Well, that was something.
Rehoboth Beach can be just a perfect coming together of all things gay. From the District to New York, that charming little town of taffy and traffic will host us all. Yes, you have the New York gays, who I was told you can always tell by their penchant for vertical striped blouses. Then you have that city caught in the middle, your Philly gays, who I can easily spot because they’re sort of like so many Europeans, stylish but still smoking. Then you have us. The D.C. gays. Not quite either of those two, or really any of the also-ran cities around us. Maybe a little more stuffy? But give us the chance to day drink and tea dance.
We can be a smart, slutty people. And we’d all been waiting for it. Memorial Day Weekend — the unofficial kick-off of summer. We’ve got our new haircuts, our new bathing suits. But alas, a cold front from hell dashed our hopes somewhat. Temperatures hitting homophobic 20 to 30 degrees below average had Rehoboth on par with Reykjavík, with twinks chattering their teeth on Poodle Beach with folks desperately trying to make Speedos and hoodies work.
Despite all that, Friday was the last good day really before the Iceland spring came through and we found ourselves at Aqua. And this wasn’t your mother’s Aqua. Well, unless your mother was gay as hell, then it was pretty accurate. The energy was palpable, and gays moving to a tea dance that never ended. COVID was over, at least there. Boys you hadn’t seen in months, over a year really, were ecstatic to see each other. Then of course like any gay dance party, there’s that one gay that’s dancing three times faster than the music dictates. Gosh I think I’ve missed him most of all. But I caught myself complaining about the impending weather, and Diego from Charlotte overheard, leaning into me he said, “Just drink through it.”
And to remind you of the old days of gay Rehoboth, 60 Baltimore, that fable rental just a stone’s throw from Aqua is back in gay hands. And being there was like the ‘before times’ – meaning I don’t think they’ve cleaned since then. Body shots were being had, but I think that just really out of necessity as they seemed to have just run out of cups.
Drinking through two nonstop rainy days saw my friend Beaumont’s Caftan Party on Saturday. And then on Sunday the Pines’s famous drag brunch, where apparently drag queens think you can scream COVID away. Sure there were raves around town. But at my age I’m a little past that now, I guess. I tried one once. I brought a bottle of rosé to share if that shows you where my thinking was.
But why did we all go? I mean, we all saw the weather forecast, right? We knew lines would form at every bar. Maybe it was that we’d already paid. Sure, fine. But maybe it is also just what we do. We sit in traffic, cross the Bay Bridge, wind through corn fields to go to a beach town where the water is still too cold to hear newbie waiters stumble through specials. We do it because it’s ours. And to be silly and ecstatic and sunburned or waterlogged or tipsy and dancing, if just for a long gay weekend.
In our little beach town, maybe next weekend will be sunnier. So, let’s just keep at it throughout summer. We deserve a hot, sweaty, ironic eyewear summer. So many of us do our bit for queen and country, or did before we moved on to real estate. So here’s to the next weekend.
I’ll be back. We’ll all be back. Over and over again.
Brock Thompson is a D.C.-based writer. He contributes regularly to the Blade.
