Flights, F*cks, and Freedom: Tales of Unruly Gay Summer Escapes

11:00 am. La Boheme’s outdoor dining area is decorated with trees, a cool breeze, and partly cloudy skies. ’80s yacht music mingles in the atmosphere with hushed conversation and the soft clinking of cutlery. Saturday Brunch was the vibe. 

Some were a few mimosas in. I, the non-drinker, had the club soda with a splash of cranberry juice (in the spirit of being bourgeoisie). However, we were sweaty, sun-kissed, and half-buttoned—when I mentioned, “I want to get out of L.A. for a bit but not to Palm Springs.”  This statement hung in the air, thick as the heat outside, and just like that, the floodgates opened with suggestions and forbidden tales.

We weren’t talking about resorts or passport stamps. We were talking about the places that cracked us open. *winks* Cities that left hickies on our memories. Beaches where our bodies felt louder, freer. Destinations that didn’t just welcome queerness—they demanded it.

Because here’s the truth: there’s something about summer that strips us down. The heat hits, and suddenly we’re chasing sun, sweat, and something sinful. It’s quite simple, well, at least for me—summer turns into cashing checks, catching flights, and backshots on balconies, nowhere near my usual zip code. Shame melts. Skin speaks. And somewhere between a plane ticket and the scent of coconut oil, queerness emerges raw, hungry, and honest. That itch to escape, to feel seen, to feel sexy—it always shows up with the heat.

These places, the few that came up again and again at that table, aren’t just vacation spots. They’re portals. Proof that being gay isn’t always a protest. Sometimes, it’s a good time. Sometimes, it’s a pilgrimage. Sometimes, it’s a guy you’ll never see again whispering you’re safe here between bites of peach *winks* at sunset.

Here’s what I remember and what my friends won’t shut up about. These are the places we rated and I’m sharing with you, Handsome! SN: I got permission to use the convo only if I used fake names. One thing about my group of friends, we thrive on discretion. 

Probably very obvious that Fire Island, New York, was mentioned first. The collective “oh yeah” could be heard from the other tables. I, however, got hit with shade harder than a grandmother backing handing a child who’s acting up during church when I admitted I had never been. “Like, how can you be gay if you’ve never been to Fire Island?” said Sean as he put down his glass.  A few people who were close enough turned and nodded in agreement. Everyone at that table had a Fire Island story. Some ended in heartbreak. Most ended in someone’s bed. But they all began the same: stepping off that ferry and realizing they’re about to be somebody else for the weekend. 

They talked about Pines and Cherry Grove, where being gay isn’t just accepted—it’s canon.  Daylight was tea dances and sandy kisses, and nightfall was for silhouettes slipping through trees. “Rob, in Fire Island, you’ll dance. You’ll fuck. You’ll feel the ghosts of icons in the wind and wonder if you’re becoming one yourself,” John explains, while chewing. “It’s not just summer. It’s a sacred ritual.” 

“And after all, I got married to someone I met at Fire Island,” Sean said, holding up his ring finger. The table took a vote and decided to give Fire Island four stars. Looks like I’m booking a trip there soon.

Craig got a little too excited when Provincetown, Massachusetts, came up. “I don’t know how to explain it—but everything feels allowed there.” Well, I guess that can be true. P-Town is what happens when New England lets her hair down and puts on lashes and a jockstrap. I found it to be a place where you can cry during a drag show, hook up on the dunes, and wake up in someone’s cottage with scones and stories.

And Craig’s right. It’s campy, cultured, and filthy in the sweetest way. You’ll drink. Not me. You’ll dance barefoot. I’m normally in shoes. And you’ll probably fall for someone who leaves before you remember their last name. That’s the point. P-town got a solid 3.5 stars when it came to a vote. Personally, I give it 5, but whatever.

Suddenly, John leaned forward like he was sharing a secret: “People sleep on Rehoboth.” I replied, “Re-Who?!” Not many at the table knew about this place, but after the photos he showed us. It was now on the table for discussion. John went one year with an ex from Delaware, and now goes once a year. 

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, is the exact place he was talking about. And according to John and strangers from the other table who backed him up, plus the pictures he showed us. He seemed to be right. It’s quiet. Polished. But behind those rainbow flags and respectable seafood joints is a sleepy little town that hums with low-key lust. From his stories, it’s giving, lady in the streets, freak in the sheets vibe. You come here to feel grown. To make eyes at someone over oysters. To have a hot weekend and still be in bed by 1 a.m.—with company. Since John was the only one who knew about this place, I let him rate it solo. He gave it a strong 3 stars.

Sean and Craig took us overseas to Lisbon, Portugal. They went for a visit last summer together. “That city romanced the hell out of me,” Craig said, twirling his straw in his drink. Lisbon is slower. Sexier. Sadder, in a beautiful way. He added.

Sean added, “You won’t just hook up here—you’ll feel here.”  He also said there’s something about the glances in coffee shops, the music in alleyways, the way people hold you like they’ve been waiting. It’s not just about the pleasure—it’s the ache, too. John and I sat by while Craig and Sean debated on what to rate Lisbon. Finally, they gave it a solid 4.

From there, we went right into Spain… Stiges to be exact. Another collective ohhh and ahh. Craig, Sea,n and John have been but I haven’t. However, to be fair, I’ve ran through South America and they haven’t so… we’re even. John said, “It’s the kind of town that hands you a drink and undresses you with its eyes.” Sean chimed in, “You won’t leave rested. You’ll leave ruined—in the best way.” That statement made me smirk and clutch my pearls at the same time, especially when they mentioned there’s a muscle bear week. Let me look into flights now, especially after the boys gave Stiges five stars.
 

John’s soul left his body the moment Craig brought up Mykonos, Greece. I’ll put a wager that it went back to his first time in Mykonos. “Everything was beautiful. Everyone was beautiful,” John said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He and Craig both describe Mykonos as a place that makes you mythic, even if you’re just tipsy on the beach in borrowed sunglasses. “Mykonos felt like someone poured glitter on Mount Olympus. It’s decadent. Dionysian. And almost too much—until you realize that too much is exactly what you needed,” Craig added. Both John and Craig admitted to partying too much, but would go back in a heartbeat. It made me interested until Sean finally chimed in and said that he went and wasn’t all that impressed. Sean’s more like me, good for a couple of parties, then gets us to a beach. Craig and John rated Mykonos a 4, but it went down to a 3.5 after Sean argued about the lack of stillness there.

Barcelona, Spain, never cools down. This was the final place that was brought up. It’s constant. Sticky. Alive. The guys all agreed this is a perfect balance of all of things you need. John talked about dancing so hard there and about walking home barefoot, sun-kissed and spinning. He said he felt more himself than they ever had back home. “There’s art there. And heat. And something ancient pulsing under the concrete,” Sean said.  “This city wants to rewrite you—and if you’re lucky, it will.” The boys and the waiter refilling my soda water all gave it a 4.5.

So here’s my final word: I need to spend more time in Europe, and the fellas need to spend more time in South America. Ok, I’ll get serious, Summer isn’t just a season. It’s a permission slip. To be shameless. To take up space. To love louder, fuck freer, and disappear with style. And it doesn’t have to be the places I’ve mentioned from brunch. Go where your skin feels sacred. Go where your name sounds sexier in someone else’s mouth. Go somewhere that undresses you before you even unpack.

That brunch reignited my fire for traveling, and it sparks yours, too. Go. Just promise you’ll come back with stories…

And if you’re feeling generous, take me with you next time.