Fag Rag Fire Island - September 2020

SEPTEMBER 2020 VOLUME 1 ISSUE 3

Masthead Editor-In-Chief

Contributors

Photographers

BASIC ASS PHOTOG MIKEY T

COMMITTEE ON BLACK EQUALITY (COBE)

Contributing Writers

Graphic Design

TOMIK DASH

HARVEY REDDING FAGUERREOTYPE

VICTOR JEFFREYS II

MICHAEL DAMOND wemergemedia.com

Cover Photo by Basic Ass Photographer Model: Lola Red We are accepting original editorial submissions from photographers. E-mail info@fagragmag.com with the subject “Photo Submission”.

Artists

ROBERT W RICHARDS

Pickup Your Free Copy in Fire Island Pines at D. Katen Fire Island Properties TOLA General Store Camp Tuft X Handsome Sean Basil McGiver’s Art Gallery

in Cherry Grove at Cherry Grove Hotel The Belvedere Coastal Roots F.I.G. Grove Pizza Rainbow Dreams Grove Market

*All homes in Cherry Grove and Fire Island Pines (excluding the Co-Ops) get a free delivery. *If you are a business that would like to carry the magazine pls contact info@fagragmag.com.

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Table of Contents Page 4 A Letter from the Editor

Page 22 The Faggots and Their Friends Between Pandemics

Page 8 CoBE Statement

Page 30 Whatever Lola Wants

Page 10 An Improbable Life

Page 40 Lust Series

Page 12 Homme Fatale

Photo by Basic Ass Photog

Donate Launching a new business during a pandemic has been a labor of love to say the least.

We are committed to keeping this magazine free on the island and understand that many people are also in less than opportune situations. But if you are someone is able to help and sees value in what we are doing, we encourage you to show support by going to fagragmag.com/donate. We appreciate any help and are glad to have you along with us on this ride!

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A Letter from the Editor I would like to share with you a message that was posted on Facebook recently: I am a LGBTQ+ member who has lived on Fire Island for a majority of my life. I am an outspoken liberal voice. I am an outspoken community member both locally and in Fire Island.

I am an avid supporter of the BLM movement both in financial contributions but also participation in protests and amplifying BIPOC voices.

I write today with my head hanging in shame at the title of this self described "magazine" titled 'Fag Rag.' To see the word "fag" on the cover of any publication would be dangeorus and salacious in any setting - to see this promoted by a member of the LGBTQ+ community is a disgrace. The 'magazine' is filled with profiles of queer artists, the BLM movement, interviews with transgender women. All incredibly powerful.

But to diminish the power of those words and images by titling the vehicle of those words a "fag rag" is disgusting and embarassing. Tomik Dash should be ridiculed in any public setting for printing materials with a slanderous, dangerous word.

I leave you with this. Each time a member of the LGBTQ+ community reads that 'magazine' I want the editor to remember... the likely last words heard by Matthew Shepard on a frigid Wyoming night - while being beaten to death - was the word 'fag."

To use those words to amplify a magazine is shameful.

The reaction that people, especially those of us in the LGBTQIA+ community, can have when reading or hearing the word “fag” has never been lost on me.

I was called a fag for years before I knew what gay was. After discovering what it was, I was still called it before actually accepting it. And after I accepted it, nothing changed. Growing up, I was an easy target. I had such a soft voice that well into my high school years I was still being addressed as “ma’am” anytime I was on the phone with a company’s customer service hotline.

Fast forward to my years as an adult living in NYC and working in a cool East Village salon, every year I would brace myself for the Saturday that I had to work which coincided with every frat boys favorite holiday, Santa Con. Because more often than not, some brave asshole would be speeding by in a yellow cab and yell out of the back window, “Faggoooot!,” as I sashayed my way into work. At a certain point I started to get offended when it didn’t happen. Was my outfit not cute that day?

