Last weekend, after waking up early to see a 7 a.m. showing of “Avengers: End Game” at AMC Lincoln Square (Jack’s idea: He’s the comic buff; I’m just along for the ride) (and yes, I am the world’s best friend for going to a 7 a.m. showing on a Saturday), the gang assembled for brunch at Jacob’s Pickles on Amsterdam Ave and 85th Street.
After a thorough discussion of the movie (I won’t give any spoilers, but I will say I cried), we discussed our plans for Memorial Day Weekend. In a plot twist bigger than any in the “Avengers” movies, I got that Monday off for the three-day weekend, so eight of us decided to get a cabin upstate.
“I’ll take a Bloody BLT,” I told the waiter, last to order. “And,” I went on, turning back to the table, “dibs on first room.”
“Why do you get dibs?” Giovanni asked, looking up from his menu. “How is that fair?”
“Because being in nature makes me horny, and I want to pick the room furthest away from the others.”
“There’s only two actual full rooms,” Jack explained, “so those would go to the two couples anyway. You and Michael should probably take the attic; it has bunk beds.”
“Damn,” Michael frowned as the waiter brought our drinks. “I was hoping we’d take the basement room.”
“That just has one pull-out couch. Katie’s taking it. Why did you want the basement?”
“So that we could call it the Sex Dungeon.”
“You two are having sex now?” I asked, eyebrow raised. Incest in gay friend groups always seems to become an issue—and we all saw how it worked out for Black Widow and The Hulk.
“No,” Michael responded, taking a sip of his Spicy Brine Margarita. “I just wanted to call it the Sex Dungeon.”
“Sex Attic?” Giovanni asked, sipping his sober ginger ale.
“The first place I want to have sex is the hot tub,” I said, chewing on the bacon in my drink.
“Absolutely not!” Jack exclaimed, shaking his head. “No sex in the hot tub.”
“The hot water kills the sperm,” Michael shrugged.
“No. No sex in the hot tub, period.”
To be fair, I was half-joking: I really wanted to have sex outside, hidden between the trees on the property. A smaller group of us went upstate last Labor Day, but the only place hidden enough from the neighbors was covered in poison ivy. We decided it wasn’t worth the risk.
“But I’ve never had hot tub sex,” I whined. Or in an attic, for that matter. “Shouldn’t I get to experience that before I’m 30?” Did Black Widow ever blow The Hulk in a hot tub? Would he fit?
“Get your own hot tub,” Jack warned. “I will be on hot tub watch all weekend.”
“Don’t worry, Ian-Michael,” Michael smiled, “we’ll distract him in the Sex Attic so you can do whatever you want.”
We ordered our food and I let it go, knowing I’d only get to check one new location off my sex-list. Wooded area: Check. Hot Tub: Well, we’ll see. Jack can’t keep his eye on it the whole weekend.