Kristoff had survived Elsa’s blizzards, Norway’s avalanches, and ravenous wolves, but the jungle, he decided, was way worse. Everything was wet. Everything made noise. Everything either bit or crawled on him, and the heat was so oppressive, he thought he might faint at any moment.

As he returned to his camp and peeled off his shirt, he had that feeling again; the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Just that morning, he’d woken up to discover a small pile of strange fruit outside his makeshift shelter. Plus, he’d occasionally catch a branch moving when there wasn’t any wind, or would hear a dense thud softly land behind him. He knew something was there, he just didn’t know what. Or who.

Ever since he arrived in Africa three days prior, hired to accompany a small Norwegian expedition carrying supplies to Cape Town, he felt like he was being watched. A storm had destroyed his boat, and he hadn’t seen the other crew members since he washed ashore. He wasn’t afraid, per se, knowing how to survive the coldest mountains in Arendelle, but the heat and mysteries of the jungle were an entirely new beast to contend with.

Just then, he heard something move above him again, in the canopy of trees. Kristoff froze and slowly, carefully looked up.

And that’s when he saw him for the first time. A man crouched on a branch twenty feet above him, barefoot and nearly naked, wearing only a rough piece of brown cloth around his waist. Long dark hair hung around his shoulders in thick, tangled strands. His body was lean and powerfully muscled, his skin darkened by the sun. He watched Kristoff with startling blue eyes.

Kristoff let out an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, but the stranger didn’t stir.

“Hello,” Kristoff said.

The man said nothing.

“Have you been following me?”

Nothing.

“Did you…leave me fruit earlier?”

The man’s mouth twitched and he dropped from the tree, landing with the familiar dense thud Kristoff heard earlier.

Kristoff jumped backward. “Jesus! A little warning next time!”

The stranger tilted his head.

“I’m Kristoff.” He said, pointing to himself. The look in the man’s eyes wasn’t malicious; it was curious. He looked interested, kind. And it was enough for Kristoff not to feel threatened. “Kris-toff.”

The man studied him before touching his own chest.

“Tarzan.”

“Tarzan.” Kristoff nodded. “How ya doing, Tarzan?”

Tarzan pointed toward the pathetic structure Kristoff had spent his first two days building.

“That’s…shelter,” Kristoff explained.

Tarzan stared at it. And then he laughed.

Kristoff’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, gimme a break, Tarzan.”

An hour later, Tarzan rebuilt the shelter to be ten times sturdier, in under fifteen minutes. Then, he grabbed Kristoff’s hand and pulled him back into the thickness of the jungle.

“Whoa, buddy, whoa",” Kristoff said, pulling back. “Where are you taking me?” He didn’t expect a response, but surprisingly, he got one anyway.

“Water,” Tazrzan said, as if it were obvious.

“You speak?”

“Some.”

“I’m trying to find the coast…the sea,” Kristoff explained. “There was another boat on my expedition, behind us, that may be looking for me.”

“Sea,” Tarzan said, pointing west.

“How far?”

Tarzan considered the question, but then walked closer to Kristoff, until they were chest to chest. Tarzan lowered his head toward Kristoff’s chest and sniffed. Then he rose his own arm and sniffed himself, nodding in approval.

“Water first,” he said. He grabbed Kristoff by the hand and tugged him further into the jungle.

When they arrived at the clearing, Kristoff never expected to find a lake. But laid out in front of him, like a postcard, was a crystal clear basin of water, fed by one of the most magnificent waterfalls he had ever seen. Lush, colorful plants and flowers outlined the water, like an oasis, an eden, placed there by God himself.

“Bath.” Tarzan ordered.

“Geez,” Kristoff muttered. “I must really stink.”

Unabashedly, Tarzan removed his loincloth, and Kristoff gulped.

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Coming to you live from my dining room table with a bottle of Corona in my hand, a load of laundry in the dryer, and sending this newsletter out 14 hours later than my self-imposed deadline.