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People who have been on this magazine’s journey with me know it’s story from previous letters that I’ve written. I started dreaming this up last summer. I racked my brain about what I wanted to name it. I kept asking myself, “What am I going to call my little fag rag?” Until one day I was like, “That’s it! Fag Rag.” It’s not a term that I pulled out of thin air. It’s a colloquial term that our community has used to refer to regional gay publications for decades. When I looked it up to see if it was available, I found that it had been the name of a Boston newspaper that launched almost 50 years ago. And as I read into their history, I found it fascinating. They were the radical left well before that term was getting thrown around by demagogues in the White House who seek to destroy us. “Fag Rag defended its provocative title and consistent use of the words ‘fag’ and ‘faggot,’ highlighting that the “proud” editors don’t want to fit Straight Amerika’s definition of manhood. Fag Rag flagrantly rejected heterosexual superiority, revelling in the insults such as ‘fag’ that straight society traditionally hurled at gay men.”

I loved that. Taking the power back. I applaud my queer forefathers for paving the way for little homos like myself to come along and keep the momemtum going. As someone in the Facebook thread that ensued from the above post pointed out, the word “queer” was once a term that was used to berate us also. Yet today, we include it in our expansive LGBTQIA+ acronym. We took the power back. We reclaimed it. When considering the title of the magazine, I thought, what better place to reclaim the word than in one of the gayest communities in the country?

I don’t discount anyone’s experience of any word that is used to diminish us, including the person who posted about it on Facebook. I do ask that you recognize that people within our community have evolved on it’s perception, and to be okay with that. What I do have a problem with is the way the original poster (OP) frames themself as “an avid supporter of the BLM movement” and then proceeds to issue a public call-to-action to incite what could easily escalate into physical harm against a black body in a very white neighborhood. Your performative allyship is now null and void. You see yourself as an avid supporter of the BLM movement, yet when you try to elicit a response from people, you name a caucuasian martyr and victim of a brutal hate crime that occured 20 years ago, instead of one of the 100+ black trans women who have been senselessly murdered within the past 5 years. Judging from your post, you have the July issue. I dedicated a spread in it that named and commemorated each one of those women. You could have just picked one.

Your post could have been a DM. The magazine's e-mail is listed in every issue several times. But you never wanted this to be a conversation. You wanted to make me the Hester Pryne of Fire Island. You tried to make your point in multiple FB groups, but they rejected it and contacted me instead to let me know what you were doing. You, an avid supporter of the BLM movement, wanted to lead the charge to see Fire Island’s second black business owner go under.

A couple of weeks ago I saw a tweet that really resonated with me. “When they go low. I’ma go medium. Cuz God is still working on me.” This is “medium” for me. And I had to put off writing this for a week just to get here. I have been coming out to Fire Island for 6 years and as long as I have been coming out here and kept my mouth shut, things haven’t been great, but they’ve been fine. Instead of asking people to make room for me, I made my own lane. & with that I’ve never felt so unwelcome as I have in the year that I decided to speak up. The goal of this magazine was never to be a divisive tool in the community. It has always been to ENRICH the community. Connect it. And I have had so many people reach out via email or stop me on the beach or boardwalk and let me know that it has done just that.

If you don’t like it, burn it with your old Dixie Chicks albums for all I care. I know I can’t please everyone.

I can only continue to be authentic to myself. And who am I? I am a self-professed, full fledged, card carrying, dick loving, PROUD FAGGOT! And I’m not going anywhere. And neither is Fag Rag Fire Island.

Peace and blessings to you all. :)

Tomik Dash, Editor-In-Chief

Tea Dance - 1979

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Get your limited edition tee on fagragmag.com

Statement from the Committee on Black Equality.

The Committee on Black Equality (CoBE), founded in July 2020, is a committee of the Fire Island Pines Property Owners Association (FIPPOA). CoBE is comprised of black and brown homeowners, renters, and our allies.

This committee works directly with FIPPOA to establish and implement recommendations that promote racial equality, diversity, inclusion and an overall genuine sense of belonging amongst Black People and other People of Color (POC) throughout their Pines experience.

We envision a Fire Island Pines community that is deliberately and actively more welcoming to all Queer People, especially in this moment to POC. We look forward to working with each of you to make The Fire Island Pines a more fascinating place for all visitors.

