Illusgaytion by Kyle Richer

For the first summer in the history of time, the common rites of the saison have been suspended. The dungeon parties have gone so far underground we can’t even find them; your Sheryl Crow Wildflower crop top is collecting dust in the closet; and you can’t even hope for a chance of getting hot tub folliculitis at a rooftop pool. Who were we last summer? What lives did we lead? The fate of our culture remains uncertain, and yet, we march on, to where the dregs of gay society always wash up: The Gay Beach. Be it Gunnison, Riis, Marshall, Herring Cove or Poodle, these poorly-regulated state parks may not look like much, but they’re enough for us. So grab your $23 thong and a pack of White Claw as The InQueery reports on how to survive and thrive with the last bastion of gay culture.

When to arrive?
You’d think that a seaside kiki would be a casual affair, but you’d be wrong, dead wrong! Apparently, with fewer raves to stay up for, the hardest of twinks are, for the first time in history, getting a full eight hours. Like War Boys, or the Lost Boys, or any gang of cinematic faggots, they turn up in droves, early, a pestilence spreading over the sand. To secure property on the playa, lay your muumuu out the night before and plan to arrive by 11am at the latest. Nobody wants to be that girl, wandering in at 2pm, searching desperately for her “friends,” the poor dear. One doesn’t just waltz into the family box at the opera house, halfway through the second act. Who do you think you are, the Countess Olenska?

As for which day
Reports indicate that Saturdays on the beach are a gas, but even amidst the clashing doppler blasts of Dua Lipa and Doja Cat, a pregnancy looms in the air. For the full Sodom and Gomorrha package, there’s nothing like the Lord’s day, by which time you’ll have given up any attempt at behaving like a straight monogamist. Even in a nuclear summer, some tops must have survived, and by God, you’ll be the one to find them!

For those who wish to avoid cause for more therapy, weekdays provide a welcome reprieve. Service industry girls and “writers” take to the waves on the less-populated Mondays. Wear whatever old shmontzes you like; you’re anonymous today! Fridays promise a preamble to the weekend’s chaos, at a more manageable scale. Bring your best macrame pullover and your roommate’s Joan Didion collection and you might manage a successful flirtation. That’s gossip.

Canopy capitalism
It seems that every girl is serving Reese Witherspoon-as-Cheryl Strayed this season. And with no means of flaunting wealth in the nightclub hellscape, queers are erecting their own private VIP areas. Lesbians schlep their REI curbside pick-up orders and go to work constructing a nylon stronghold. Gays stretch out the boundaries of their $155 Vilebrequin tents, far beyond social distancing requirements, with borders of rainbow flags and spinning whirligigs. Why stop at a six-foot stick-drawn circle in the sand when you could build a full-blown cirque du soleil arena! Is this cover from sun, or an installation at Marfa? Daddy, pappa, father, may I help you nail your Biden-Harris sign in the sand?

A veritable bazaar
Who needs a deep state or dark web when you can mix and mash among every caste of queer? Only on the sands of the gay beach can Biden gays and Bernie girls make out; lesbians share tarot advice with the gay witch bourgeois; faggots and bi guys hash out folklore. You may not have any trade to offer in post-capitalist America, but an offering of sliced fruit or refined MDMA will ensure your survival in these parts!

Style
Cowboy hats are in, but don’t give Joanne credit, tip your brim to Orville and Shania. As for haircuts, the sudden resurgence of “the shag” has us all listening to 311 and cruising straight men in our parents’ neighborhood. Of course, if anyone compliments your haircut, you must shrug and say that your roommate cut it, can you believe? Do not, under any circumstances, reveal that you went into town and spent $80 to look like a lacrosse player in 2006.

Cocktails
The incursion of well-to-do faggots with nowhere better to go heralds a new era of artisanal beach treats: Nutcrackers with non-lethal ingredients, in flavors based on real fruits; lemon bar edibles made with fresh yuzu zest, straight from Japan! But pace yourself for a slow roll under the summer sun—some girls are bottoming out by lunchtime, we’re told.

Culture
…never dies. Though unprecedented numbers of gays are fleeing to the suburbs, as if that were an option for our kind all along, and Hudson Yards tragically shuttered its Neiman Marcus, the cosmopolitan project ain’t over just yet! As cities melt down, the ancient gays take to the radioactive waters, talking about Chromatica and overthrowing the government. The country may be shut down, but the real ones know: You can contract scabies anywhere. It might as well be in a shtetl of our own making. Sunrise, sunset.

Our Conclusion:If your body is on the beach, it is by law considered a beach body.

Queer Rating:A tiny yellow fleur tucked behind Anderson Cooper’s ear.

Reporting by David Odyssey