But it actually dovetails wonderfully into what I've been thinking about this week: time management. I have been on a TEAR with my writing. I am very pleased to say I’ve started writing a new book!! (pause for thunderous applause) and am 95 pages in. Yes, it’s a first draft, but man, I am COOKING. I am so inspired. And this is typical for my writing process: I will let an idea gestate for months (even years, sometimes), and then when I’ve finally outlined it to death and devoted an incredible amount of brainpower & time thinking about the plot, the characters, and tone, I dive in. And then, I CANNOT BE STOPPED.

Here’s the rub: it’s seriously cutting into all other areas of my life. I’m spending a lot of time helping my friend Jon recover, which I am all-too-happy to do. Then, factor in my social media consulting, other acting and writing projects, chores (ugh), a social life (oh yeah), and ya know, sleep, I’m struggling to find the hours in the day to accomplish it all.

But, nevertheless, I’m still writing. It’s like an obsession from which I cannot be deterred.

I’ve found that time-blocking really helps me. And this is insane, I know, but I literally map out every. single. hour. of my waking day, to make sure every 30 minutes is planned and accounted for, or else I’ll go off the rails.

And suggestions on other good time management tricks?? Reply to this email and let me know. I’m all ears.

What I’m Reading Writing:

What’s the project that’s been consuming my life? Well, as if I couldn’t be any more insufferable, it turns out I actually inspired myself. In my latest book, The Lifeguard, I wrote a story about low self-esteem titled, The Prince. In it, the Prince of a fictional country is saved by a nomad in the South of France and they begin a romance where the Prince learns to finally accept his gayness and be comfortable in his own identity.

I could not stop thinking about the two characters, Prince Theodore and Lucien, after the book was published…so I decided to write a sequel. And guys, it might be my favorite thing I’ve written yet. I know all artists say that about their most recent work, but I am really, really excited. And I’m going to shop it around to agents and publishers once it’s ready. It’s a romantic comedy (surprise, surprise) love triangle with a ton of heart, all about embracing who you are and not trying to run from it. It’s hilarious, fast-paced, and the plot has SO MANY TWISTS. I’ll keep you posted as more things develop, but I can’t wait to share this story with everyone as soon as I can.

Below is an image from The Prince, which you can order on Amazon now.

What I’m Listening To:

Because I’ve been in such a writing hole, I’ve been listening to people talk about writing, too! How exhausting, you’re probably thinking! But it motivates me to hear the journey of other writers. Especially ones who have been rejected, A LOT, as was the case with the author of the NYT #1 Bestseller, The Correspondent, Virginia Evans. She detailed it wonderfully on The Oprah Podcast, which you can listen to, here:

What I’m Eating:

I was so obsessed with the chocolate date bars from last week’s newsletter, I made another batch. Besides that, I’ve been weirdly obsessed with Trader Joe’s kimchi? Because it’s supposed to be great for digestion. But FYI: “critics note it leans more toward a mild, vinegar-based quick pickle than a deeply authentic, traditional ferment.” WHATEVER.

What I’m Using:

Now that my face is pretty much back to 100% from my dryness attack, I’ve integrated Ursa Major’s Golden Hour Recovery Cream into my routine. I’ve used it for years, and it’s really good for deep moisturizing. It even has turmeric in it, for anti-inflammatory purposes. Try it.

In Case You Missed It…

DON’T FORGET! If you’re interested in signing up for the Hamptons to Hollywood Fitness Program, my Substack readers get 25% OFF!

I was twenty-one when I realized I might be attracted to men. And it wasn’t in the vague, harmless way I’d sometimes admitted another guy was good-looking on TV or in a movie.

It happened somewhere over Nevada. I was flying to visit my aunt — and to surf in California for the first time — for a week, wedged into an aisle seat with my backpack between my ankles and a paperback copy of The Sun Also Rises on my lap, even though I knew I wasn’t going to read it. The plane was nearly full when the man appeared in the aisle. He stopped to check the numbers above the seats, and I looked up.

