He has at least one piercing in his junk.
His skin is permanently weathered and tanned, he’s wearing some kind of cowboy hat, he may be wearing an armband or several woven bracelets. There’s always someone who brings an acoustic guitar, sets up a tent - an actual camping tent designed to be used in the woods - and proceeds to howl the most inexplicably sad songs, serenading the upbeat celebration with their heartbroken takes on Tracy Chapman and Adele.Īnd of course, no gay beach would be complete without that leathery older guy who, in May, already looks as if he’s been in the sun for 42 months straight. There’s the careful negotiations of pet owners as they try to keep their dogs from lunging off the beach blanket at the little Boston Terrier being walked past. There’s the shrieking of the twinks as they collectively hit the water and discovered that it’s way too cold to swim in.
There’s usually a rainbow flag planted in the sand somewhere, as if to mark the territory anew and announce this is ours for the summer. Like so many holidays, that first weekend at the gay beaches I’ve been to carry their own traditions. At these beaches, you’ll see butches and genderqueers ditching their sports bras, Chelsea gym-boys ditching their speedos, and a hirsute bear clad in nothing but a leather chest harness and a glittering tutu. There might be gay beaches somewhere in which the scene is still dominated by gay men, but the ones I go to have this inclusive vibe. At many gay beaches, bodies are just bodies - trans and nonbinary folks wear what makes them feel comfortable and sexy, and boobs are proudly displayed on every kind of body, from dyke boobs to man-boobs to chests that bear the scars of boobs freshly departed.