last full day on Fire Island.
Joel Kim Booster is looking at his penis.
