I had approximately one hour of sleep last night. I got back to the hotel, set my alarm, fell asleep at 6:30 a.m., and was out of bed by 7:30 a.m. Today was doomed from the start.

I packed my things for Fire Island in the dark, most of which I was smart enough to prepare last night before the bar. After a quick shower, I left the hotel room and made my way to Penn Station, where Kevin Sutherland and his Ivy Leaguer friends were waiting. The only one of Kevin’s friends I already knew was Trent Jackson. However, Trent and I aren’t the most compatible of personalities, so I barely talked to him today. Instead, I made friends with a few of the new guys and we boarded the train together.

To get to Fire Island from New York City, you have to take two subways, two trains, a bus, and a ferry. The entire journey takes about two hours. With my complete lack of sleep and having had no food in my body since yesterday’s brunch, I was feeling quite loopy. After the first train ride, all of which I spent talking to a random girl about Mariah Carey, the group transferred to our second train.

I took my seat beside Sterling, one of Kevin’s friends. This guy was fucking nuts. In a good way! You could tell Sterling was down to party all the time, but he was also fresh out of the closet. That came as quite the surprise to me, as the boy was very flamboyant. It was only once Sterling stood up on the train and I was blinded by the reflective patches on his Under Armour coordinates that I could see how someone might think he was a breeder.

Kevin and his friends weren’t fucking around. The group of trust fund babies had clearly made the trip to Fire Island many times before, as evidenced by the two bottles of expensive French Champagne they busted out to drink on the train. Everyone had a good laugh when I refused to drink out of a plastic cup, and instead pulled a glass flute out of my bag. As if! Later, one of Kevin’s friends told me that not many people could pull off a glass champagne flute on a commuter train the way I did, and he thought it was hilarious. That guy was Cooper, one of the gays who I became pretty good friends with throughout the day. More on that later, though.

We had finally arrived in Sayville. After a delayed bus transfer to the ferry terminal, we had unfortunately missed the boat and had to wait for the next one. I was completely out of sorts. In a weird way, though. It was the kind of fucked-up where I couldn’t tell the difference between what was alcohol-induced looniness, and what was sleep and food deprivation. Truth be told, I don’t even think I had sobered up from the night before.

Our large group of gays sat together on the dock of the ferry terminal. While others ordered food and drinks from the café, I tried to rest in my chair. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen. What should have happened was me ordering lunch. I couldn’t do it, though. I had a crippling fear of developing a full stomach gut pon de beach, and didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. I had a few Goldfish pretzels and some water before we boarded the ferry and headed to Fire Island.

By the way, the crowd throughout this entire journey was the gayest thing I had ever seen. It was like the entire queer community of Toronto on a single train, then on the same ferry, and things only got crazier once we docked at the marina.

Fire Island was like a mirage. “Hanlan’s Point on steroids” doesn’t even begin to describe it. There were shirtless hunks everywhere, all dressed in what seemed to be the Fire Island uniform – Speedos. This was in addition to abs for days, rave music blasting everywhere, and hundreds of men dancing like their lives depended on it. It was insanity. I was in love. Had I found gay paradise?

We walked to the beach, and settled into a spot near the water. Half of the group went to play volleyball and the others stayed near the towels, drinking and listening to music. You can guess where I was.

It’s funny. Despite my body image anxiety being at an all-time high these days, I took my shirt off in front of these ripped gym rat gays in one fell swoop. It was now or never. Actually, it had to be now. It was a fucking scorcher today.

After a few flutes of the gin and water mixture I had brought along with me, I fell asleep on the sand. I don’t know how long I was out, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour. I knew I was half in the bag when I crawled across the beach to our neighbors’ setup and played with their fugly pugs. You know how I feel about dogs.

Kevin played “Vacation” for me, which had now officially become my theme song for the weekend. I had a conversation with another set of beach neighbors – a family with young kids and grandparents – about the Go-Go’s, as they were close friends with the drummer. I may have been shirtless during all of this, but I was still experiencing dangerously low levels of self-esteem. I was essentially doing anything I could to avoid interaction with the other fitness gays. What were we going to talk about, anyway? Clearly, none of them had ever eaten a chicken finger before.

I was under the impression that we would be spending our day pon de beach. Apparently, Kevin had other plans.

“There’s a house party taking place on the other side of the island,” Kevin said. “Entry is $20, and there’s an open vodka bar.”

This was a no brainer.

“When are we going?” I asked.