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CoBE Town Hall

Photos by Victor Jeffreys II

An Improbable Life

by Harvey Redding

Words courtesy of The Leslie-Lohman Museum of Art Originally appearing in The Archive, Issue 67

Heads turned as he strolled down lower Broadway in his skinny velvet Dior suit, polka-dot black and white shirt, wildly colored stripped tie, and his signature geek-chic perfectly round black glasses.

But this charismatic artist whose career straddled the lofty worlds of art and fashion experienced a less than artistic and fashionable upbringing.

Born in a dreary mostly French-speaking mill town in Maine where his factory-working parents discouraged dreaming, Robert W Richards soon realized he had to keep secret his yearnings for a stimulating and stylish life. Drawing everyday since he could hold a crayon, he became intoxicated on visions of chic men and women- - Garbo, Brando, Dietrich, Astaire, and Monroe.

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To earn pennies to buy magazines and records,

featured more than fifty large triptych pencil

Robert wandered the streets collecting empty

drawings of gay porn stars inspired by the

soda bottles with his little red wagon. One

highly-fictionalized promotional studio portraits

day, venturing into the more affluent English-

of stars from the glory days of Hollywood.

speaking side of town, he met an older boy who invited him into his house to listen to his phonograph. Listening to the singer Robert knew instinctively that he was hearing something extraordinary, something that sounded like “art.” The voice was that of Sarah Vaughan; who inspired him to step through the looking glass into the magical realm that awaited him, a glamorous career illustrating high life and low life couture and porn.

Graduating from High school at just age 16, he managed to land a scholarship to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Bored to death with the staid academic curriculum, he skipped classes moonlighting as a window decorator at one of the chic women’s shops along Newbury Street and eventually moved to New York City to jump-start his career. Once in the city, success came fast; traveling the globe

Robert sketched the actual Hollywood stars as

and sketching runway shows in Rome, Milan,

well, including James Dean, Al Pacino, Marilyn

Los Angeles, and Paris, where he met and drew

Monroe, Cher, Audrey Hepburn, and Tony

a portrait of Yves Saint Laurent himself. After

Curtis, to name but a few. Creating poster and

a twenty year successful career in the fashion

album artwork for Liza Minnelli, Peter Allen,

world, he escaped to begin to illustrate a world

Anita O’Day, Frank Langella, Mel Torme, Peggy

of his own creation. He mused: “I wanted to

Lee, Bob Marley, and more; his masterpiece

draw the people who wear the clothes on the

album package for Lena Horne won a Grammy

runway-- without the clothes.”

for design.

He became best known for his gay erotic

He became friends with many of the showbiz

art; his images appeared in magazines and

legends he drew, including Dinah Washington,

gallery exhibitions, representing a four-decade

Peggy Lee, Ann-Margret, Anita O’Day, Peter

exploration of male sexuality. Though a master

Allen, Abbey Lincoln, Bobby Short, Etta Jones,

at illustrating charged-up male sexuality,

Bette Midler, Tony Bennett, Barbara Carroll,

his drawings integrated years of observation

as well one other. Miraculously, upon meeting

and attention to detail with a wry sense of

the singer who set his Imagination ablaze as

humor, as well as his trademark flamboyance

a young boy, “The Divine One” herself, Sarah

and panache. His 2003 “Gods of Erotica”

Vaughan, became his friend and confidant for

exhibition at the Leslie-Lohman Gallery

over twenty seven years.

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Fatale Illustrations by Robert W Richards Images provided by Harvey Redding

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Totes available at fagragmag.com

THE FAGGOTS & THEIR FRIENDS BETWEEN PANDEMICS Text & Illustrations by Faguerreotype Dear Reader, If you feel lost, don’t worry. This story is part 2 of a love letter to the seminal queer, utopian text, “The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions,”

by Larry Mitchell, illustrated by Ned Asta, published in 1977. Check out part 1 in our August issue.

