The Reality, Fiction and Fantasy of Fire Island

Cherry Grove Stories is
currently streaming on Tubi.

Though we got a welcome—and, frankly, surprising—Supreme Court ruling this month that extends federal workplace protections to the LGBTQ community, there’s been very little about this June to remind you it’s Gay Pride Month. Given the ongoing Dumpster fire that is America 2020, you’d be forgiven for just wanting to get away from it all. Unfortunately, the only traveling we should be doing is vicariously (though some remain unconcerned). Luckily, that’s also the cheapest way to travel. So, let’s go to Fire Island, specifically, Fire Island of the past.

I was aware of Fire Island being a popular vacation destination for gay New Yorkers as far back as my freshman year of high school, well before I ever came out. I’m not sure how I knew this. My best guess is it was referenced in some sleazy bestseller I read, or possibly it was mentioned in one of the two books by Fran Lebowitz that I read. Regardless, the reputation of this island off Long Island’s south shore was great enough that it even reached me, a teenager in Mississippi (or maybe I was still in California; my family moved around a lot).

Michael Fisher’s 2018 documentary CHERRY GROVE STORIES provides a good overview of life on Fire Island’s gay beach. Using home movies, archival news footage and interviews with frequent vacationers and longtime residents, Fisher not only provides the audience with an informal history of Cherry Grove, but of gay life as well.

“We arrived at the dock and I looked down and I saw all of these beautiful men in high heels and Speedos, and I thought I had died and gone to heaven,” says one of the interviewees. Another describes the island as a “gay Shangri La.” Some of the people interviewed remember vacationing on the island as far back as the late 1940s, when the houses didn’t have running water and were lit by kerosene lanterns (the island didn’t get electricity until 1960s; “I can’t imagine putting on a drag show with a generator,” quips one of the interview subjects).

Photos from the documentary Cherry Grove Stories.

The documentary never delves into exactly when or why Cherry Grove became a gay destination. Even interviewees who vacationed on the island as children with their families only refer to Cherry Grove as this wonderful oasis that was just there for discovery. “I knew it was a queer community,” says one. Another says he learned of Cherry Grove in high school when he saw a picture of two guys holding hands on its beach.

Cherry Grove draws a gay crowd but not
a diverse one. This is one of the few people of
color shown in Cherry Grove Stories.

As one would expect, especially in the decades pre-dating AIDS, sex was very easy to come by in Cherry Grove, especially for the men. “Coming out here with a boyfriend was like going to a whorehouse with your wife,” says an interviewee who first came to the island in 1957. (By the way, interview subjects not being named isn’t laziness on my part; it’s because Fisher doesn’t identify any of them onscreen.) I remember being aware of the island’s cruising grounds—the Meat Rack, a.k.a. the Rack—shortly after learning about the island’s existence, before I even knew what cruising meant. There is a rumored spot for lesbians, a so-called Donut Rack, but no one interviewed believed it existed. “There were maybe 24 lesbians when we were there,” says one woman. There are even fewer people of color. One of the men interviewed is of Asian descent, and there are a couple Black men shown in the home movies, but otherwise Cherry Grove is an all-white community, a fact I wish Fisher had touched on.

Once Cherry Grove Stories got on the subject of the Meat Rack I thought the documentary would devolve into a litany of people recounting how they did rails of cocaine and sucked a mile of cocks, but more is made about how the Rack was targeted by police. One bartender even kept a reserve of cash on hand to bail out anyone unfortunate to be caught in a police raid. Of course, by the time a man was bailed out of jail the damage had been done as the man’s name, address and telephone number (holy shit!) would have already been published in the newspaper.

Cherry Grove still retains its status as a prime “gaycation” spot today, though it’s changed considerably. AIDS, understandably, hit the island hard. “We invited some straight relatives out here,” recounts an interviewee, “and they came home thinking it was sort of a leper’s colony.” Yet the AIDS crisis led to an even greater sense of community on the island. It also changed the Meat Rack, which is still there but not the “free-for-all” it once was, a fact not only attributed to AIDS, but the Internet as well. “With all the gay apps, no one needs to go out and see each other anymore,” remarks one of the younger men interviewed.