He looked like he was in his late thirties, though there was also something ageless about him, like he could have stepped out of a Botticelli painting. He was tall enough that he had to duck beneath the overhead bins, too, probably around 6’3”. Thick dark hair curled around his forehead and temples, unruly in a way that looked polished and like he didn’t care, at the same time. He had a thick mustache and a little bit of dark scruff along his jaw. His face was angular, but not severe. He had a strong nose, pronounced cheekbones, and heavy eyebrows. He was objectively handsome, clearly. But I’d seen handsome men before…and he was different. He wore a navy hoodie and olive shorts, nothing remarkable, except for the fact that the shorts exposed enormous, muscular thighs covered in dark hair. His calves were thick too. Even his forearms caught my attention when he lifted his duffel into the overhead compartment above me.

Was he about to sit down?

I immediately opened my book and saw him sit across the aisle from me, in my periphery. I read the same sentence four times and swallowed. Something about him made me nervous.

Fifteen minutes later, the plane took off. Once we hit a cruising altitude, I looked again. He was on his phone, leaning back and angled toward me with his legs spread apart because there was apparently no other possible configuration for legs that size. I thought he was brave for wearing flip-flops on a plane. His thumbs moved across the phone screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then I looked more closely at his hands. Large, broad palms, dark hair across his knuckles.

I swallowed again. I felt ridiculous. Something about him pulled me into his orbit, an invisible gravity I couldn’t control. His hoodie stretched across his chest and shoulders when he shifted in his seat. There was something intensely masculine about him: the dark hair, the mustache, the muscular legs, the size of his hands, even the careless way he occupied the cramped airplane seat. I compared his form to mine, much more lean and lithe, and wondered if I was jealous. Maybe the magnetism I felt toward him was really a desire to be him. Or at least look like him.

And then, bizarrely, I wondered what his chest looked like under the hoodie. As soon as the thought punctuated my brain, my stomach dropped. I stared straight into my book and the letters seemed to contort and dance around the pages.

Why the fuck was I imagining him without a shirt on?

I had never let myself think about men in such a way before. Sure, there had been moments where I looked at other dudes. In locker rooms, on beaches, noticing guys at the gym for half a second too long before forcing myself to check out a girl instead — but didn’t all guys do that? Size up other men in comparison to themselves? To imagine who would win in a fight? Wasn’t it something primal that lived within the male species? Comparison. Curiosity. Admiration.

Not…desire.

But the guy on the plane stirred something different in my gut. I didn’t think I only wanted to look like him. I thought I might want to touch him, too. The thought arrived so cleanly, in fact, that I nearly laughed from panic. But when I glanced toward him again, I saw he was looking at me. My heart slammed against my ribs. His eyes dropped briefly to the book in my lap, then returned to my face.

“Good?” he asked.

I looked down. I’d been holding the book upside down. I flipped it over so quickly that he laughed.

“Wow,” I muttered.

“Long day?” he asked. His voice was so deep, I swore I could almost feel his body humming out a frequency of sound waves I could have surfed.

“You have no idea.”

His smile widened, which changed his entire face. What had seemed intimidating before melted away; suddenly there was warmth.

“I’m Chuck.” He held his hand across the aisle.

I stared at it for one mortifying second before taking his warm palm in mine. “I’m Ben.”

“Nice to meet you, Ben.”

When he released my hand, my skin tingled. And then we started talking. At first, about nothing in particular. Why we were both headed to San Diego (he was going home), and I told him about my aunt and how excited I was to surf the Pacific. He told me he’d been away for a few days and couldn’t wait to sleep in his own bed. Somehow five minutes became twenty.

Aside from the deepness of his voice, it was also slightly rough, and when he laughed, his whole face lit up. He teased me about the upside-down book. And then I started laughing, too. And for some reason, I really liked making him laugh. It made me feel like I had really earned something. And whenever I was rewarded with his husky laugh, something inside me felt like it was coming loose.