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PART

2:

Waiting for Good O

Waiting for an O did not often require much patience. O’s were easy to cum by in Cumton by the Sea. The Faggots and their Friends could find an O at any time of day, in any place, and with anyone, even one’s self.

But Good O, that was something else altogether - Something quite elusive.

“How long has it been?” Asked Estrogen listlessly. She was strung out. Didi ignored her - less out of spite - more to prove a point. They were sitting under their leafless tree.

Lucki was bathing down in the surf, tendrils of dark hair dripping from his furry crack, soaked from the waves that were bold enough to reach up and kiss his taint. The salt water felt good on his wounds, his thighs and buttocks were thatched with switchmarks. Even in the water he carried his baggage, presently bundled on top of his head in a bedsheet, balanced by one hand, like a shepherdess returning from the well. The memory of an O still clung to his middle back.

When a boi came to deliver the news that Good O was running late, no one was worried. Good O was always on their own schedule.

By this time, PozO had come with his rope to reclaim Lucki. Bathtime was over.

Vlad and Estrogen watched as PozO firmly took Lucki’s baggage in one arm, and scooped Lucki up in the other, carrying both to a large blanket laid out on the beach above the tides. Carefully, PozO laid out Lucki and his baggage on the blanket, patting him dry, and methodically rubbing his body with a salve made from crushed leaves and ripe fruit. The sunset was a portrait behind them.

SURVIVAL: STRATEGY There is a perfect ring of excrement surrounding a tall red cedar that grows in the Sunken Forest of the Fairies, between Cumton by the Sea and Vulvil by the Bay. This ceremonial ring of shit is tended to by the sole denizen of the cedar, one of the Fae who styles himself Fauxcoup, having never been known to descend from the tree he calls “his tower.”

The younglings from Cumton by the Sea and Vulvil by the Bay are tasked at midday with bringing him food from the Kitchen and water from the well. The younglings make a game of jumping over his ring of shit and tucking the provisions into his dumbwaiter basket, all while pinching their little noses with one hand and shrieking like kettles. The shrieks from “the tower” are the closest thing the fae have to a clock in their intentional non-community, marking the passage of time in an otherwise mirage-like existence, detached from the physical world with the aid of herbs and fungi and smoke.

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A FAGGOT FABLE In the early times, when Cumton by the Sea and Vulvil by the Bay were called other names that have since been forgotten, the faggots and the dykes and the queens and kings and the fae all used to live together. There were no Folks, and No Houses, but everyone had a home and enough to eat, which was nice for a change, coming from the harsh world of the men with their paper.

It was a joyous time of celebrations and songs, and many, many, many talks around the Sacred Fire, which is still to this day tended by the faeries. The dykes often led the talks, which made the faggots feel grateful. To express their gratitude the faggots wove beautiful dresses from vines and leaves, and fashioned them necklaces from shells and bits of seaglass. The dykes were… confused. They thanked the faggots for their gifts and gave them one in return.

“The women who love women wrote a song for the faggots.

It was called, ‘Anything you do that the men don’t like is o.k. by us.’”

But that wasn’t entirely true. The faggots and the faeries and the dykes did not easily agree on what was o.k. and even who was US. This made the queens and the kings nervous. They saw what the others could not. They remembered being in Ramrod with the men and their wombmen and who they would turn against when they needed to build an US.

REGAL WISDOM

“You don’t have to birth a child to be a mother.”

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A FAGGOT FABLE “CHILDREN!” The queens and the kings proclaimed, “We are the Livink incarnations of the sacred Mother and the sacred Father and it is our duty to safeguard you from yourselves. There shall be communities, three - and thus all will thrive in harmony.”

And so the communities were made. The dykes would dwell in Vulvil by the Bay, the faggots would dwell in Cumton by the Sea, and the fae would dwell in the nature between, where they could be the most free. The Livink would live among them all, mitering their too-sharp edges and loosening their too-tight screws.

