WHEN IN ROME . . .

I laid in bed, brooding, while the Blue Light Special went to the gym for his morning workout. Whatever possessed me to take this vacation with an inconsiderate porn addict? What am I doing with my life?

My mood grew even darker when we went downstairs for breakfast by the pool. He didn't think twice about ordering orange juice, a couple of eggs (one yolk only, please), an English muffin and yogurt even though he knows I've been trying to keep our expenses as low as possible. Resentment and the shirtless, fat men at the table next to us forced me to look down as I martyred myself with granola, fruit and free coffee.

Equipped with a map we started our exploration of Old Town at the end of the Bight Harbor closest to the Island House. A statue honored Henry Flagler, the 19th century industrialist whose railroad began the Florida real estate boom that even he might have second thoughts about today. But what I had thought was picturesque upon arrival curdled into manufactured charm for the masses by the time we reached Duval Street and Mallory Square.




While the Blue Light Special agonized over the perfect post card, I stopped at the Sebago Tours booth to inquire about the cost of renting personal watercraft (PWC) for an afternoon. Hard Sell, a very persuasive salesman with a pierced ear, informed me that their Power Adventure was a much better deal. It lasted from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and included snorkeling, parasailing, time on a PWC and a banana boat ride, plus a full breakfast and lunch.

I'm not much of a bargainer but when I told Hard Sell that I wasn't sure if the weather forecast was warm enough to do everything he had described comfortably, he said that he'd throw in a pair of wetsuits.

I have to discuss it with my friend, I said, suspicious of his high-pressure tactics but eager to find an outdoor alternative to the Hemingway and Audubon houses, the only commercial tourist attractions that remotely interested me.

Guy or girl? he inquired, instantly assessing my sexual orientation.

The Blue Light Special didn't seem particularly enthused at first. He changed his tune when I dragged him out of the souvenir shop and he saw the video presentation and the binder of photos.

Can we sign up tomorrow morning? I asked.

Desperate to secure two more passengers (We don't like to go out with fewer than 10 people), Hard Sell offered free passage on a Sunset Champagne Cruise that evening, a $39 value. I told him we'd still have to think about it and walked away grateful that this scenario would limit our options for getting into trouble at the hotel.

I've been in this business for 15 years and I can tell you that you don't have to worry about the weather, he shouted after us. The temperature will be in the low 80s.



Before reaching the most southern point in the United States, which is marked by a large concrete buoy, we had decided that the package, at $119 each, couldn't be beat. $60 cheaper than swimming with the dolphins, it also would be a non-gay activity that we both could enjoy but as we walked towards Key West Garden Club, the Blue Light Special nearly spoiled my growing excitement.



If you want to do it, then we should. But I'm only going for you and if you're worried about the cost, you should go by yourself he said walking into a restroom.

We were near Higgs Beach, currently populated by several homeless families. They had struck camp with their shopping carts near a picnic area with barbecue grills. Nearly everyone had a deeply tanned face but few had a complete set of teeth. I averted my eyes and photographed the tropical mural on the restroom and the tiny teddy bear a child had left behind at one of the tables.





The Key West AIDS Memorial offered another unavoidable reminder of social issues and may have explained why the Blue Light Special, who is concerned about his HIV status, changed his tune about the Power Adventure. As we walked out onto adjoining White Street Pier, we caught sight of a boat that was towing a couple of parasailors and dipping them repeatedly into the water. Who can resist floating in blue skies over turquoise water, especially if you're worried that you may never have another opportunity?



You'll be joining a wedding party of 35 on this evening's sunset sail warned Hard Sell back at the Sebago Tours booth on Duval Street. Things might get a little rowdy, but you'll be OK he said. And you're going to have a great time tomorrow.

I grudgingly accompanied the Blue Light Special into a gallery featuring the world's foremost dolphin "artist" but I drew the line when he started to look for t-shirts.

This is the only time I'll be able to visit the cemetery I said.

It would have been better had we split up to do the things we each wanted to do on our own but the Blue Light Special doesn't like shopping without someone to discuss his purchases.

