Welp, summer’s ending, just like she does every year. This was a good one — Mary-Anne and I managed to get to the shore almost every weekend. I did a little crabbing, Mary-Anne got real into that stand-up paddle boarding, and when the kids were with us, they had a blast swimming. Yup, we had a perfect Jersey shore-filled summer. My only regret is that it’s ending and I still haven’t figured out which beach is that gay beach.
I just… I just want to know which one it is. Don’t ask me why — I’m not sure. Am I gay? I don’t think so. I’ve been with Mary-Anne for 27 years and only dated women before her. I’m not saying I can’t appreciate a handsome, well-built man when I see one. But I’ve sincerely never wanted to have relations with another man.
No, it’s something else.
When I see pictures of gay guys on beaches they all seem… more evenly tanned. Their swimsuits fit better. Their picnics look like magazine picnics. Even their dogs look better in the sand than my dogs. I want to go to that beach, the gay beach. I know it exists. Every gay man in my office always sees each other at the beach and they don’t go to the beach together. I think their beach might be fundamentally better in some way and I want to hang out there, just for a day.
Perhaps its ideally situated in relation to the hole in the o-zone layer and that’s why gay, beach-going men get a more even tan. Maybe there’s a row of shops there that sells perfect swimsuits and pre-made picnics that feature hard cheeses and white sangria. I don’t know, again, I couldn’t find the beach. But I’ve got a few days left. I’m gonna find that gay beach.