The next spark of curiosity that popped into my mind surprised me even more than the thought of him not wearing a shirt: I suddenly had an intense urge to know how he smelled. It felt like an insane thing to wonder. I mean, I had to admit, I had never once looked at a woman across a room and thought, I wonder what her skin smells like after she’s been outside all afternoon. But apparently it only took Chuck sitting a few feet away for my brain to investigate an entirely new chamber of novelty that lived within the catacombs of my psyche. I imagined something warm and masculine. Sandalwood soap from his shower that morning. The faint smell of laundry detergent trapped in his hoodie. And even deeper, underneath that, there would be a scent that only belonged to him; skin and hair and the subtle musk of a man who had been traveling all day.

“Jesus,” Chuck muttered as he shifted in his seat.

“What?”

“It’s hot.”

He was right. The cabin had grown stuffy after the drink service, the air stagnant despite the little vents hissing overhead. Chuck reached up to adjust the direction of his airflow, and then he stood. His hoodie rode up slightly as he stretched his arms over his head, exposing a narrow strip of stomach above his shorts. I caught the sight of dark hair beneath his navel before I averted my eyes. Or tried to. He grabbed the bottom of his hoodie and pulled it over his head to reveal a grey T-shirt.

I nearly stopped breathing. The shirt fit him much more snugly than the hoodie had. His chest was broad, his shoulders heavy, his waist surprisingly slim beneath them. The soft grey fabric clung to his shoulder blades. He lifted his arms to shove the hoodie into the overhead bin directly above my seat. As he seemed to loom over me, my eyes drifted upward and I saw dark, damp patches under both his arms, spreading slightly into the grey cotton.

Oh, come on.

I stared and something low in my stomach tightened, a sensation that traveled lower, into my groin. And then I felt it. I started getting hard.

Instinctively, embarrassedly, I slid my book over my crotch, praying to God that Chuck, nor the pudgy fifty-year-old lady next to me, saw it.

Chuck dropped back into his seat and glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yep,” my voice cracked. I avoided eye contact and looked resolutely into my book, almost starting to sweat. It was absurd. Sweat wasn’t sexy. Sweat was something you showered off! It was deodorant commercials and sticky gym clothes and oppressive summer heat.

Except, apparently, Chuck’s sweat was different. I closed my eyes and suddenly my imagination supplied an entire scene I hadn’t asked for…

Chuck was outside on a brutally hot afternoon, working in a yard. Why a yard? No idea. But there he was, in short denim shorts, barefoot, his same grey t-shirt darker down the spine and with even bigger splotches beneath his arms. His curls were damp as they stuck to temples. His mustache was wet. And then, feeling the heat, he dragged the bottom of his shirt across his forehead, accidentally exposing his hard stomach, and that same patch of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband.

His arms were slick with sweat, too, and his chest was so damp beneath the cotton tee, he decide to pull the shirt off altogether, in slow motion, because, ya know, of course.

I could feel myself become even harder.

I imagined the broad chest underneath his shirt, dark hair flattened by sweat. Sunlight caught the moisture across his shoulders, his skin flushed from exertion. There was dirt on his hands. His breathing was heavy after flopping down a heavy sack of mulch.

And somehow, in my fantasy, I was there, too. I walked outside carrying a glass of lemonade, because evidently discovering I was attracted to men immediately transformed me into a 1950s housewife.

“Thought you might need this.” I said.

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What I’m Thinking:

I blame the invention of texting for the decline of modern civilization.

Hear me out.

I’ve always disliked texting; I would ALWAYS rather have a conversation on the phone with someone, especially if I actually like and care about them. Texting is SO impersonal to me. Look, I’m a busy guy. Every night I make an hour-by-hour list of what I will do the next day (even scheduling in fun!). So, when someone texts me, and interrupts my flow, I find it as annoying as a fly buzzing around the dinner table while dining al fresco.