Before we began to pack up our things, Cooper wanted to go for a swim. We ran Baywatch-style into the water, and it was absolutely incredible. I’d forgotten the fact that we were on the ocean, and was pleasantly surprised by the refreshing temperature. I was in heaven – literally floating because of the salt water. Cooper and I talked for a while, and he jumped off my shoulders a few times. When the guys started yelling at us to leave, we swam back to the shore, packed up our things, and hit the dirt road.

At this point, I was beginning to fade. I was screwed. Speaking of which, I was hoping to hook up with at least one of Kevin’s friends. Based on a comment he made earlier on the train, I had a feeling it might be Sterling. I don’t even remember exactly what it was, but Sterling delivered the line with a devious smirk. I wanted to keep him on my radar.

After a decent trek across the island, we arrived at the house party. It was crazy. The event was being thrown by The Stonewall Foundation at a beach house that backed onto the water. Everything was stunning. Fire Island houses are typically set up with a wooden fence surrounding the property, along with a pool that is usually situated at the front of the house.

We paid our $20, walked through a weird Japanese garden just past the gate, and then turned the corner into the pool area. The party was absolutely insane. Gays everywhere – some clothed, but most in Speedos – an open vodka bar as promised, and a zoo of inflatable pool toys. I’m talking about golden geese, killer whales, flamingoes, swans, sharks – you name it. A full menagerie.

I was still rolling from the drinks I had pon de train and beach. If I’m being honest, last night’s drinks were probably still making their way through my system, too. As such, it didn’t take long for me to ditch my shirt, shoes, cross-body pouch, and Marc Jacobs bag in the corner behind the bar. I grabbed a drink, and quickly jumped in the pool. The sooner I disguised myself from the clavicle down, the better.

Much like Hanlan’s Point in Toronto, Fire Island is a very interesting place when it comes to recreation. Gay guys are very concerned with appearances. Despite the Atlantic Ocean and an endless supply of pools at their disposal, most of today’s queers opted to stand on the edge of the water in their thongs, showing off their freshly shaved bodies. The closest most guys came to getting in the pool was with their perfectly pedicured feet dangling off the edge. That’s no way to live life! The whole thing reminded me of Hanlan’s Point, where you have muscle men standing and socializing at the shore while I’m doing handstands and backflips in the deep-end.

Speaking of living life on the edge and back flipping into the deep-end, that’s a perfect way to describe my behavior today. Things were quickly going downhill. As usual, I failed to realize this in the moment.

While guzzling vodka like I had just returned from a 40-year journey through the desert, I spent some time with Cooper. We talked about boys, discovered that we’d both be in Montreal over Labor Day weekend, and were really hitting it off. Although I wouldn’t have been opposed to it, our conversation wasn’t romantically inclined. Cooper and I were simply talking as though we had been friends for years. If there’s one thing I like about myself, it’s that I have the ability to make friends with relative ease.

My socializing didn’t stop with Cooper. The more I drank, the more I became a social butterfly/mermaid – splashing around the pool, and interacting with anyone I found remotely entertaining. I ended up talking to a couple of girls who were at the party, which was a nice break from the constant barrage of washboard stomachs and bulging banana hammocks.

Wasted away in Margaritaville with my new friends – both of whom were now sprawled across a floating alligator – we talked and laughed with one another. I also noticed that one of the girls had a red drink in her cup, which looked different from what was being served at the bar.

“What kind of drink is that?” I asked.

“Want to try it?” the girl offered, keeping me in the dark.

Without missing a beat, I took the red party cup and had a few sips. Does anything good ever come from drinking out of a red party cup? The short answer is no. Of course, I’m not one for short answers.

“Mmm, that’s good,” I said. “What is it?”

As if it were the best question someone had ever asked her, the girl threw her arms up in the air and shouted, “Ecstasy!”

Pardon me? Ecstasy? Shit. Oh, well! There was nothing I could do about it now. I had a few more sips, and swam along.

Apart from the girls and their alligator, nobody was touching the animal pool floats. Did I miss a memo or something? Were they plagued by a new strand of chlamydia I hadn’t heard about? I don’t know. Nonetheless, when I noticed that the killer whale was free, I staked my claim and climbed aboard. I figured it had been a few months since my last STD. Given the demographics of this pool party, I was bound to end up with something anyway. So, why not just jump the shark – er, killer whale – when I had the chance?

With my new friend Shamu, I was all set. Shamu was the perfect accessory. I could be out of the water, but when I hugged the float, you couldn’t see the six-month-old fetus I was carrying inside my stomach. Cooper kept flipping me into the water, but I secretly loved the attention. Although, I’m sure I pissed off a few gays each time I would fall into the water and cause a tsunami to wash their makeup and hair product away.