These changes aren’t necessarily seen as being for the better, with several people remarking that for all the freedoms gained by the LGBTQ community over the past two decades, the island has become less free, with the police more vigilant about ticketing people for public nudity and loitering. Says an island old timer: “We’re going right back to the way things were 50 years ago.” Yet the affection Fisher’s subjects have for the island remains as strong today as when they first got off the ferry. As one puts it: “If I could never return to Cherry Grove, then I would die.”

‘The Biggest Camp of the Season’

The 1970 movie STICKS AND STONES also provides a snapshot of life in Cherry Grove, albeit a fictional one. The central characters in this ensemble piece are Buddy (J. Will Deane, a.k.a. Jesse Deane), a playwright who’s retreated to the island with his young “English” boyfriend, Peter (Craig Dudley) to drink away the memories of his failed play. He also might be cheating on Peter, but then, as we get to know Peter, who can blame him? Peter is a whining nag who’s got a stick so firmly planted in his ass that he likely can't bottom anymore. Dudley’s attempt at an English accent, which lands somewhere between Joan Fontaine in Rebecca and Baltimore, doesn’t help Peter’s cause. Conversely, though Buddy’s a cad, Deane’s talent for dry sarcasm makes him a more enjoyable screen presence.

“George is dressed differently
than we are.”

It’s clear within minutes of being introduced to Buddy and Peter that the couple has no future and needs to break up pronto. But since there would be no movie if they did, the couple goes ahead with their planned Fourth of July party, the “biggest camp of the season.” On the guest list are George, a middle-aged leather queen who’s bought a new leather vest for the occasion (“George is dressed differently than we are,” warns a mutual friend); Bobby, a newly out man making his “virgin trip” to the island (“I wish you’d call it something else”); Jimmy, a dizzy queen with a mop of blonde hair who, along with his mustachioed friend, makes homosexuality appear classifiable as a mental disability (watching these two attempt to change a flat tire is like the set-up to a homophobic joke); the Lavender Guru, a cute caftan-wearing hippie who only shuts up when he’s got a dick in his mouth (sample dialog: “I’m not sure some days whether the world that I live in is a world I created, psychologically, or whether it’s a world everyone else has created”); and June (adult film actress Kim Pope), the femme to butch Lou, though she’s about as staunch a lesbian as Anne Heche.

Before the party George gives Bobby a brief tour of Cherry Grove, noting that every house has a name, like Lust and Found and Olay, a house which was actually referenced in Cherry Grove Stories. Bobby is overwhelmed by it all, but mostly he’s just creeped out by George. They are joined by Jimmy and his friend, whereupon Jimmy, claws extended, starts making bitchy jokes at George’s expense (“You’ll never live to be as old as you look, dahling”). I got the idea the two may have had a fling that turned sour, though that’s strictly conjecture on my part (this movie isn’t big on backstory). What I couldn’t excuse was Bobby acting like Jimmy was rescuing him from a serial killer’s basement, his only reason for not liking George, who had been perfectly nice if a tad flirtatious, was Bobby found his being into leather weird. Well, fuck you, Bobby!

Peter (left) has the better body but Buddy has the better line delivery—
and the bigger bulge.

Meanwhile, back at Buddy and Peter’s house, the Lavender Guru goes on and on (and on) about some existential bullshit for the benefit of his handsome acolyte Gary, a sequence that would’ve been unwatchable had it not been intercut with the two having some spirited softcore sex. As for Buddy and Peter, they’re walking around the island in their Speedos, first to greet their guests at the dock, then to buy supplies for the party, though they’re never shown shopping for any. Of course, Peter has a lot to say, making it clear why Buddy always has a drink in hand. A favorite exchange during this banana hammock walkabout: Peter whines that Buddy just doesn’t understand the social pressures he’s under, to which Buddy, after waiting a beat, deadpans: “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

Kim Pope is sick of the Lavender Guru’s shit.

