The components of this picture are the same every day.
The sand. The sun. The ocean. The gulls. The men. Their significant swimsuits. The staked claims of their umbrellas and towels. Their sunglasses and innumerable small containers for music, messages, drink and lotion. Their little worries.
Nearby, the newfangled lifeguard shrine with its elusive Apollo crouches on spokes like a non-invasive lunar landing craft as collapsible as a beach chair. Its oracle gazes at the mortals but speaks not. Every year, his face is new, and every year, the false rumor is spread that he has taken flesh at one of the bars where these men repair at night.
There is ritual to be observed. The sudden standing up of one man adjusting his suit before his scrutinized walk to the water. The arrival of a gym-built Miami-Cuban with its murmured and appreciative judgments. Various grand promenades announced and executed in pairs for the reviewing of the peripheral attendees. The magnetic drifting in the water of two men floating closer and closer to each other. One blames the undertow with a sly smile. (On-shore bets are placed on his success.) The sudden leap of collective heart as a flawless and glistening specimen who seems to have run here all the way from Sydney jogs by without a glance at the crowd.
A small plane swoops low in passing. It trails a banner that reads “Men, get back in the game with Nutri-System.” The heads of all the men are silent and tilted upward and turning slowly to receive this message. In unison, they suck in their guts for five seconds before the anxiety passes and happy distention returns.
Such is the unbearable weight of life here in Braindeadlia.
"Perge modo et qua te ducit via dirige gressum," said Venus to Aeneas.
6 comments:
You captured the beach in Lauderdale, John U llyod, Haulover, and South Beach perfectly. I should probably tell you again that I love your writing, You never cease to amaze me. I especially liked this:
Every year, his face is new, and every year, the false rumor is spread that he has taken flesh at one of the bars where these men repair at night.
and this
The heads of all the men are silent and tilted upward and turning slowly to receive this message. In unison, they suck in their guts for five seconds before the anxiety passes and happy distention returns.
Both passages take me right there, and leave me smiling. Thank you.
And the scene is played out not only there but at similar venues worldwide.
Ah yes, the Atlantic coast gay rites of summer - they play out the same north to south. And we return time and again, relishing the brief rewards, splashing around in the yellow warmth, the brief beauty, the sun, and the frothy waves of our own unworthiness.
So jealous here. We're under snow here. I'd take the braindeadedness for a while in exchange for the weather.
A gay beach in Ft. Lauderdale? I would have thought there were probably one or two small areas designated as straight.
Haven't been to a beach, gay or straight in over 15 years.
Hobbits and sand don't mix.
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