the pines have a dubious reputation: a strip-of-a-strip of hamptons-adjacent driftwood crawling with rich white gay weekend warriors desperate to party and play among the island’s native pines and its unethically-imported bamboos. this is not untrue! but i spent a month there this summer, and i found myself amused and even inspired by the pines’ inherent theatricality. every single house—for better or for worse—is a stage set for someone’s idea of gay heaven. the itinerary of every chosen fam on their weekend or week-long excursion comprises a script for a queer friend group at its absolute best: “we cook! we swim in the ocean at night! we take ghb and 2cb! we smoke cigarettes and discuss auto-fiction! we fight about auto-fiction!” the pines are possibilities
