UP, UP & AWAY




The weather looked a little iffy when we awoke. The Blue Light Special went to the gym and I dashed off to the cemetery for a hasty second visit. I got to photograph everything I wanted to, including a cherub bust and a monument to nearly 300 men who died on the U.S.S. Maine when it sunk in a Havana harbor after a powder explosion, an event that helped precipitate the Spanish American War.





Hard Sell had forecast the weather accurately, however, for our Power Adventure. The size of our group had increased to 14. It included a couple from the Netherlands and three guys and a girl from Paris. The captain; Snorkel Coach, an adorable surfer boy with blond dreadlocks and a grin as bright as Christopher Atkins in The Blue Lagoon; and Party Gal, a slightly tubby and maternal 20 something comprised our crew. I could have been the father of anybody aboard the sailboat except the Blue Light Special who probably was ten years older than the others.

The delivery of fresh scrambled eggs delayed our departure a bit. A couple from New Jersey began talking to me as we dug into the cinnamon rolls. He worked in construction and wanted to tell us ahead of time exactly what we would be doing. She wore a Madonna t-shirt but didn't recognize the name of her latest release. Fortunately, the captain demanded our attention before I could get stuck in the morass of their pleasant but unstimulating conversation.

Almost as soon as we left the harbor, the Blue Light Special began obsessing about the cheap black sunglasses he had purchased just for the trip along with a floating lanyard the night before. The film on the lenses kept flaking off when he tried to wipe away the salt spray even when I provided him with the soft cloth I use to clean my Ray Bans.

You're just making it worse I admonished, resisting the temptation to add You get what you pay for.

It took us nearly an hour to reach our first destination in the open ocean. Snorkel Coach provided some perfunctory lessons as well as the admission that the choppy seas might make it difficult for the Blue Light Special and me, the only two first-timers aboard. Nevertheless, we gamely donned our masks and flippers and descended into water as warm as it ever gets off Fire Island. I was so thankful I had chosen the sunset sail over the free wetsuit option offered by Hard Sell the day before.

I couldn't quite get the hang of breathing until Snorkel Coach hollered Pull the mask strap farther up on your head, behind the crown. Suddenly I began sucking air not seawater through the snorkel tube. This, along with earlier advice to apply lip balm and suntan lotion to my mustache to make a better seal for the mask, ensured the generosity of the tip that inevitably would be requested at the end of the day.

The know-it-all construction worker had told me that the reef was mostly dead so my expectations already were low, not a bad state of mind an inexperienced beginner. Though the reef lacked the vibrant color and gently waving tentacles I had seen through the bottom of a glass bottom boat in the Great Barrier Reef, there were plenty of angel and parrot fish. The 45 minutes passed as quickly as the crew had predicted and the silence of the activity came as a welcome respite from the Blue Light Special's whining about his sunglasses.

As we headed to a more protected area near the harbor, Party Girl and Snorkel Coach served a big lunch that lived up to Hard Sell's hype with cold cuts, several varieties of bread and salads, and unlimited shrimp. It would have cost the two of us $40 at a restaurant, leaving me very happy if a little self-conscious in the new Nike swimming briefs I was wearing. Everyone else, even the Blue Light Special and his fellow Europeans, wore knee length trunks. I wondered how we must appear to the crew and other passengers.

Fortunately, the Power Adventure didn't give us a lot of time for self-conscious reflection. Shortly after swallowing our last shrimp, we arrived at a floating dock manned by the Shouter. The crew divided us into two groups. The Shouter instructed us how to operate a pair of Waverunners, each of which could carry two passengers, until the parasailing boat arrived to take away the first group.

Driving the Waverunners was clearly the riskiest activity from Sebago's perspective given their lack of control over the vehicles once we boarded them. It also explained the absence of beer, which flows like water in Key West, during lunch.

Make sure you check the baffle underneath the engine for seaweed before you turn on the ignition, commanded the Shouter. Don't get within 100 yards of any other vehicle, including the other Waverunner that will be in use. And if you have a drink, we'll cut off your pink wristband which means you can't ride.

