PIGS & DOLPHINS

How much to tip? The question always vexes me in an unfamiliar situation. I resented the $10 to $15 per day suggestion that the Blue Light Special spotted in the Cabanas "rule book" which also itemized the cost of every possible guest infraction. At $189 per night, I didn't see why I should be so generous. Of course the "maids," at least one of whom looked as if he had gotten high to do his job, collected far fewer tips than those at straight resorts where the operations are so much larger. But the snob in me countered that the women who work there have fewer opportunities so I left the $2 per night that I would have given them.

And was I supposed to tip Barely Sober, who had been very helpful, too? I decided against it on the grounds that he was acting in place of the owner whom I certainly wouldn't have tipped.

He seemed disappointed when I shook his hand and said You do your job very well handing over the ethernet cable he had loaned me when I couldn't access the advertised wi-fi network.

During breakfast on the patio, a new arrival chatted us up and told us that the Cabanas was dead in comparison to the Island House for Men in Key West, where we were headed.

You can't help but have a good time, he said. There are 200, maybe 150 men walking around in towels and they keep the beer flowing during happy hour to make everyone more friendly.

After I excused myself to take a poop, he invited the Blue Light Special to smoke a joint and inquired if we were partners.

When I told him that we were, the Blue Light Special reported, after declining, he said sometimes it's more difficult for partners.

Uh-oh. The Blue Light Special had used his student discount to manipulate me into making the reservation. I reminded him, not for the first time, that he wouldn't be swimming with the dolphins until Friday and that the reservation was in my name.

We got on the road earlier than I would have guessed but quickly lost the time looking for a post office where the Blue Light Special could buy stamps and stopping at Walgreen's to pick up some needle and thread. He wanted to repair the tear in his cheap luggage which was filled with at least a dozen changes in outfits, almost as many bathing suits, a sleeping mat and special pillow, and cosmetics.

A $5 admission parking fee at Haulover Beach in North Miami dissuaded us from shedding our clothes along with the nudists and gay men. Instead, we continued south on US A1A to South Beach where preparations already were well underway for the Super Bowl game between the Chicago Bears and the Indianapolis Colts. I stopped an old woman on the street to ask where the Fountainbleau Hotel was located to give the Blue Light Special some sense of the area's history before condo conversions and traffic swallowed the beach. Even at midday on a Tuesday, the line of cars crawled for miles.

It's over there she said, pointing to yet another construction site, but it closed years ago.

Sad.

The Blue Light Special noted the Traymore, where he and Thug Lover had booked a $99 room on the internet for the previous Friday and Saturday nights, and Loews, the gorgeous white hotel that had captured his fancy when he walked past it on the beach.

It can't compare to the Delano, I insisted, parroting the hype, as if I actually had stayed there instead of the Royal Palm or the old Kenmore (now a Best Western) during my two previous visits.





No trip to South Beach in a convertible is complete without a cruise down Ocean Drive with the speakers blaring Madonna. The Blue Light Special ignored my suggestion to look for a parking space and grab some lunch.

OK, then find the quickest route to Key West I said, handing him the out-of-date Rand McNally's road atlas. It won't necessarily be the most direct.

My request fell on deaf ears. After five miles of stoplights on US 1, I exploded. With Key West still more than a 100 miles south, I wasn't interested in repeating the experiment he had tried during our first summer in the Pines. Holding me hostage in the passenger seat on a Sunday evening when I had to be at work early the next morning, he failed to prove that we could return to Manhattan more quickly along the Sunrise Highway than the parkways I always took.

Fortunately, we found the Florida Turnpike shortly after he replaced Madonna with West Side Story, advancing through the songs he didn't like. That left "Maria," "Somewhere" and a highly irritated show tune queen in the driver's seat. I thought Bye Bye Birdie might lighten the mood but Hurricane Andrew's devastation in Homestead, mostly evident from the lack of tall trees, made it hard to sing What's the story, morning glory? What's the word humming bird? Did you hear about Hugo and Kim? next to a clueless German passenger who had no interest in a musical about American teenagers of my generation.



