WEIGHING OPTIONS

You won't be able to take a poop here the Blue Light Special reported upon returning to our table at the International House of Pancakes. There's no lock on the door. If you really have to go, we can drive to the Aventura mall.

Even though I had been complaining about my lack of regularity It didn't take me long to figure out why he was being so solicitous of my bowels.

Why not just admit you have to go instead of pretending that we're doing something for my benefit? I demanded, shaking my head over his transparent attempts at manipulation. Is this what they call intimacy? And who do you think was able to "leave something behind" (as he euphemistically prefers to put it) at the Aventura Mall?

The intermittent morning sun belied the overcast weather report so we went back to Haulover Beach which was much more crowded. We took along the pretzels and remaining cranberry juice and found a spot in the midst of several other gay men, including a thong-wearing Latino who provided the trip's only real moment of sexual intrigue. Butt Flosser made eye contact with me more than once as he checked out the Blue Light Special who was removing his bright red bathing suit for a quick exhibitionistic dip in the ocean. As soon as another hot-to-trot guy lay down his towel nearby, Butt Flosser redirected his attention but when the clouds rolled in, announcing Mother Nature's last call, he got up to go when we did, leaving the other guy behind.

Butt Flosser reached the parking lot ahead of us and waited in his car for several minutes as we began changing into our dry clothes. Then he left, before driving past and re-parking directly across from us a few minutes later. For some reason, however, he avoided making eye contact, but as soon as we started the car he pulled out in front of us.

OK, let's play his game as long as it doesn't take us out of our way I suggested as we exited the parking lot.

We followed Butt Flosser north on US A1A while he chatted on his cell phone and signaled a left hand turn. I drew the line when he stopped at a gas station. Was one of us supposed to pull up alongside him and make small talk about the price at the pump?

If we want to get to Disneyworld by 8 p.m. we better end this right now I said though I could tell from the Blue Light Special's excitement that he wanted to keep pursuing it.

You never weigh your options I continued. Translation: why should we take the chance on finding ourselves in a situation that could produce serious tension and result in what I feared most, sexual rejection from a guy who didn't even particularly interest me?

The Blue Light Special acquiesced mildly enough and we began the longest leg of our journey, a 200 mile drive north. When I took the wheel and picked up the pace by rapidly changing lanes on I95, he began eating pretzels and telling me how to drive.

I thought you were going to take a nap I said, slipping Confessions on a Dance Floor into the CD player and turning the volume way up when it became clear he preferred to torture me instead. There's nothing like the bass on a car stereo to silence a back seat driver and the sound of his self-satisfied munching.

We missed the turn off for the Florida Turnpike at Jupiter (my fault of course), which required a detour at Ft. Pierce. Even with just two lanes, however, Florida Highway 60 west to Yeehaw Junction was a lot less congested. Lined with orange and lemon trees that appeared almost ready for harvest, it actually felt like we were in Florida for half an hour instead of a heavy machinery conveyor belt.

Everybody on the Turnpike drove at least 80 mph so, after a brief stop to pick up Cinnabon rolls for Sunday's breakfast, we reached Kissimmee by 7 p.m. Finding the All Star Movie Resort at Disneyworld gave us a lot more trouble, especially at night in the rain. It also required a security check. But the guard at the gate didn't even notice that the Blue Light Special flashed my driver's license instead of his own.

Chatty Kathy, a "cast member" at the reception desk (all Disney employees are known as cast members) checked us in and told us that she and her family adored New York City. Was this her way of letting us know she was cool with a male couple staying at the family resort?

If so, it worked because I was much more comfortable making small talk with this mother of two college age children who told me that she and her husband slept in separate bedrooms than I had been with the front desk employees at the gay guest houses. Nor did Chatty Kathy seem particularly surprised that we were staying in the least expensive child friendly accommodations even though the reservation agent had tried to persuade me to book a room at one of the nominally more expensive resorts that cater to adults. I had stubbornly refused, wanting to experience Disneyworld in much the same way that most Americans do.

After Chatty Kathy explained that she hadn't understood that she was hearing a severe weather warning on the radio while driving home the night before, I told her what had happened when I called to determine whether or not we should make the drive north.

Whoever picked up the phone ended our conversation with `have a magical day' even though we had just been discussing tornado damage to the area and the cool, rainy forecast! I said.

You needn't have worried. Disneyworld NEVER closes she said with a slightly subversive twinkle, handing us a map. You guys made my night.



A huge sorcerer's apprentice hat marked the Fantasia complex where we were staying. Ducks, dalmatians and dancing broomsticks were among the enormous "All-Star Movie" icons that identified the other two-story family warehouses. The theme continued inside with Mickey Mouse adorning the soap, shampoo and bedspread, and stars all over the black shower curtain. A mounted wall lamp looked like a bag of popcorn until you turned it on. Even the washcloths had been folded into the shape of mouse ears.

The room was comfortable enough but lacked either a microwave or a refrigerator. Nor did the windows open. The handicapped-accessible bathroom didn't have a tub, just a drain in the middle of the tiled floor which probably facilitated cleaning. I began to feel a little like livestock.

After unpacking and fighting over who would get to keep the Mickey Mouse shampoo bottle, we escaped to Kissimmee for dinner. We ate at Chili's--a chain favored by the Thug Lover--where the food was reasonably priced and much tastier than I thought it would be. By the time we finished sharing some kind of rich chocolate dessert neither of us were up to exploring Orlando's gay nightlife.

I dozed on the way back to the hotel, not knowing that the Blue Light Special had gotten lost and not much caring when I did find out. But then he awoke me from a sound sleep by getting up in the middle of the night and turning on the light to adjust the air conditioner. Despite my fury at being awakened, the room did get a lot more comfortable when he used his shoe to open the chained door a crack, allowing moist air to circulate in our stall.

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.

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.