The Blue Light Special and I swam to the water trampoline, a kind of holding station for anybody not engaged in another activity, where we waited less than 15 minutes for our first turn. I told him he could drive the first time mostly because I had more confidence in his ability to follow technical instructions. Boarding the Waverunner gave me the only trouble of the day as I had to pull myself up over the steep rear seat using only my arms.

I held on to the back of the seat like I had learned to do on a motorcycle while we zipped around, circling the dock as instructed and staying out no longer than our allotted ten minutes. The Blue Light Special's innate caution always surprises me. I realized we would have to wait until it was my turn to drive before we hit full throttle.

The parasailing boat returned to the dock a few minutes after we turned the Waverunner over to another couple making me realize how short our ride in the sky actually would be. No matter-- once the two-man crew had untangled a parachute and conducted a hushed conversation about how to handle the problem of an obese couple, six of us jumped into the boat for the literal high point of the day. We all agreed to be photographed at $15 a pop.

After the Dutch couple had ascended, the guy driving the boat pointed to the obese couple and said You two will have to go up separately. Initially, the woman protested that she was scared to do it alone, but when it became clear that the boat couldn't handle two tons of fun, she tearfully insisted that her husband be given twice as much time aloft. The crew wasn't happy, but acceded to her request when nobody squawked. I love you, honey he said in farewell.



Our turn came last. We put our legs through a pair of nylon harnesses that would function as seats once we were airborne and moved to the small deck at the back of the boat. The driver accelerated, the rainbow parachute filled with air and lifted us gradually 100 feet above the water. We marveled at the view.

It's a little like being at the top of a ferris wheel observed the Blue Light Special.

The driver slowed the boat down and dipped us into the water before accelerating again while his mate, who also had served as photographer, reeled us in for a completely dry landing. Both of us were giddy with excitement.

Yet another boat pulled up alongside the dock, towing a heavy duty inflated raft called a banana boat. We boarded with the Dutch couple. I sat behind the Blue Light Special with the Dutch guy beside me, our feet behind us, while we gripped a pair of protruding plastic handles. It didn't appear to require any skill. Wrong! When the driver hit the gas hard and turned sharply as he pulled away from the dock, all of us fell into the water, laughing along with everybody watching from the dock.

Now that we knew to hang on for dear life and lean into the turns as if we were water skiing, the driver tried to throw us a second time. He succeeded only with the Dutch couple. Hard Sell had promised us the banana boat would be the most fun of the day and it was.

Athough Party Girl and Snorkel Coach already had opened the tap when we returned to the dock, the faster of the two Waverunners was available. Give me speed over beer anyday. I took my turn in the driver's seat while the Blue Light Special wrapped his arms tightly around my waist.

That's not how you're supposed to hold on I said.

He ignored me. I was thrilled. When I opened the throttle as far as it would go, he screamed for me to slow down. I ignored him. We were thrilled.

Once again we stayed within our allotted time. Now both Waverunners were available and everybody but the New Jersey couple had lost their pink wristbands. A smart move on their part, and one obviously based on prior experience. They each got at least a 20-minute ride on their own Waverunner. The Shouter finally had to give them the signal to return.

The beer flowed freely during the leisurely ride back to the Sebago berth in the Key West Bight. Party Girl gave the Blue Light Special the remaining shrimp.

Throw the shells over the side she said, an instruction that appalled me until I saw how quickly the garbage attracted ravenous schools of fish who cleaned the water instantly. I don't know who was happier chowing down on the shrimp, the Blue Light Special or the fish. All the sun and activity had mellowed us out completely. It was easy to understand why Party Girl had moved to Key West after graduating from college in New Hampshire.

My job is talking to people she said, refilling our plastic cups a third time, and telling me to avoid South Beach at all costs over Super Bowl weekend because of traffic jams.

