My friends Chris and John from Boston recently purchased a condo in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I haven't been to Florida since the early 1990's, when it was the launching point for the rave cruise I went on (on the Carnival cruise ship Ecstasy), and before that for Grad Night at Disneyworld, where I saw Samantha Fox, New Kids on the Block, and Information Society perform.
I went for a short visit last week to see the place. I don't think I've ever been to Ft. Lauderdale, despite having been all over Florida growing up. (On the East Coast, everybody's grandparent retires to Florida.) I found a ticket for $230 and suffered for my cheap airfare by having to fly through New Jersey on a red-eye to get there at nine in the morning. The flights were good though- I had an empty seat next to me for both segments.
Chris and John's condo is a two-bedroom unit with the back porch overlooking a canal. There is a bridge that spans the canal which connects their building to the complex's pool, mini-gym, and party room. Most of the other condo owners live there year round, and are drunks. But as I soon learned, everybody is a drunk in Florida.
The first afternoon, we just hung around and had several beers. I was adapting well to my new environment. But then again, every environment that I've been in with John involves much self-destructive behavior and negative peer pressure.
That night John's grandmother (Nana) came over for dinner. She's a hoot. She had a rum and coke then we all had an after dinner pear liqueur. Several hours (and piņa coladas) later, the three of us (sans Nana) went out to hit the town.
Fort Lauderdale is known as the original spring break party location, but that glory has faded as the town tried to clean up its reputation and the kids moved on to other beach resorts. Then, honing in on the cheap real estate and abundance of bars, the gays moved in and started taking over. There are at least two gay nightlife listing weekly magazines in the town, and both of them are fat with ads for gay clubs and bars and guest houses and strippers. As I later learned, there are lots of strippers in the town in addition to the drunks.
The first bar we went to was the Cathode Ray. It is decorated in one room with hanging manta rays covered in disco ball mirrors. We went there early to catch the Match Game, which is kind of like Hollywood Squares but with the bar staff acting as the celebrity guests. Two contestants competed for a prize. The questions were the type of gay scene misogyny you're not allowed to use in politically correct towns like San Francisco. The final question was the audience participation round, where the contestant had to guess the correct answer to the question posed to the whole audience, who wrote their responses down on paper. The question was: "Michelle [the representative staff lesbian] shaved her crotch on Sunday. Today, she found (blank) in the razor stubble. Most of the answers were further "girls are gross" responses like "her clitoris" or "a tampon." Not very classy. But I won a free drink with my answer, "a sense of humor."
Anyway, I liked this bar because they poured their vodka on the rocks in a full sized mixed drink glass. I was tipsy enough for John to be able to convince me to go to his favorite stripper bar with him- The Boardwalk.
We don't have stripper bars in San Francisco, though you're likely to see people strip in bars quite often. For the most part, stripper bars are regular bars with overpriced drinks and a few strippers who dance on small stages while lots of other strippers walk around the crowd in Speedos trying to get you tip them singles or buy a lapdance for 20 bucks.
I was trying to rationalize why someone might find these bars enjoyable, because I wasn't feeling it. I could see for an old guy it would be nice to have the affection of young guys (or girls, depending on the preference of the bar). And I could kind of see the appeal for someone in a monogamous relationship like John, where it's a safe zone in which to flirt without any potential for going too far.
But when you throw in the paying for the attention and stuffing dollars into their socks aspect, I don't get it. "Here is some money to hang out and tell me I'm pretty." John sent a young man over to me saying that I wanted a lap dance, and he was not pleased when he was rebuffed. This is the negative peer pressure I was speaking about. But in the end, like in most uncomfortable sex-adjacent experiences, I enjoyed having been there to expand my range of knowledge on the subject. (See how I just turned that into a positive?)
Anyway, we left after last call that night and stumbled home. It's within walking distance of their condo, which is convenient except for the fact that one tends to spend all of one's money quite fast over there.
The next day, I woke up at noon and we headed for the beach. We went to the gay section (there is always a gay section) and set up our stuff beneath an umbrella and chairs that we had to pay for. The ocean was the perfect temperature for swimming. It seemed really weird to me, as I've been in Northern California long enough to associate the ocean with cold and discomfort.