The party itself is a bit underwhelming. A dark-haired hunk in flowered pants sings and strums a guitar, and later deflects a pass from Buddy. Outside on the deck the Lavender Guru lectures a group too polite to flee (Kim Pope’s expression during this scene is priceless). George is wearing a pair of fishnet bell bottoms, commando, but he's upstaged by another leather queen, Fernando, showing off his Prince Albert. Jimmy sings a show tune, then tries to get Peter, sulking in the bedroom, to return to the party, a good deed that is sufficiently punished. “You’re nothing but a goddamned queen!” Peter screams (can’t say I disagree). Peter quickly begs forgiveness, then tells Jimmy about killing his pet dog when he lived in London (“I loved that dog”). Back in the living room, June dances nude with Fernando because why hire Kim Pope if she’s not going to get naked? Buddy, not to be outdone, then strips so his guests can appreciate his skinny, leathery body and, I must say, decent-sized cock. The fireworks for this Fourth of July bash don’t go off until after the party, however, when the hosts fight, possibly to the end of their relationship.

Sticks and Stones was written by Tom O’Keefe, but its loose structure and the rambling nature of the dialog suggests much of the movie was improvised. If that’s the case, director Stan Lopresto did a commendable job of getting something approximating The Boys in the Band Go to the Beach, which is to say Sticks and Stones, while not a good movie, isn’t the total piece of shit it could have been. The characters are all types—the leather queen, the swish, the nervous Nelly—rather than fully formed people, and the acting is strictly amateur hour (Pope and Deane, who also appeared in a couple hardcore films, deliver the best performances). On the plus side, the movie is leagues above the crap Jeff London cranks out. The gratuitous nudity, some of which is quite nice, also helped.

‘I Should’ve Known I was in the Wrong Place’

The last movie on our tour of Fire Island is nothing but gratuitous nudity, though I guess the nudity isn’t exactly gratuitous when said movie is a porno, namely director Jack Deveau’s 1978 film DUNE BUDDIES. Bet you thought I was going to write about Wakefield Poole’s Boys in the Sand, didn’t you? I’ll get to Wakefield, but not today. Besides, Dune Buddies has something that makes it just as noteworthy in the annals (yes, with two n’s; just because it’s a porn movie doesn’t mean our minds have to stay in the gutter) of gay porn: a connection to Brian DePalma’s Scarface.

Dune Buddies’ main character is a guy named Paul Hazzard (Malo), a dramatic arts professor who’s wanting to escape New York because he can’t walk three feet in the city without tripping over a hot guy begging for Paul’s hot beef injection. (“It got so crazy, in fact, that I stopped enjoying it.”) So, yeah, our hearts bleed for him. Anyway, to get away from all those beckoning dicks in the city, he heads to Fire Island. If you think that’s a stupid vacation destination for a man seeking solitude, Paul agrees with you, but his real estate pal Ed got him a good deal on a rental in the Pines so, what’re you gonna do?

Paul’s plans for a quiet vacation-for-one are dashed the moment he enters the bedroom of his rented beach house and finds one of his students, Dennis (Larry Page), passed out and pants-less on the bed. When Dennis comes-to, he explains Paul’s secretary revealed his itinerary when Dennis bribed her with three Quaaludes (this movie is very 1978). Paul quickly forgives his student (you would, too, if you saw Page’s ass), but they’ve barely gotten into foreplay when Paul’s friend Gordon (Hugh Allen) cock blocks him with a phone call. I wouldn’t have answered, personally, but Paul does, learning that Gordon’s at the ferry landing, waiting for him. (“If you meet me at the dock in the Grove in 45 minutes, I’ll let you buy me a drink at the Monster.”)

Maybe it’s just me, but Larry Page looks a lot like a young Thomas Haden Church.
(No, I’m not suggesting THC has a secret.)