It would have been a perfect day except for the nagging worry about how much I would be expected to tip. I decided $25 would take care of Snorkel Coach, Party Girl and the Shouter. The Blue Light Special begged me to let him be the one to drop the bills in the tip jar when we walked off the boat. Instead, I gave him $5 to tip the guy who had taken our parasailing photo.

Back at the Island House, the Blue Light Special hit the gym a second time. I lounged by the pool, eyeing the only attractive patron who emerged from his room in a light blue polo shirt that flattered his well-defined chest, chatting on a cell phone. Insecure about being alone, I thought, while listening to dance music on my i-Pod.

When the guy returned a few minutes later, still talking on his phone as he took a seat on one of the chaise lounges, I cut him less slack. Probably an attorney, I thought, overhearing what only could have been a business-related conversation conducted at a volume loud enough to be heard across the pool. The kind of guy who could spoil the day or even the trip if he and the Blue Light Special hooked up. So when the Blue Light Special came upstairs to swim a couple lengths in the pool, I watched the two of them like a hawk.

Just remember you haven't swum with the dolphins yet, I said, playfully, when he emerged from the water, but relieved that it was time to leave for the Mallory Square sunset celebration, the final item on our "must do" list.



A flow of like-minded tourists literally swept us into Mallory Square where everyone in Key West, including the passengers from the two enormous cruise ships that were docked in the harbor, was gathering. Performers and venders set up shop daily to take advantage of the crowds.

The rapid click and flashbulbs of cameras at sunset must rival what was heard outside the Orlando courtroom during the arraignment of the diaper-wearing astronaut. Or during the press conference that the coroner's office in Ft. Lauderdale called after Anna Nicole Smith was found dead in Ft. Lauderdale. What is it about the Sunshine State, anyway?



I had hoped my own clicks would capture a flash of green, an unusual and rare phenomenon that requires very specific atmospheric conditions according to the self appointed master of ceremonies and a movie of the same name I once had seen. It wasn't to be. The cliched picture I did get, with gulls and sails adding a little garnish to sky and water, wasn't particularly evocative. Perhaps watching twenty years of remarkably similar sunsets over the Great South Bay in the Pines have jaded me although I can't say that my equally long enjoyment of the hunk parade there diminished my enjoyment of a stunningly gorgeous young gymnast. If I hadn't been all tipped out, his flexibility and exuberance might have tempted me to throw $5 into his hat.

I wonder if Thug Lover did this when he was here in '96? asked the Blue Light Special.

Thug Lover was here in '96? I demanded.

Yes, why? he asked.

Because, you asshole, it explains what I thought I heard at the restaurant last night when you were talking to him in German.

The Blue Light Special smiled. I didn't.



Neither of us were hungry enough for a real dinner so we shared a slice of Key lime pie with meringue topping at the Blond Giraffe. We also spotted the Shouter working his night job in front of local bar where he lured passersby with a performing parrot. As soon as he recognized us, however, I jerked the Blue Light Special away, whispering I would rather go back and tip the gymnast than this guy again.

We embarked on what I thought would be a quixotic search for fresh fruit and vegetables along Duval Street. Soon enough, however, the Blue Light Special, determined to have a healthy snack later, found a storefront displaying a limited selection of produce. Like everyone else in the free-spirit destination, the vender who handed him an overpriced tomato and red pepper to take to the cash register also expected to be tipped.

The Blue Light Special spent the next hour looking for the cheapest possible t-shirt to commemorate his Key West visit. My irritation grew as we entered store after store until he finally decided to have one custom-made.

We repeated our routine of the night before at the Island House, briefly, but both of us were too tired to hunt seriously for a threesome among the very slim pickings. We settled instead for trying to figure out why the video camera wasn't working. Hooking it up to direct current proved that the battery had died. Neither of us could resist the opportunity to interview one another about the trip but my earlier irritation returned and escalated when the Blue Light Special insisted on watching two more porno videos while I tried to sleep.

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?

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.