Page 71 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

Joe studied the activists’ faces and bodies. Most looked healthy. Some of the men were extremely handsome, looking like those brooding male models inInterview Magazine. But a few had the familiar physical markers of the sickness—the hollowed eyes, the powdery lips, Band-Aids covering what might be skin cancers. If these particular ACT UP members were sick, they didn’t seem self-conscious about it. Elliot had always been terrified of anyone knowing.

“How many do you think have HIV?” Joe whispered, his eyes locked on the group.

“Who knows.” Fergal shrugged. “Dory and Howie don’t have it, and they’re ACT UP members. Besides, you can’t know for sure. You have to protect yourself like everyone has it.”

“You’re right,” Joe said. “That was a dick thing for me to ask. It just seems extra brave to be out there fighting when you don’t know how long you have left.”

“Yeah,” Fergal said. “But maybe that’s what keeps them going?”

“Maybe.” Joe wondered if it was time to tell Fergal the whole truth about Elliot. But what if it frightened him away? He couldn’t bear the thought of that.

“You okay?” Fergal asked. “You looked funky all of a sudden.”

Before Joe could respond, three men, including the Broadway composer Jerry Herman, approached the bar. “We’d like three vodka cranberries, please, handsome,” Jerry said, clapping his hands. “Oh, Joe, what a wonderful event you’ve all made!”

“Thanks, Jerry. Drinks coming right up.” While Joe set up the highball glasses, he turned to Fergal. “Hey, babe, wanna go snag us some of those pigs in a blanket before they run out?”

“Babe?”Fergal repeated. Before Joe knew what was happening, Fergal had leaned over the bar and planted a quick but romantic kiss on Joe’s lips. The entire bar stopped to watch. When the kiss ended, the buzzing reignited—only now it was about the sexy young couple. For once Joe didn’t mind the gossip. He and Fergal were officially an item. Let them talk!

“Well done, Joe,” Jerry Herman whispered, handing him a fifty-dollar bill. “This is for your great work on this benefit and for”—he winked—“finally getting laid, especially with sailor boy over there. You know, the whole island’s been worried about you.”

“Thanks.” Joe tried hard not to let his face expose the truth, that he had yet to “get laid” by Fergal or anyone. “But today, Jerry, all my tips go to ACT UP.”

Joe put the fifty into the donation beer pitcher. Soon, other men began offering more donations to ACT UP in honor of Joe losing his Fire Island cherry to the deckhand of their dreams. His ears reddened with guilt, which the men took as a sign of his charming shyness.

“Sorry about what just happened,” Joe said to Vince, who looked annoyed. “I know that was against bar policy.”

“Ach, who gives a flying feck,” he said darkly. “This bar is probably doomed anyway. So I gather things are pure class with your fella, eh?”

“Yeah. I guess so. I mean …” He lowered his voice. “Here’s the thing—and don’t judge—but we still haven’t … you know.”

“Oh Jay-sus, Mary, and Joseph!” Vince shouted. “You’re feckin’ kiddin’ me!”

“Shh!” Joe hushed him, horrified. “Vince, seriously?”

“Sorry,” Vince whispered. “So not even knocking your knobs together?”

“I mean, we’ve gotten pretty hot and heavy. Like, we’ve stuck our hands down each other’s pants and taken our shirts off. And kissed. Oh my god, he’s the best kisser. I get chills every time. It’s just when it looks like we’re ready to finally go for it, he’s suddenly says he’s tired or that he has something to do that won’t wait. I wondered if he thought we might not be, you know, compatible, so I hinted that I can do the whole versatile thing, but he just kinda laughed and said he wants to wait, because doing the ‘big one’—he calls it the big one, which is cute as hell—makes a relationship more ‘real’ for him.”

Vince groaned. “Real? What in Mary Magdalene’s name does that even feckin’ mean?”

“I guess he’s just not ready. He likes me obviously—I mean that kiss and all?”

“I hate to say it …” Vince sighed nihilistically. “It’s the homosexual rule of threes. If no sex by date three, you’re sunk. And if you do end up having sex on date four, it will be so awkward you’ll both lose your hard-ons. If I was you, I’d cut bait and run.”

“But you’renotme.” Joe angrily shoved the metal scoop back into the ice. “Fergal is just different from other guys. Even Howie says so.”

Vince shook his head bitterly and sniggered. “As if our man Howie even remembers a flea’s turd about dating.”

“Howie knows a helluva lot more than you do.”

“Well, scarlet for your mother for havin’ ya!”

“Vince, I literally have no idea what that means.” A wave of men came up to the bar, sending both men scrambling to fill orders. When Joe finished his last vodka cran, he turned and noticed Vince, icy eyes toward the door, as if Charles Manson had just walked in.

“Look what the sewer rat dragged in,” Vince whispered.

Joe looked over. It was none other than Trey Winkle along with two friends—WASPy Xerox copies of himself. All three were dressed in assorted pastel shades of polo-shirted pretension, smugly passing their eyes over the crowd.

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