And so begins what is supposed to be a comedy of errors. Paul heads out for Cherry Grove, leaving Dennis to juggle tennis balls and jack off in an outdoor shower. But Gordon, who’s a bit of an asshole, gets cruised by hunky John (Will Seagers, billed as Matt Harper here) and decides he’d rather ride in John’s boat—and on John’s cock—than wait for Paul. Paul, annoyed at having missed Gordon, heads back home, only to be intercepted by his real estate friend Ed (Gary Hunt), who needs a voyeur if the two cute young exhibitionists back at his house (Pepe Brazil and D. Paolo Gorsky) are to perform. No, seriously. Paul’s resistant, but Ed pours liquor down his throat until he agrees to stay. Despite being recruited to watch and having downed three glasses of vodka, Paul is an active participant in the scene, at least for a while. By nightfall he’s stumbling over the dunes and into the camp of another one of those hot, horny men Paul’s always running into. The camper is Ed Wiley (billed as Myles Longue), though given the scene’s minimal lighting and iffy focus it could be Tom Selleck for all we know.

Gordon (Hugh Allen) spreads for Will Seagers.

Meanwhile, Gordon finds his way to Paul’s pad. Dennis isn’t too enamored by Paul’s new guest, however: “After giving it some thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that you, Gordon, are an inconsiderate fuck.” Gordon counters with, yeah, but you know we’re going to make it anyway. And this argument works, because of course it does. But Gordon is just something to keep him occupied until the movie’s (mild) surprise ending.

Dune Buddies doesn’t come close to matching Boys in the Sand’s artsy erotica, but it’s very close to matching the Fire Island of my fantasies, including the royalty-free disco. And unlike the previous gay porn film I reviewed, almost all the men of the cast have a sexiness that stands the test of time, provided you have a high tolerance for ’70s hairstyles—and really, by now you should because, honey, we all have ’70s hair at this point. I just wish some scenes were better lit. The scene between Malo and Wiley is like watching two shadow puppets fucking.

About that Scarface connection: Dune Buddies’ star, Malo, later found some mainstream success as Arnaldo Santana, appearing in two Al Pacino movies, Cruising and Scarface. He also had a small part in the 1983 TV movie Rage of Angels and was a regular cast member in the failed Norman Lear sitcom a.k.a. Pablo. Amusingly, the trivia section on Santana’s IMDb page states that it was the actor’s weight gain—hey, maintaining that Dune Buddies physique had to be exhausting—that prevented him from landing bigger roles, not his gay porn past. Santana passed away in 1987 at age 37. No cause of death was given, and I found nothing online to confirm my suspicions, so I won’t speculate here.

From Dune Buddies to Scarface, from Malo to Arnaldo Santana.

An actor’s death is a sad conclusion to a blog post, but, then again, who isn’t at least a little sad at the end of a vacation, even a vicarious one? Especially when we know we have to return to 2020. <sigh>

A Gay Man Watches Straight Porn #1: ‘Every Inch a Lady’

I had a dream about Seka the other night. I was helping her dye her hair — on her head, thank you. We were streaking her platinum locks green and blue. And yes, I am gay.

The reason a porn queen from the 1970s and ’80s was appearing in my dreams at all, even in a non-sexual context, can be attributable to my new favorite podcast, The Rialto Report, in which hosts Ashley West and April Hall interview performers and directors of adult films in the 1970s and ’80s in a friendly, non-judgmental way that shows that their subjects are more than the sum of their private parts. If you ever wished This American Life devoted an episode to the life story of Pat Barrington or wondered what a Fresh Air interview with Georgina Spelvin might sound like, the Rialto Report’s podcast is for you.

But in listening to all these Rialto Report podcasts, I had a renewed interest in watching some classic straight porn. (The Rialto Report has interviewed a few veterans of gay adult film, including Boys in the Sand director Wakefield Poole and gay-for-pay icon Jeff Stryker, but the site largely focuses on straight smut. I imagine part of the reason for this is so few Golden Age gay porn stars are still alive.) Though I’ve seen a few straight classics like Deep Throat and Talk Dirty to Me, the bulk of my hardcore porn consumption has been of the all-male variety. I’ve come to find current porn videos either boring or gross, however, so why not take a break from trying to rub one out to some present day man-on-man action and instead watch some fuck films that actually played in theaters, enjoying them solely on an aesthetic level?

Though I’d been dreaming of Seka, I by-passed one of her titles in favor of the 1975 movie EVERY INCH A LADY. It starred Harry Reems (the mustache might be off-putting to some, but there's no denying he had a hot body), featured another Rialto Report podcast subject, Andrea True, but, most importantly, it was streaming for free.