If you really want to talk to me in any meaningful way, CALL ME!! I reserve texting for short, terse replies, and quite frankly, work.

People — myself included, sometimes — have become too comfortable hiding behind screens. We’ve lost the sharp, excruciating discomfort of dumping someone in person, and the wonderful joy of seeing someone’s smile unfold and spread across their face when you’re telling them a funny story. We’re missing out on basic, human interaction. And it’s emboldened us to be lazy, shy, and withdrawn.

Society’s interpersonal decline started with texting, then became exacerbated by social media, and now we’re raising generations of children who don’t hang out with each other in person as much, where they’re supposed to learn basic communication skills and how to read nonverbal cues.

Why am I ranting about this? Someone texted me this week and asked me a rather serious, loaded question, wanting to engage in a text conversation. Their intention was so pure and kind, but I honestly would have rather jumped out the window than spill out my heart to them via text. Firstly, I can’t type that fast. And secondly, if you like me, just call me. I don’t care if it’s uncomfortable for you to reach out (another thing that has made us all more shy — me included, again), it’s good to be uncomfortable sometimes! If you really care, call.

Moral of the story? Call someone this week you like. Say hi, have an old-fashioned phone call, pretend it’s 1998. Do it for me. Don’t text.

What I’m Eating:

At 9pm last night I was inspired. I saw these little Chocolate Date “Candy Bars/Brownies” on Instagram and HAD to make them.

Mine are not as gorgeous, but they’re CUTE, and that’s important. Best of all? They are the most fucking delicious things on the planet. Here’s the recipe.

What I’m Using:

I found another bodily affliction! Hurrah to being in my late 30s! I have eczema on my eyelids (?) WTF. So, my mom (who basically moonlights as my life coach) recommended Eucerin. And it works. If you have eczema, grab yourself a bottle.

What I’m Listening To:

The New York Times’ The Interview Podcast is so, so good. Hosts David Marchese and Lulu Garcia-Navarro are some of THE BEST interviewers around; they ask pressing, probing questions that get to the truth of their subjects, which keeps each guest on their toes (in the best way).

What I’m Watching:

X-Men 97. It’s genuinely such a good show. Season 2 was NOT perfect. But the finale? I nearly cried. They always have ONE episode per season that makes it one of the best shows (seriously) on TV.

What I’m Wearing:

This is my typical summer uniform. Lightweight button-up, shorts, low top sneaks, sometimes a hat. You can’t go wrong.

In Case You Missed It…

I did a really fascinating interview with Sumner and Koaty Blayne, fiances who are OnlyFans creators and porn stars. I was so nosy and asked them EVERYTHING about their relationship. Watch/Listen here:

Order My Latest Book, The Lifeguard HERE

For most of my thirties, I told myself I’d get serious about my health “once work settled down.” Of course, being the ambitious lawyer I was, work literally never settled down. I was promoted to partner, three cases spiraled into six, I was working until ten at night, and before I knew it, a decade had slipped away and my body sunk to the bottom of my priority list.

It wasn’t fat. I wasn’t really miserable. But I was self-conscious every time I went to the beach. I had turned into that guy who made lots of excuses and lived more in his head than his own body.

Finally, eight months ago, I got my shit together. I cleaned up my diet, started walking every morning, graduated to lifting weights, and somehow managed to lose twenty-six pounds. My best friend noticed. My clothes fit differently. I even looked in the mirror one morning and actually smiled. But I could also tell I’d plateaued. I knew if I wanted to get to the next level, to actually get hot, I needed help.

That’s how I met Kai.

He wasn’t the loud, intimidating trainer I’d expected. He had an easy confidence that somehow made him even more attractive. He was 6’2 (which he always joked about being a miracle for a Samoan guy), dark-haired, had caramel skin, was athletic without looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger, and always wore black training shorts and fitted tank tops that looked annoyingly good on him. He always folded his arms and smiled with one corner of his mouth when he listened to me complain about doing more reps.