My goal was to even out my runner's tan (a.k.a. farmer's tan) on that first day outside. I applied SPF 30 sunscreen to most of my body, but left it off the area between where my running shorts usually land and where my short-short swimsuit was. This way, the uncoated areas would tan at a faster rate and catch up to the rest of me.
Fans, we all know that at times I can veer toward functional retardation, and this proved to be another example of my careening in that direction. I wound up at the end of the day with two giant rings of sunburn around my upper thighs (and a few other spots where I missed with sunscreen), while the rest of my body stayed pasty beige. A week later, the burn has turned into a reddish burn-bordering-on-tan that looks like I have a rash-based STD emanating from my crotch. I was careful with towel coverage in the gym shower today, as to not start an Ebola scare.
Also on the gay beach were one male and several female strippers. They were pretty easy to spot: the women had giant fakies with extra-nice swimsuits and matching towels, and the guy had the smallest thong I've ever seen. I guess the women think they're in the safe section with the gays.
Back at the condo, the blender was churning out John's piņa coladas once again. We sat out by the pool and watched the nature. The complex and canal are inhabited by iguanas over three feet long, weird birds, turtles, crabs, and an occasional manatee swimming through that I was not fortunate enough to see.
That night we headed out to George's Alibi (apparently a Seinfeld reference), which is a restaurant/ sports bar/video bar/ lounge/ nightclub. Thursdays are Long Island iced tea nights, where you can get them served in a giant mason jar for three bucks apiece, in your choice of regular or blue-Curacao coloring. I bought one and it took me nearly an hour to drink. Also, it was awful. While Chris ordered another (and another), I switched to beer, then tequila later.
George's Alibi is located at one end of a strip mall of all-gay businesses including stores called GayMart and Tops n' Bottoms. Yes. At the other end was the club Boom, where Long Island's were also on sale. People were cra-zazy dru-zunk up in there. (Me included.) I recall few details, but I didn't like it so much.
On Friday, we mostly hung out poolside during the day, while John enjoyed nearly continuous bong hits. I abstained from combining booze with ganja because of a slightly messy incident the previous week that I will not go into at the present time. I read in the gay paper that we had missed a "3 glory hole rimming contest" at the local sleazy leather bar the previous night. We were intrigued, and a little bit frightened. That day we were very proud of ourselves for not beginning to drink until 2:30 in the afternoon.
Every time we drove anywhere in the car, we passed at least a couple of people stumbling down the street or sidewalk with a beer or plastic cup in their hand. In the bars, people were shitty drunk by the end of the night- enough that I noticed despite being near-shitty myself most of the time. And most of the people in the condo complex who used the pool also brought drinks with them. One fine senior specimen slurredly tried to pick up Chris.
At night, we went out to dinner with Nana at an Italian restaurant. She was the one who introduced us to the term "Fort Liquordale." She had a whiskey sour with dinner. They served unusual garlic bread that was dinner rolls coated with a greasy pool of garlic butter. John and I gorged on the stuff. This was not a good idea.
Later that evening we returned to the Cathode Ray, instead of any of the zillion other bars in town. That was fine. I like the place, except for the music. The music in that town is absolutely intolerable, and nullifies any charm it might otherwise have. Every song is a remade 80's hit like Axel F or Total Eclipse of the Heart, sped up in circuit party format. Torture.
Chris got a little loopy, and being upset for missing the rimming contest the previous night he decided to start asking random people in the crowd "Where is the nasty action tonight? Where can we find some filth?" As the average Fort Lauderdale gay does not seem entirely edgy, and dresses exclusively in Abercrombie t-shirts and Old Navy prep shirts, they weren't really prepared for the question. They also weren't prepared for John and my accidental, yet still horridly toxic garlic bread burps.
At the end of our time at the Cathode Ray, Chris and I went to the Ram Rod- the site of last night's contest. Chris wanted to see some filth. The Ram Rod was very similar to every other sleazy leather bar in every other city. (Then again, I don't know if I've been in any sleazy leather bars outside of San Francisco. I should really work on my range.) The crowd was dressed in the usual denim and chaps, and pressed in tightly anywhere near a dark corner or outside patio. I was touched inappropriately three different times in a ten foot hallway. It was kind of okay.
On Saturday I was hungover again. When I visit these two, all mornings are painful. I barely had time to pack before John and Chris drove me to the airport to fly home, where I was safe from strippers and drunks and the Florida sun that gives you a screwed up tan that looks like crotch rot. I will be back.