VAGABONDAGE Estrogen and Didi had met under their leafless tree every day since it happened. They would wait until just past midday, when the shrieks of the children from “the tower” would sound, to make their way from the outskirts of Vulvil and Cumton, respectively. They each lived on the edges of each of their old communities in the land of the Fae. Their leafless tree was their center of their social sphere, as neither were permitted to partake in any other.

Dusk had fallen.

“How long has it been?” Asked Estrogen again, as was her habit. Didi ignored her, as was his.

The spanking had just relented, as it often did at last light, Lucki’s plump buttocks gleaming red in the moonlight. PozO was now beginning his rope ritual - the movements ever changing, but the words always the same.

“Do you consent?” he would ask, as he carefully bound Lucki’s left wrist to his right.

Yes - A whisper.

“Do you consent?” he would ask, as he thoughtfully bound Lucki’s left heel to his thigh.

Yes - A whine “Do you consent?” he would ask, as he methodically bound Lucki’s right heel to his thigh.

Yes - A grunt “Do you consent?” he would ask, as he delicately trussed Lucki’s feet to his hands - arching him.

Yes - A moan The ropes and the words continued as Estrogen and Didi watched, transfixed, a plume of smoke sweeping from their mouths into the night breeze.

“You could learn something from him,” puffs Estrogen.

“Oh Harr Harr, said the pot to the cattle,” Didi rebutts.

Estrogen, ignoring him, “Children are so creative these days with the eXXXtra curriculars, don’t you think?”

“They’re not your children anymore, Mommy Dearest.” feigns Didi.

“Alas, it’s true - they grow up so fast - but at least they’re allowed to speak to ME,” jeers Estrogen.

“Do they have to do that every night?” snarked Didi “Kink-shaming? From you? I do declare...” exhaled Estrogen dryly.

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“They’re not your children anymore, Mommy Dearest.” feigns Didi.

“Alas, it’s true - they grow up so fast - but at least they’re allowed to speak to ME,” jeers Estrogen.

“Do they have to do that every night?” snarked Didi “Kink-shaming? From you? I do declare...” exhaled Estrogen dryly.

“You know very well, it’s not about kink,” snapped Didi, “I just don’t think slavery is a fetish that needs to paraded about in front of everyone like it’s not deeply traumatizing” “Tell that to white men...” quips Estrogen.

“I AM a white man,” says Didi with a touch of indignance.

“And yet I tolerate you, despite it.” smiles Estrogen.

“I’m not just a white man, though,” bristles Didi, “I am a faggot, first and foremost.”

“Oh no, you’re a faerie now, my sweet child,” mocks Estrogen, “just like the rest of us…”

“Do I detect a hint of bitterness, m’Lady GeauxGeaux, Patron Saint of Dick and Gummies?” mocks Didi. … … “... It was Cock and Cummies. And you know very well to call me Estrogen now,” she sulks.

“You wouldn’t know it from where I sit,” quipped Didi, “not by the hairs of your chinny chin chin.”

Estrogen ashes her cigarette, hand rolled and in an opera-length bamboo holder, directly in her lap, “Choke.”

“As your majesty decrees,” doffs Didi, flourishing an exaggerated bow while seated, ignoring the ash.

“Don’t let THEM hear you say that,” scoffs Estrogen, “Or we shall be banish-ED even fucking further away.”

“Into the unknowwwnnn!” Didi sings off-key as he stands to urinate behind the leafless tree.

“Don’t scare the younglings, now. They’ll be along soon with our supper.” Estrogen trails off.

A LIVINK LEGEND The Dunes and the Sunken Forest are the realm of the Faeries. There they may drink and fuck and frolick with none of the responsibilities of our sister settlements. They need not have Houses or Folks, or give charity and do service - those honors are reserved for those of us who choose to dwell in Cumton by the Sea or Vulvil by the Bay. That choice, you see, is paramount to our freedom, for all are free to to go as they please and live among the Fae. Many of us do, and return after a time to rest and replenish - some to heal. The fae are our children, for we are all the fae from time to time.

Food will be given, and medicine - clothes and shelter, but it is good to know that a House is not just a home, but a family. Some Folks don’t take too kindly to being left with all the Housework every time the fae come a’calling. Folks, afterall, have the final say on who they invite into their Houses.

