camp hamptons

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Some people over adjective.  You can’t believe them; they’re not reliable authors.  “How was your weekend?” you ask.  “A-MAZE-ING.”  You know they’re embellishing, just look at her shoes.  She thinks it’s what you want to hear.  How was the party?  “Soooooo good.”  She uses the same level of enthusiasm about her dates, vacations, and dry baked salmon.  I don’t do this.  This weekend in the Hamptons was yummy.  Or as Kim would say, “yumsies.”

The Hamptons are like sleep-away camp with heels. You leave packed with a pillow, towels, bottled water, and glossy magazines.  Your real life stops counting; it’s left behind with your doorman and throw pillows.  Work, worries, will he calls genuinely fly out the window when you inhale… you smell grass and wet bark.  You’ve arrived, and now you’re giddy.  You know it’s going to be fantastic.  You know it like summer, the taste of cherries, rosé wines, and open toed shoes.  You turn the radio up with your arrival song:  “Lay a whisper on my pillow… leave the winter on the ground…”

You do a drive by of B. Smiths.  You can almost taste the brine.  But it’s late, and things are closed.  You settle for Chex mix and white wine at Magnolias.  You’re in Sag Harbor again, dangling your pointy shoe under the table, smiling, and exchanging hopes for the summer.  You share a room with your friends, giggling, and telling stories as you grip handfuls of your sweet smelling summer comforter, until voices become punctuated with silence.  I’m so glad I met you.  I’m so glad you’re my friends.  Even your dreams that night are set in the Hampton house beset with new faces.  You wake with cravings of ice cream from the Ice Cream Club, because everything in the Hamptons have a clubby feel, even the parlor.  But you won’t eat ice cream because the sun might peek, and that means a bathing suit.  And besides, you want a flat tummy for the evening.  New summer friends and memories are ready for the taking… if only you can remember their names.  You’re already researching tickets to the 4th of July clambake.  This is going to be a fantastic summer… you just hope to remember it all.

I remember:
Palming the cokctail list from Magnolias and slipping it into my pony skin bag for ideas.  The smell of bacon in the morning.  Sausage.  The rain.  Being so excited to share a story with your friends, you can’t wait until everyone else leaves.  He shaved his goatee.  He showed up at 4am, out of breath.  Oh, now, it all makes sense.  Didn’t I tell you his penis was enormous?  Even if it’s a superficial side of me, it’s one worth exploring.  I bet he’d love to explore any side of you.  I can still feel him in my stomach.  I’m sorry, did she just clap with her feet?  Sweetheart. He called me sweetheart; I bet that’s what he called his girlfriend all the time.  But the reality is… with a bob, in the corner, inviting herself to dinner with Mark and Robbie.  The smell of warm.  Wolfer’s Vinyard.  Jennifer missing her friend Jeff.  Photographing the clouds.  Rain dribbling off the pool umbrella.  Everyone is still asleep.  I can’t believe we’re so immersed in our little world out here that we missed Ronald Regan’s death.  Graphing Linus outside, Eric’s sunglasses, boys doing martial arts with a broom handle in the basement.  Outfitting a twin mattress with king sized bedding.  Discussions, actual discussions, about where to keep our toiletries.  Jennifer volunteering me to cook.  I forgot to pack underwear!  Kim adding “ies” to everythingsy.  Consulting the girls on my outerwear.  Knowing Jennifer would lose my jean jacket.  Scarf tops.  Smokey eyes.  Toe thong stockings.  I can’t believe I forgot to pack panties!  You can’t even believe who I ran into this morning!!!  I loved that I was with a hot boy when I ran into him.  Shopping in East Hampton: white Capri jeans, an hermes scarf, pearl cluster ring, hanky panky panties, silky lacy blue lingerie, Kors flip flops, and orange H shoes.

Offering the waiter at Saracen a fan of three credit cards to pay for dinner, only to learn J.J had taken care of our bottles of wine, 3 appetizers, 3 entrees, 3 desserts and all 3 of us… Charlies Angel’s… J.J. was our Charlie… what a classy gesture.  I don’t have one man in my life who would ever do that for me and my friends.  So I’ll drink more wine and try not to think about that.  Stuffed figs.  Getting to The Star Room in a gaggle of cars with tinted windows, strangers as drivers, smelling the grass, just not the outdoor kind.  VIP room, with bottle service… he ordered us wine because we already started… and wouldn’t change to vodka.  He asks me, “Where’s your friend with the dark hair?”  “She’s sucking face in the other room.  Hey you snooze you lose my friend.”

Running into Scott Sartiano at The Star Room… he made me smile.  I remembered his tennis injury and acting classes.  He shook his head smiling, and said, “I never got anywhere with you.  No matter how hard I tried.  You wouldn’t even make out with me.  Nothing.”  Why is there a flower tucked behind his ear?  He’s on TV, and his show is my second choice when Law & Order isn’t on.  Wait, tell me again, how did you get from talking to a stranger to putting your hand on his cokc?  I don’t really remember.  But it felt good.  “I can’t believe you just grabbed my dick like that.  How awesome.  Do it again.”

Leftover cold mushroom and sausage pizza at 3:30 am.  Composing a buttermilk biscuit strawberry shortcake at 3:34 am.  “I dialed NJ hoping I left the dirty voicemail on the right person’s machine.”  When he left to say goodbye, he lifted me in a hug, and swung me around the living room.  I didn’t want to let go.  I wanted to visit your room last night, but I didn’t.  Don’t play dumb now.  Who’s playing?

Jen’s malted. Eggs, sausage with syrup, French fries.  Photography exhibit at Pierre’s.  He’s the photographer for W Magazine?  Um, where’s the fact checker?  I’m about to do something really really dirty.  I love it.  You sing Opera?  Do it now.  What do I have to do to get you in the mood?  Donuts and coffee.  Our room the morning after, clothes strewn like the clothes of lovers.  David Gray.  Eva Cassidy.  Michael Pecker stopping at our table asking me about Erik.  How is he?  What is he up to these days?  “He’s a surgeon and an asshole.  Just not in that order.”  Well I don’t care whom it makes uncomfortable.  Then don’t fcuking ask me.  I’m such a ho.  I’ve had seex with two people in the past 24 hours.  She’s been eating retard sandwiches all day.  “Oooh yum, those are so good.  I eat them all the time.”

If that’s not camp conversations, musical beds, midnight raids, junk food, and suntan lotion… well you went to the wrong camp.

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