SPIT ON THE BAIT

We had a 9 a.m. reservation to redeem half of my Christmas gift to the Blue Light Special, an opportunity to swim with the dolphins at the Dolphin Research Center in Grassy Key, 90 minutes north. This required an early check out and the return of two porno videos before we could get going.

Is your partner checking out, too? asked the officious desk clerk.

Yes, but he's always right behind me, I said.

I'll bet he is he smirked, inaccurately. No doubt he noticed the student discount as he deleted the $40 porno deposit from my bill. I wondered if I should tell him that someone had been drinking from the nearly empty bottle of vodka that we had left behind in our room.

With no other gay guesthouses on our itinerary, we bid farewell to the Island House and my fears of sexual jealousy spoiling our trip. We gassed up at Circle K, where I picked up a blueberry muffin and cup of coffee.

Don't forget to spit on the bait the cashier said to the man in front of me, who had told her he was going fishing.

I repeated the line and the context to the Blue Light Special who was waiting in the car.

Maybe you should have spit on ME back at the Island House he observed.

Very funny I replied, realizing, a little uneasily, that my leverage over him was also scheduled to end at 1 p.m. that afternoon once he and Flipper had completed their pas de deux.



Although we had given ourselves the allotted time for the drive to Grassy Key, the presence of a Florida Highway state trooper on our tail for a good third of the ride slowed us down and increased the stress level as we listened to Cat Stevens's Greatest Hits--the Blue Light Special is crazy for Yusuf's "An Other Cup"--and marveled at the rising sun's reflection on the vast expanse of water that surrounded us.

For a few tense moments we thought we might have passed the Dolphin Research Center, but when we did spot it, a few minutes before 9 a.m., the place hadn't even opened for business. By the time it did, a small crowd of children and adults had gathered in front, most of whom, like me, were accompanying registered swimmers who first had to complete a 45-minute training session.

The leader, one of those gosh golly smiley types, congratulated us for choosing the safe way to swim with the dolphins and provided us with a brief history of the facility that had been established by Flipper's first trainer, who apparently thought his star was a porpoise. She also apologized for the lack of certain amenities, including changing rooms and shower stalls, blaming the previous season's hurricanes.

I know some of you have been told that dolphins are very sensitive to sun tan oil but you don't have to worry about that here the leader said cheerily. There's lots worse in the Gulf waters where you'll be swimming.

I got the sense that DRC spent very little on upkeep and provided only enough education to qualify as a non-profit organization. Had I made a mistake in discouraging the Blue Light Special from choosing a commercial operation when we were planning the trip? Nor did I entirely believe the rap about how excited the dolphins were to be interacting with people as I observed the Blue Light Special from an area that was too far away to take good photos. After each trick or interaction, the trainers fed the dolphins fresh fish. If not cruel, it seemed mildly exploitive. And although the leader had insisted that spontaneous encounters in the wild were dangerous for both the dolphins and people, it sounded more like a party line.



The leader divided the swimmers into two groups of six. The Blue Light Special's group included a pair of German women in their early 40s. We struck up a brief friendship the Frankfurt Frauleins when I offered to serve as their photographer. It proved to be the most enjoyable part of the day for me even though it entailed an awkward explanation of why I wouldn't be joining them on the swimming platform. How do you tell three very enthusiastic people that you don't entirely approve of what they're doing?

At least the experience pretty much lived up to the Blue Light Special's expectations. He complained only the first group of swimmers, which was being videotaped and exhibited as part of a public show, got to be towed by two dolphins instead of just one, Kibby.

Of course I was peeved that the staff photographer, who to stood on the dock near the swimmer's platform, got the money shot: the Blue Light Special, submerged from the waist down, holding Kibby's long nose, the hardest part of her body, against his cheek in a faux kiss. Ka-ching. There goes another $10.

In addition to petting, kissing and towing, the swim also included making movements that the dolphins could imitate. I had hoped the Blue Light Special would try the cute Egyptian dance I find so amusing but he settled instead for something the trainer suggested and swayed back and forth. Kibby emulated him perfectly. I wondered how long it had been since she had eaten last and if she would have been so cooperative with a full belly.



My cynicism, fueled by ignorance, increased when we decided to stay for lunch. A woman eating what appeared to be a reasonably priced chicken salad directed us to a trailer that served food within sight of the dolphin holding pens. A menu posted on a chalk board advertised a "mahi mahi" sandwich.

You not only get to swim with the dolphins here, you get to eat them too I joked to the Frankfurt Frauleins who had joined us and ordered veggie burgers.

We learned they had begun their trip a week earlier in Orlando where they had rented a dirty recreational vehicle and endured days of chilly rain and traffic jams. I assumed they were lesbians but neither made any admission when I referred to myself as a gay man living in New York at one point. Instead, they asked how 9/11 had changed the city. This led to a long discussion of the differences between New York City and the rest of the United States. I encouraged them to visit and find out for themselves.

Don't worry, people up north take better care of their teeth and use public transportation I assured them.