FAERIE WISDOM “There’s no place like homme. There’s no place like homme. There’s no place like homme.”

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THE SAFEWORD IS THE EGO AND THE ID “Any word from?” Estrogen asked hopefully. Didi looked down. He wouldn’t ask, and the younglings wouldn’t answer if he had.

A boi stepped forward, placing a basket of supper at their feet, “I’m sorry, mam,” the boi hesitated, “but he’s not coming” a look of pity crossing his face. “He’s waiting for them at the Community-Center-Hospital-Orgy-Space.” pointing down to PozO and Lucki in flagrante on the beach.

A veritable metronome, PozO barely broke pace as he pulled out of Lucki, delicious orgasm juice glinting off his moonlit shaft as he rearranged his foreskin with one hand and collected Lucki, still trussed, in the other. When he bent to grab Lucki’s baggage, Lucki protested, “Here, let me carry all that, you don’t have to.” Balancing Lucki on his shoulder, PozO kicked his blanket up, shook off the sand and wrapped it around his waist, a lube-stained sarong. “My love,” explained PozO patiently, “these bags are important to you, and you are important to me” as he hefted them up onto his wiry shoulders. “Besides,” said PozO, “you need a rest, and carrying you makes me stronger.”

“You’re my whole world,” whispers Lucki.

“Comfortable, my love?” Croons PozO. “Oh Yes,” sputters Lucki, a bit hoarse.

“Yes, what?” There is steel in PozO’s voice.

“Oh, Yes! Yes, sir! Sir, I’m so sorry, sir…”squirmsLucki.

PozO cut him off with a, “Good lad,” and adjusted Lucki so his bound body was draped over PozO’s left shoulder, and gently patted his pink, battered buttocks, now high in the air. Juice dripped from Lucki onto PozO’s chest as they marched past the leafless tree, Estrogen and Didi, and onto the boardwalk towards the Pansy Path and GoodO, the younglings proudly trailing after.

“Wait,” Estrogen reaches out to hand a bundle of blackberries and mushrooms and juniper to the boi, “Give this to Miss Hannigan, won’t you?” The boi hesitates before clutching the parcel to his sunken chest, “She won’t accept it, you know? She never does.”

“I know,” says Estrogen, “But give it to her nonetheless.” The boi nods, turning.

“Oh and boi!” Estrogen calls, “tell her it’s from Gogo, if you would,” Squinting, tilting his head slightly, “but who’s Gogo?” the boi asks.

“No one you know,” says Estrogen, half hearted, “Now be on your way.”

Didi emerges, watching the young boi run off to catch the others, “maroons.”

Estrogen looks at him questioningly.

“It’s all just sand, you know? They both know - we all know - it’s just sand in those bags.”

Estrogen takes a slow breath and searches in her pockets and ears for a cigarette.

“I’ll just never understand why they insist on schlepping them everywhere,” Didi proffers a rolled cigarette, one he had likely stolen from her earlier, “Chunky Lucki can’t weigh less than a dozen stone, I’ll never know how PozO manages with those bags on top of it all.”

Estrogen accepts, taking the fag in her mouth and cupping her hands against the wind. Didi deftly strikes a match, a momentary flare of light between them.

Exhaling, she pontificates, “Don’t you know anything about love, Didi? He carries the sandbags for balance.”

FAGGOT WISDOM

“No symbols where none intended.”

THE TOWER

Fauxcoup stays in his tower, watching.

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RETURN to TOUCH

NEW YORK CITY • FIRE ISLAND PINES • FORT LAUDERDALE

bookmmx.com • 917-599-6901

Pitch Your Pup Send us a pic of your Fire Island pup and we might feature them in the next issue! info@fagragmag.com Put “Pitch Your Pup” in the subject

WHATEVER LOLA WANTS Photographer: Basic Ass Photog @basicassphotog Model: Lola Red

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Lust

Photographer: Mikey T @lustseries 40

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