LOVE MATTERS –
June 15, 2026 – Last night, after dancing and sweating ridiculously on gallons of Red Bull at low, middle and/or high tea, members of our house came home to enjoy a hearty, rustic, group-prepared and -approved meal. Do you know how difficult it is to get eight queens to agree on a meal? It makes the Yalta Conference look like child’s play.
We cleaned up the dinner plates before separating into our two distinct, but not overtly delineated, cohorts-the Gen X gents, of which I am the youngest, and the millennial-and-under men. We older boys had gotten our fill of frivolity at tea and would be staying home after dinner to play parlor games and flip through magazines while those in the younger set were feverishly choosing the perfect pair of panties to wear to the underwear party in Cherry Grove around 11.
Now, as the fresh sea air becomes rich with the scents of brewing coffee and frying bacon, we are all being entertained by the boys as they piece together their exploits from the night before—who got laid, who came close, who was there, who looked amazing, who looked hideous and cracked out. The usual gossip.
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