Page 2 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Seconds later, he and Ronnie were dancing. It was the first time Joe had smiled in ages. In between Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” and Madonna’s “Open Your Heart,” he told Ronnie the sad story of Elliot—or rather, a facsimile of the true story. (Joe never told the whole truth about what had happened—not even to himself.) But everything else he said was fact, including how he was back to living at his mother’s in the Philly suburbs (which he hated), and how he worked as an orderly at Friends Hospital on Roosevelt Boulevard (which he also hated), and how he wanted to move back to Center City and look into the organic chemistry course he needed in order to take the MCAT and maybe apply to medical school someday.

“But money is pretty tight,” Joe said, “so I need to save up some cash.”

“MCAT, huh?” Ronnie winked. “Brainy can be kinky.”

“I guess.” Joe was impressed at how Ronnie could turn a comment about a standardized test into something sexual. “But it’s just an idea. I’m not really sure where I’ll end up.”

“Is that so? I get it. It took me all thirty-four years of my life to figure out my true destiny, but you’re young. You’ll get there.” Ronnie squinted his eyes at Joe. “How old are you, anyway?”

Before Joe could say that he would be turning twenty-nine in March, Ronnie stopped him.

“Wait! Don’t tell me! I’m really good at guessing ages. Let’s see … baby face underneath that five o’clock shadow …” He peeped down the neck of Joe’s shirt. “… Nice little hairy chest, but not a line around your eyes … still dresses like a clumsy straight guy … got it! You’re twenty-three, right?”

Joe was happy he looked as young as that, but he also worried that Ronnie might look down on him, being that he was nearing thirty yet still worked a crap job, lived with his mom, and had literally nothing figured out. And what if he also discovered that Joe had been vowing to take that chemistry course for five years but still hadn’t even looked at a catalog? So much for him thinking Joe had “potential.” A bitter thought popped into Joe’s head:Life has been grotesquely unfair.If it hadn’t been for Elliot’s sickness and death, he would have been able to make something of his life. He might already be in med school, and he and Elliot might already have been living in a townhouse they had bought together in Rittenhouse Square. LifeowedJoe those five years back.For just one night, I’m getting a do-over.

“That’s exactly right!” Joe said. “Good call. I’ll be twenty-four in March.”

“I knew it! Still a baby—and been through so much already.” Ronnie pinched Joe’s cheeks. “So, wanna go back to my place and fuck?”

“Sure,” Joe said, though a middle-aged blond glam jock wasn’t exactly his type.

“Stellar.” Ronnie chugged the rest of his beer. “Let’s get our coats.”

The sex that followed was perfunctory and functional. Kiss, suck, condoms, fuck. Joe bottom. Ronnie top. Like the other three hookups Joe had experienced in the year and a half since Elliot’s death, none of the men were as sexy or smart as his dead lover, nor were they the right size big spoon to Joe’s little spoon. Every time hehad sex, he’d leave his body, look down onto the bed, and watch himself betray Elliot.

After they toweled off, Ronnie lay back down and looked Joe in his big, sad brown eyes. “Let’s face it, we both knowthat’snot gonna happen again,” he said, confirming to Joe that they were on the same page per their erotic incompatibility, “but I’m not done with you yet, Joey boy! I’ve decided you’re gonna be my new project.”

Joe’s stomach squirmed. He hoped he hadn’t inadvertently found himself hooking up with someone who was into EST or sold Herbal Life. “What do you mean ‘new project’?”

Ronnie’s eyes softened with pity as he took Joe’s hand and spoke with a gentle firmness. “Face it, Joey boy. You’re a mess. You looked like you were gonna cry the entire time we were having sex.”

“I’m really sorry,” Joe began.

“It’s okay. I get it. We’re living in hard times, but it’s not just your broken heart that’s the problem.”

Joe got up from the bed, and pulled his Sears polo over his head. “What do you mean?”

“Look at yourself—the way you dress, how you cruise bars, even the way you keep your socks on during sex.”

Joe glanced down at his white athletic socks; one was rolled down and one was up. He groaned.

“Here’s the thing,” Ronnie said. “I’m gonna teach you how to master this gay game and also help you get over your broken heart. Don’t worry, kiddo, no charge. Sound good?”

While he doubted Ronnie would offer much of a solution to the paralyzing sorrow he had felt since Elliot’s death, there was something about the gregarious, handsome jock that made Joe feel just a little hopeful for the first time in a long time. “You got a deal,” Joe said.

After that, they hung out every weekend and quickly became best friends.

Ronnie gave Joe a mini-makeover, shaving a fire path through his Armenian unibrow, taking him to a better barber, and putting him in jeans that emphasized his muscular legs, cute butt, andrespectablepackage. He taught Joe where to stand in a bar for the most flattering lighting and how to make small talk. Ronnie also told Joe of his own plans to marry rich and eventually become amotivational speaker like Norman Vincent Peale or Napoleon Hill—but a “gay-guy version,” helping guys like Joe learn how to play the “gay game” and achieve their highest potential.

And it worked, up to a point. Joe started getting asked out by some quality men. Unfortunately, most dates ended with him choked up, talking about Elliot. After the men (politely) kicked Joe out, Ronnie would insist he come over for a post-date debrief. Almost always, Joe would end up in tears while Ronnie cuddled him until he fell asleep.

That Christmas, Ronnie got fired from his after-hours security job at the Holiday Inn for hooking up in unoccupied rooms. That’s when he proposed that he and Joe get jobs on Fire Island for the summer.

“It’s the opportunity of a lifetime!” Ronnie told Joe that frigid January night at Jim’s Steaks on Philadelphia’s South Street. “Last August, I met this rich old guy named Scotty Black. He owns this club called the Promethean—it’s the hottest disco on Fire Island. If we go out there early enough, Scotty says he’ll give us bartending gigs. He’ll also provide housing, food, everything. We’ll save a fortune!”

“Um … you know I don’t know anything about bartending, right?” Joe said.

Ronnie waved his hand. “Nothing to it, especially in a gay bar. You just have to be cute, smile, flirt a little, and slosh some booze into a glass. A beagle could do it if he had thumbs and looked hot in a T-shirt!”

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