By the time we hit the road, the temperature had risen to the mid 80s, the highest it had been during the entire trip. We kept the top down for a detour over a toll bridge through a completely undeveloped landscape that made me want to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the Everglades. The Blue Light Special wanted to stick to our original plan, however, and when we reached the Florida Turnpike at Homestead we headed to the gay beach in North Miami.



The $5 admission fee at Haulover Beach didn't seem so bad in comparison to the $300 rate we had been quoted for a room at an EconoLodge in Pembroke Pines. The pleasant black woman who took our money pointed toward the parking lot closest to the nude beach.

How did you know that was where we wanted to go? I teased.

After changing into our swimwear at the car, we took an underpass below US A1A and emerged onto a beach flanked on either side by enormous construction projects. Men and women alike looked as if they were attired in butterscotch leather from head to toe. Some strolled about. Others played volleyball. Venders tried to make a buck renting umbrellas and chaise lounges but by this hour more people were leaving than arriving.

Some slim guy with a dick that literally hung halfway down to his knees walked toward us almost as soon as we had chosen a spot near the aquamarine water to put down our foam rubber mat.

I guess I can't go in right away said the Blue Light Special, nodding toward his spontaneous erection.

Yeah, maybe it's time to spit on the bait I replied when Tube Sock passed without paying either of us the slightest bit of attention.

The subject of the Blue Light Special's immigration status came up as we sat there, chatting. When I predicted he would have to go back to Germany eventually unless he found someone to marry, he lashed out at me.

You're probably too old for Tube Sock he said.

Things went downhill from there. We argued about what to do next. He wanted to go to South Beach or spend the night at the baths in Ft. Lauderdale. I vetoed both suggestions on the grounds that I thought they were impractical but did agree to stop at Leather Werks, the company that had sold us his codpiece during the International International Mr. Leather contest last summer in Chicago.

A good looking guy helped him pick out a studded leather armband that matched his codpiece when the other accessories he was considering were beyond his price range. I was in no financial position or mood to offer a subsidy. It surprised me when he handed over his $40, depleting what I thought was the last of his cash even though he had said he would "invite" me to dinner again.

Another customer desperately tried to make small talk with us but my tolerance for casual jokes about brightly colored butt plugs and dildos the size of anacondas is limited. I made the mistake of asking the manager to recommend a cheap motel. The two of them spent the next 10 minutes calling overpriced guesthouses that catered to the leather crowd. Fortunately, there were no vacancies.

We decided to eat at Hamburger Mary's in Wilton Manors, which had been recommended by a friend and was advertised in the Ft. Lauderdale Fun Map. It turned out to be the same address as Rosie's where we had eaten during the first night of the trip. A guy in the parking lot, after confirming that the name had changed recently, encouraged us to eat at the Italian place across the street.

It's just as gay and the food is good he said.

Meanwhile, the Blue Light Special called Thug Lover back in Chicago to get the phone numbers of some nearby Motel 6's, where I hoped we might be able to find cheaper accommodations.

Why would anybody want to go to Orlando? asked the Thug Lover in a deft act of sabotage.

We were dimly aware that the area had been struck by a freak tornado but the weather at tomorrow's destination had not yet been a factor in my tortured decision making process about where to spend the night. When I called Disneyworld to ask if it had been damaged, the operator told me that the only thing we had to worry about was the wet and windy forecast.

When the Blue Light Special couldn't decide what topping he wanted on the pizza we ordered, I snapped.

It isn't a life or death decision I hissed. Just make a selection.

The waitress asked the Blue Light Special if I was OK when I left the table to use the restroom. My misery over his eagerness to hit the bars or the baths on a Saturday night might have been embarrassingly obvious, but it also helped me decide on our next move. Instead of driving north, we would stay put in the first local motel that had a vacancy for $100 or less. This way, we could pop the top on our convertible at least one more morning.

Checking into the Budget Motel on US 1 just south of downtown Ft. Lauderdale lifted by spirits instantly. It was run by an Indian family who, when we pulled in, were socializing on top of the former swimming pool, now filled with concrete. Although it lacked the amenities we had found at the Cabanas and the Island House, the large clean room had everything we needed and reminded me of childhood auto trips with my parents.

The Blue Light Special must have thought I was crazy when I suggested that we go back to Wilton Manors for a drink.

I have just two conditions I said. You're buying and we're back here by 12:30.

He couldn't wait to show off his new armband even after I made fun of him for wearing it with red sneakers. The drinks that had cost me $3 (including tip) at Georgie's Alibi on Sunday cost him $9, giving me a certain childish satisfaction.

Credit Petula Clark, however, for really salvaging the night. The VJ played an unfamiliar and extended mix of Downtown, the first single I ever purchased. It propelled us into Boom, a much livelier dance club just a few doors away in the mini-mall. In no time at all, we were dancing along to Jennifer Hudson's "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going," no easy feat. As soon as I pointed out a shirtless circuit boy, the Blue Light Special took his off, too. No doubt about it: the older guy in the green Milwaukee t-shirt was with the hottest guy in the place.

Too bad he had to insist he knew a better way back to the Budget Inn. The night ended with another fight, albeit the kind that seems more characteristic of a married couple. And although the Blue Light Special once again fell asleep with the TV on, I didn't mind so much because it wasn't thrusting cocks on the screen that awakened me.