It was a fortuitous choice, for although Every Inch a Lady is a straight porn movie, it has a decidedly gay sensibility.

The lady in question is Crystal Laverne (Darby Lloyd Rains, giving a performance worthy of John Waters stock player Mary Vivian Pearce), the co-owner and proprietress of Deviations, Inc., a successful escort service catering to almost all sexual tastes, save scat. Crystal has the mannerisms befitting her name, which is to say she’s a female drag queen. When we meet her, standing in the living room of her penthouse apartment, she’s decked out in a red gown and matching feather boa, supervising the alteration of one of her call boy’s jackets (for which the young hustler has stripped down to his skivvies, as one does), signing real estate contracts and imploring her lesbian assistant Edna (a bewigged Andrea True) to answer the constantly-ringing phone. She’s just so goddamned busy—but not too busy to audition Margie, a blonde bubblehead played by Kim Pope. I thought for sure this would be the obligatory girl-girl scene, but no, Crystal summons the call boy getting his jacket altered, Tony (David Savage), to do the honors. Crystal spies on them through a peephole cut into wall of the neighboring room, occasionally offering Edna a peak (“A very handsome female. I wouldn’t mind being in Tony’s place myself.”) and picking up a microphone to broadcast her pointers to the professional fuckers (“OK, Margie, a little more hip action”).

Crystal even takes time out from supervising her potential new hire’s sexual prowess to draft up some new rules. “Just last night one of our best girls came over here and told me her client had shit on her head—and only gave her $50 extra,” recounts a horrified Crystal. “So, defecation is out!”

“No shit,” says Edna, making a note of the new rule.

Business casual.

Once Margie’s audition is out of the way, Crystal slips into something more comfortable: a black lace peignoir and nothing else. Given Crystal’s line of work and the fact that this is a porn movie, one wonders why she bothered with that red gown and boa, though I appreciated the filmmakers’ willingness to keep things covered up for a while, as the tease virtually non-existent in today’s smut. Anyway, with her pussy free to breath, Crystal takes a moment to relax with Edna. Once again, I was anticipating some girl-on-girl action as the set up was so obvious, and once again Lady subverted my expectations as no muff diving ensues. (Spoiler alert: there’s no girl-on-girl action in this movie.) Rather, Crystal chooses this moment to tell Edna of her humble beginnings, sending us into a flashback that makes up good two-thirds of the movie’s runtime.

Come-fuck-me platforms.

Before becoming a successful madam, Crystal was but a lowly streetwalker, struggling to make ends meet but still able to rock an amazing pair of glittery red platform shoes. After another, um, dry day of trawling for tricks, she comes home to her apartment, only to find Chino (Harry Reems) sacked out at her door. She invites him inside, as one does when finding a stranger at her doorstep, and they immediately start getting nasty. But just before Chino finishes Crystal off, he demands $20. “What?” Crystal exclaims. “I was going to get $15 from you!” (That money wasn’t discussed up front gives us insight into why Crystal wasn’t finding success as a streetwalker.) The two laugh off the misunderstanding, choosing money shots over actual money.

We learn via voice over that Chino had been a hustler for five years, making his living “from middle-aged women and homosexuals.” The pair decide to open an escort agency, under the guise of offering massages. I find it quaint that this movie treats the concept of massage services being a cover for prostitution as simply unheard of until these two dimwitted prostitutes brainstormed it during their post-coital chat.

Crystal and Chino quickly become business partners as well as lovers (it’s an open relationship, natch). Their first trick is none other than Jamie Gillis, who sits on the sidelines masturbating while Crystal and Chino go at it. Gillis does join the couple on the bed, and for a moment it looks like he’s about to mount Chino. But no, there’s no Gillis-on-Reems action. However, Crystal does insert a string of brown anal beads (Brown? Really?) in Chino’s ass, which Gillis yanks out as Chino comes. Though the beads clearly facilitated a powerful orgasm, Chino —a trade top, evidently — decides to exact revenge by shoving a carrot up Gillis’ butt. By the way, the male butt play appears to be simulated as neither the beads nor the carrot is shown disappearing into the male performers’ assholes.