A few drinks later, I found a new friend. Leave it to me to find the only grandma at an event. Yes. There was literally a grandma at this pool party, done up in full hair and makeup, huge sunglasses, and wearing more jewelry than a drag queen. The woman was simply too fabulous to ignore. Her name was Dottie, and we became instant friends. I even managed to get her on the golden goose float.

The party continued. Well, it continued for everyone except myself. I may have been physically present on Fire Island, but mentally, I was completely unavailable. I blacked out.

My next memory is wandering into the marina area, shirtless and completely alone with nothing but my cross-body pouch, shoes, and bathing suit. I had my wallet on me, but that was about it. Missing was my Marc Jacobs bag, t-shirt, iPhone, and everything else I had come to Fire Island with. Somehow, I managed to convince myself that one of the guys from the group had taken my bag home with them. I would simply pick it up later tonight. Of course, that could not have been further from the truth.

By some miracle, I ran into Cooper at the marina. I don’t remember what time it was, how we met up, or really anything else about our interaction. All I know is that we kept talking about how I should probably find a shirt. After all, it was a two-hour trip back to Manhattan. Sitting topless aboard a ferry, bus, two trains, and two subways might not be the best look.

I left Cooper at the marina and wandered into the small marketplace, looking for a shop that might have a shirt in my size. When I finally found a place that sold items other than lube and Speedos, I swiped my credit card and returned to the marina with my purchase. I don’t know how long I was gone, but clearly it was enough time for a ferry to have come, left, and for Cooper to have disappeared. When I looked down at my chest, I realized I had purchased an autographed t-shirt with a naked cartoon woman on it that read, “The Robin Byrd Show.”

I don’t know what was going through my head in this moment. Despite everything having gone horribly wrong, I remember being extremely calm about the situation. I was alone on Fire Island. I had lost all of my belongings. I was drunk and drugged out of my mind, and I had no way of communicating with anyone because I didn’t have a phone. Having blacked out, I didn’t even know where I had wandered from.

This was a complete disaster in every sense of the word, yet I did absolutely nothing about it. The situation didn’t faze me in the slightest bit, because I had seriously convinced myself that someone from the group had my bag. Because of this, I never bothered looking for my things. Not that I could have if I tried, but the only solution I had in mind tonight was to sit at the marina and wait for the next ferry back to the mainland.

By some sort of miracle, I made it back to Manhattan. It still boggles my mind as to how I was able to make the two-hour trip home by myself, blackout drunk and high on ecstasy. Having had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, I grabbed a slice of cake at the Penn Station Magnolia Bakery, swallowed it whole, and then proceeded to jump the subway turnstiles so I could get home without paying.

By now, it was around 11 p.m. When I arrived at the hotel, I quickly realized that I no longer had a key and hoped to God that the boys were still in the room. Fortunately, they hadn’t left for the bar yet. When Dan opened the door, I flew into the room like a bat outta hell. A complete and utter catastrophe. After all, I had literally been through the fires of hell and back.

I tried to explain what had happened, but it was no use. I was smashed. I managed to detail the situation as best I could, and Connor tried calling my phone. The thing was still turned on, so there was a sliver of hope for me on that end.

Shortly after I had returned to the hotel, the guys left for their night out. That’s when things began to sink in. I had left all of my stuff on Fire Island. Now, I was back in Manhattan without a phone. I was completely screwed. I had to go back to Fire Island. But, how?

I pulled out my laptop. After half an hour of trying to make the ancient piece of aluminum function properly, I was able to get in touch with Kevin. I told him everything that had happened. Kevin didn’t seem too surprised by my story, which I’m not sure was a good thing considering I’ve only hung out with him a few times. Is this type of behavior what Kevin has come to expect from me? Oy.

“There’s no way for you to get back to Fire Island tonight,” Kevin said. “The trains and ferries have all stopped, so you might as well pack it in for now.”

Like a sweet little angel, Kevin reached out to the organizer of The Stonewall Foundation party and put her in touch with me. I sent an email breaking down my story, and much to my surprise I received an instant response. Apparently, all of the lost and found items from the party were taken to one of the volunteer’s houses. There might be some hope for me, but I would have to wait until morning to find out. That was some good news. I guess.

Now, it’s around 12:30 a.m. I figure there’s nothing left for me to do. Just when I thought I had reached rock bottom two weeks ago when I was giving a guy a toothless blowjob, here I am without my phone or any of my belongings. Not to mention sunburnt, drunk, high on ecstasy, and wearing nothing but a bathing suit and a t-shirt with a naked cartoon woman on it.

I crawled under the covers while repeatedly asking myself, “What am I going to do?”

But, really. What am I going to do? This is total a mess. Kurt, you’ve really done it this time.

Goodnight xo