In Key Largo we stopped at what appeared to be an indigenous alternative to fast food for lunch. Although everyone seated at the Captain Shon's Seafood, Grill & Pub obviously had driven there, our waitress seemed surprised when we decline to order a drink. Welcome to Margaridaville, I guess. The prices on the menu screamed tourist trap but our fish sandwiches weren't bad and the coleslaw was first rate.

The Blue Light Special took the wheel. As we drove farther south, the skies grew overcast and I became more apprehensive about the sex hotel that awaited us, fearing that jealousy would rear its ugly head if any of the patrons started coming on to my companion. It didn't help that aside from the long bridges that connected the various keys, the ride wasn't as scenic as I had expected. But with Cher and Kylie helping to fill the comfortable silence between us, I nodded off briefly before we reached Key West.

Happily, Old Town turned out to be as picturesque as the tourist brochures we picked up had promised. We found a parking spot right in front of the Island House For Men. A couple of young gay men showed us where to enter through a back alley around the corner. The lobby reeked of chlorine.

The staff wasn't as friendly as it had been at the Cabanas and the guy who ran my credit card seemed put off when we refused to let him help us get our bags even though he wasn't quite sure where to find our room on the second floor. It was behind not one, but two locked doors. The first opened into a small foyer with two rooms and a shared bathroom.

A welcome video played continuously on the television in our small, but comfortable room that faced Fleming Street. Narrated by the kind of guy who would have done very well on a phone sex line and regularly punctuated with double entendres, it urged us to relax, wrap a towel around our waist and swim naked in the pool.

Despite my nervousness, I was eager to explore the place. The more expensive rooms faced the outdoor pool. It was completely enclosed, with a bar and covered deck at one end where people dined. We were on the same level as the sunning deck and dark room, one floor above the hot tub and two floors above the workout area, sauna/steamroom and second hot tub.

We've booked a room at the local bath house I observed, not without a little excitement.

The Blue Light Special agreed, thrilled that the gym was well equipped. I felt a little bad for him. It can't be much fun to be the most attractive guy in a gay environment with a low cal sugar daddy who is threatening to cancel your swim with the dolphins if you act like a pig.

Don't worry, he said, ever intuitive. I'm here with you.

Translation: if an opportunity did arise for the Blue Light Special, he would let the catch of the day know that I was part of the package.

Once I got a gander of the happy hour crowd gathered at the pool, however, my insecurity vanished. Most of the guests were older than me. More than one was crippled.

We kept our bathing suits on for a quick dip before the Blue Light Special grabbed a couple of light beers. The space really did look lovely at night with a nearly full moon shining above the gently swaying palms and a disco ball reflecting tiny squares of light on the water and chaise lounges. I finally relaxed.

The night attendant recommended El Siboney's, a Cuban restaurant, with only the vaguest of directions. It had begun to drizzle when we stepped outside. I made the mistake of wearing flip flops and by the time we finally found the place, in a residential neighborhood, the straps had worn a bloody groove in the skin above my right toe.

The simple food was cheap and plentiful and a couple of diners who looked as if they could have spent the day shooting a porn movie on location at the Island Club provided a welcome diversion. Too bad the Blue Light Special, who made good on his earlier promise to "invite" me to a meal (his term for treating), had his back to them while I leered.

We left dinner in a very good mood. It didn't last long when we ended up getting lost with each blaming the other for our predicament. Though this became the refrain of our trip, my injured feet intensified tonight's squabble. A bicyclist finally directed us away from the naval base back to Fleming Street.

The Blue Light Special borrowed a couple of porn videos at the front desk, each of which required a $20 deposit on my credit card. It took him longer to select his "bedtime stories" than our dinner entree. Daddy wasn't pleased.

Why don't you just watch the 24-hour porn channel in your room? asked the night attendant.

My sentiments exactly but I have learned not to try to reason with the Blue Light Special who studiously examined every cover before making his selection. Two hours later, the light from the TV awakened me. He finally had fallen asleep.