The cemetery, an historic landmark, would make a great location for a horror movie because at least twice as many people are buried there as live in Key West. The lush tropical decay and overgrowth added to the creepiness factor but my camera battery and the Blue Light Special's patience for my ghoulish hobby ran out before we found the self-guided tour brochure.



I'll come back tomorrow morning while you're at the gym I announced, resentfully.

En route back to the Island House to pick up some warmer clothes for the sunset sail, he confessed that I reminded him of his grandmother.

She made me go to the cemetery with her when I was very young. I used to get scared he explained.

Why didn't you just say so? I asked, sympathetically, not really caring if I was being manipulated again or not but less than thrilled with his comparison.

Given the number of occasions the Blue Light Special has kept me waiting, I'm always amazed by how quickly he can get ready when he has to be somewhere on time, like for a flight to the Pines or a sunset cruise on a 60 foot sailboat in Key West. In fact, we arrived a little early. I felt more than a little self conscious about being the elder half of the only gay couple as we boarded and found seats below deck amidst a much younger crowd clearly waiting for the party to begin.



Still, you get to be a certain age, and you just don't give a shit about what other people think, even if you have dressed as inconspicuously as possible while your companion is wearing a bright red jacket that says Hamburg along with a matching pair of sunglasses. No, you just take his picture when the captain asks if anybody would like to steer the boat and then you take some more photos at the prow as he strikes a Kate Winslet pose from Titanic, a Kodak moment that none of the others think to capture in spite of the buttery light and peachy skies.



And then you're so thankful that the crew members keep filling your plastic cup with free booze and making polite conversation that you tip them $10 when most of the other passengers are shoving singles in the proffered jar at the conclusion of what has been a romantic if slightly dull evening with the man who drives you absolutely crazy.

Then you take the free drink coupons Sebago Tours provided when you signed up for their package and take them to the Half Shell Raw Bar, one of three marina restaurants where they can be redeemed, and you listen to your companion call his former lover and current means of support to describe what he has been doing.

And then, in an effort to make small talk and demonstrate your limited command of German, you ask him why the number 96 came up in his conversation. When he insists that it didn't and your entrees arrive, you offer a taste of your fried conch or white rubber and then you drain your margarida like everyone else in Key West.



Once we had examined the various license plates that adorned the restaurant, we returned to the Island House with a pleasant buzz and hung out for a bit in our cramped, but cozy room. The Blue Light Special used the needle and thread he had purchased in Ft. Lauderdale to repair his suitcase while I edited my digital photos and listened to bath house-appropriate music in i-Tunes. Eventually, the Blue Light Special joined me on the bed writing postcards in German. Because of our easy comraderie, I was hurt he hadn't mentioned me or used the first person plural pronoun when he translated what he had written.

Outside our door, the pudgy new guy with whom we were sharing our bathroom kept clearing his throat. Earlier in the day, just after checking in, he had made it abundantly clear that he would have slept with us in any combination by nodding and looking back over his shoulder whenever our paths crossed, alone or together. I felt like we were starring in The Ritz, Terrence McNally's pre-AIDS Broadway farce, set in a gay bath house with our neighbor playing the Jack Weston role.

He probably thinks we're having sex I giggled. Instead you're sewing and I'm on the computer. Let's have some fun and really get him going.

The Blue Light Special eagerly obliged. He turned the porn channel on up to full volume and began humping the bed so that the springs squeaked loudly while I moaned ecstatically. The throat clearing stopped.

A little later, almost as if life were imitating art, we did make full, if unfulfilled, use of the facilities. We wrapped the standard light green bath towels around our waists, checked out the dark room, rebuffed an unsolicited grope in the tepid steam room, moved into the very hot sauna, frolicked naked in an empty pool and then hit the ground floor hot tub where a sweet but not particularly attractive white boy from Washington, DC tried very hard to seduce us.

Instead, I settled for the best night sleep I'd had yet despite the flickering of the TV screen and the shaking of the bed next to me as the Blue Light Special watched "Deep South." Who could blame him with Jason Hawke opening wide for Chris Steele in the New Orleans pokey?