Friday morning, I got up early and headed out, anxious to stake out a prime spot on the nude beach. One of the Pines' eight buildings is a realty office, so I stopped in and asked for a map. "A map of the island?" the guy said quizzically, making me wonder if people often stumbled in asking for maps of Korea. I told him I was going to Cherry Grove, since that's where the beach is, and he just pointed and said "Ten minutes that way." Fire Island might be twenty miles long but it's only eight feet wide, so I figured I probably couldn't get lost.

I followed the boardwalk until it ended, but then I was faced with a fork in the road. To the left was a sandy walkway, and to the right an unkempt path through a thicket of trees and marshland. Naturally I took the scenic route. The twisty path led to more twisty paths, and pretty soon I couldn't tell what direction I was headed. I spotted water through the trees and headed towards it, wandering into a muddy clearing about ten feet across.

Where I found two guys, facing each other, with their shorts down around their knees.

"Sorry," I said as I tried to duck by them. They adopted irritated looks, and I totally sympathized: this was a secluded area, and it's not like there are pinball machines outdoors. But then they got angry, and they lost me. They buttoned up hastily while staring at me like I was a Sex Nazi. "Hey," I wanted to say, "I'm just passing through. No need to put your shit away." I kept walking the way I was walking, and I'd have been out of sight in about three steps, but they made it clear they were throwing in the towel. I'd ruined the mood, the magic. They "Hmmph!"ed and "Well!"ed while glaring daggers at me, then headed out the way I came.

"Which way is Cherry Grove?" I called after them, but neither bothered to reply.

Now, I totally didn't get this. Obviously I was friend rather than foe, since Sex Nazis are rarely hunky and shirtless, plus I'd clearly said "Sorry!" rather than "You're both under arrest." I'd given them absolutely no reason to stop. I mean, this was Fire Island: the only women I'd seen were maids who spent their days cleaning greasy handprints off bedroom mirrors. The only problem the guys here had with sex was keeping the head count down so as not to violate fire codes. Hell, if they'd had a squirrel nailed to a cross I don't think anybody would have bothered them. They'd have tiptoed out after making sure it was consensual with the squirrel. But I'd apparently ruined their morning, and I felt guilty for it.

Eventually I found the nude beach. After tanning, relaxing, and discreetly admiring various appendages, I headed back to the Pines. I stopped in the realty office again and, dodging specifics, I mentioned that I'd gotten sidetracked in a shadowy little neighborhood.

"You should have kept to the left," the guy said. "You went through the Meat Rack."

In bed that night, it all seemed so quaint. Clandestine sex, on a gay island? I got the feeling you could knock on any door, say "Hey, wanna fuck in your foyer?" and pretty much start doing it provided brunch was over. Besides, "Meat Rack" was a pretty stupid term. "Meat" made sense, conveying sexual objectification, but "rack"? Had there actually been "meat racks" somewhere, at some time? Like, a big rack on which one kept their meat? If so, it'd long since been lost to the world.

I tried to think of a more appropriate term. The "meat" part was obviously good. "Meat Hook"? Nah; it made even less sense. "Meat Market" conveyed the shopping idea, and wasn't quite as dated. The phrase "Butcher Shop" entered my mind, but as I remembered the little girls squealing at the appearance of the big bad intruder, it scurried out the same way it came.