Revelation in the Garden of Gomorra (1.26 MB)

I heard whispers of the infamous paradise for years.

 Located only an hour and a half from New York City, off the southern coast of Long Island, Fire Island was nothing more than a sandbar, twenty miles long and less than a half mile wide. Distinct ports of call, such as the blue-blood and Jewish communities, and lesbian-land—known as Cherry Grove—appealed to pleasure seekers of various persuasions. Then there was The Pines, the cloistered playground for gay urban men with cash to burn or youth, beauty, and/or drugs to peddle. With shamelessly overpriced accommodations in only a moldy, cinder block excuse-for-a-hotel, The Pines even discouraged casual weekend guests. To be there, you had to belong. This meant either owning, or having access to the exorbitant seasonal house rentals. Read More >>