I Didn’t Know Joan Rivers was in a Porno Movie!

Crystal and Chino’s business quickly grows, necessitating the need for extra staff. Crystal enlists the help of a former cell mate, Lois, to handle an opera buff, played by Mark “10 ½” Stevens, whose dick size is so impressive that its measurement merits a screen credit. This is by far my favorite scene, if only because it exposes the Joan Rivers’ porn past.

Joan Rivers in The Swimmer; not Joan
in Every Inch a Lady.

OK, Lois is NOT played by Joan Rivers (don’t sue me, Melissa); she’s played by Erica Eaton. But considering Eaton is so similar in appearance, possesses a New Yawk rasp that’s almost identical to Rivers’, combined with the knowledge that Rivers considered all offers, you could almost believe that it’s the late comic fellating the somnolent Stevens. (And really, Rivers would’ve done less damage to her career in the mid-’70s appearing in a porno than she did writing and directing Rabbit Test.)

The scene with Eaton and Stevens’ is strictly for laughs, as only a scene featuring a Joan Rivers doppelgänger could be. When Stevens’ fails to respond to Lois’ ministrations, his famed 10 ½ inches never quite reaching seven, he asks her to talk dirty to him. So, Lois reads aloud from a porno novel (“It’s a fucking beee-yoooo-tiful cock!”) while they fuck to Wagner’s “Flight of the Valkyrie.”

Less shameful than writing and
directing Rabbit Test.

My second favorite scene in this movie features a performer billed as Dr. Infinity, in the part of Joe Blow. Consider that “character” name foreshadowing. Crystal, now operating out of an office, is about to interview Mr. Blow as a new addition to her stable, but she’s interrupted by a phone call. While Crystal chats on the phone with a disgruntled client (“Well, who could’ve foreseen that? You couldn’t have expected the poor mule to know the old Ferncliff bitch had had a hysterectomy.”), Joe Blow gets impatient. He strips down, hops atop a nearby desk, and demonstrates his special skill: sucking his own dick. He fucks himself with a cucumber as well, but that’s not a special skill, just resourcefulness. Needless to say, he’s hired. Incidentally, Dr. Infinity has a pretty interesting history, including the attempted theft of the Gutenberg Bible from the Harvard Library in 1969.

This brings us back to the penthouse with Crystal and Edna. Crystal’s trip down memory lane is interrupted by a phone call— Crystal is always getting interrupted by phone calls — reminding her of a meeting with a real estate agent to finalize a house purchase for Chino. No sooner has the harried madam rushed out the door than Edna is removing her Velma wig and her clothes. Chino arrives a minute later. Edna’s not a dyke at all (gasp!) but Chino’s lover, the pair plotting to murder Crystal and take over Deviations, Inc. Unbeknownst to them, Crystal, having forgot some paperwork and returned to the penthouse, overhears them in the bedroom. She sees them as well (Oops! Edna forgot about the peephole), and after hearing the couple’s murder plans (Edna also forgot the room is bugged), decides to use that plan to murder them. A surprisingly dark turn of events for what has otherwise been a lighthearted porno romp.

Humor in porn movies is usually crass, juvenile and/or stupid, but Every Inch a Lady is the first straight porn film I’ve seen that can be described a campy. This shouldn’t be a surprise, really; it was directed by gay brothers John and Lem Amero, who directed sexploitation movies in the 1960s before moving on to hardcore movies for gay and straight audiences in the 1970s and 1980s. Even if the sex was for the pleasure of straight men, the movie, with its hammy acting, outrageous dialog, and thrift store drag fashions, not to mention the autofellatio and male anal stimulation, seems to be giving a wink and a nod to gay men. I’d never masturbate to it, but I dug Every Inch a Lady and I plan to hunt down other works by the Amero Bros. (their movie Bacchanale looks trippy). But they’ll have to wait in line. I still owe it to myself to check out one of Seka’s movies. She’s my dream girl, after all.