The first training session was all business. By the second, I loosened up and we talked about my goals; I loved Kai because not only was he a certified trainer, but he also gave me meal plans that emphasized my protein intake. During the third session, I had developed an embarrassingly obvious crush that I was fairly certain he knew about.

“Again,” he said one Tuesday night as I finished another set of squats. It was nearly nine o’clock. The gym was empty.

“I’ve done twelve!” I whined.

“You’ve done eleven and the first one didn’t count.”

I dropped my head dramatically. “I liked you better thirty seconds ago.”

“I know,” he grinned.

The gym air hung thick with the sharp tang of sweat and rubber mats. I gripped the barbell on my shoulders once more, my stocky frame straining under the load as my muscles burned. Kai stood close behind me, lean and sculpted, one hand firm on my lower back to correct my form.

“Deeper, Jake. Feel that stretch in your quads. Don’t cheat it,” he murmured, his tone abandoning his normal teasing for a more serious one. The intensity in his voice sent a spark straight to my core. I swore I could feel his breath warming the nape of my neck…or was I just hoping it was?

My breath came in short bursts, and I could feel a rush of warmth spreading from my legs and glutes up into my torso, my head. I’d hired Kai to push me, but our sessions had quickly turned into a teasing game of flirtation. I can’t tell you how many times I had to go home right afterward and jerk off.

“You’re hitting your goals, dude, but I know you wanna hit that next level,” he would say, his fingers sliding alongside the hem of my shirt.

Or, “Lookin’ tight, man! You’re gonna nab a boyfriend in no time.”

I had no idea if Kai was straight or gay, but I knew lots of straight trainers flirted with their gay clients to keep them motivated. Everything he said dripped with some forbidden joke, his dominant voice paired with that goddamn playful grin. I caught him smiling in the mirror as he spotted me, behind me, our eyes locked as I stood and re-racked the barbell. Sweat poured down my temples. Because Kai was taller, he felt even more commanding. The mirror reflected our personalities: his was easy and confident, mine was flushed, overwhelmed, and somehow nervous.

“C’mon, dude,” he ordered, wiping his brow. “Time for bench press.”

I groaned and lied back on the padded bench, settling my weight into position as Kai moved to spot me from behind my head. His legs were insane: lean and powerful, with a very light dusting of hair. They framed my view as I looked up at the bar, the loose fabric of his shorts falling closer to my head as he leaned forward to grip the bar and guide it down for me.

And then, I saw it. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. I could see right up his shorts — and he wasn’t wearing any underwear.

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I’m combining the “thinking” and “using” sections this week because my face went on a JOURNEY to hell and I couldn’t be seen in public for four days.

What happened?

In short, I tried to grow a beard.

I know, I know: people tell me I look great with facial hair. However, the thing is, guys, it’s potentially the most painful and irritating endeavor I can put my body through. For some reason — I suppose I have sensitive skin and never really realized it? — whenever the hair on my face grows, my pores simultaneously reject it. The below photo is from the irritation that occurs just from the hair starting to sprout up.

Look at that! Horrid! There were ingrown hairs that turned into the gnarliest scabs of all time. And they HURT. Badly. Itchy and painful and just altogether bad. The salve? I called my Mom and she recommended:

1. Triple Antibiotic ointment

2. Hydrocortisone cream

3. Teatree oil

4. Witch Hazel (spooky!)

First, you wash your face with a gentle wash (I used Cetaphil’s Daily Facial Cleanser). Second, apply the Witch Hazel. Third step is the Triple Antibiotic ointment — a liberal amount. Then finish it off with the hydrocortisone cream. In 36-48 hours, I looked like this:

Not 100% back to normal, but I’d say 90%, for sure. If you’re experience INTENSE dryness, scaliness, scabs, or anything similar (especially as it relates to facial hair/scruff), try my routine and share your results with me.

What I’m Wearing:

Literally nothing exciting to report here. I’m in bathing suits 6 days per week.

What I’m Eating:

I was recently in Martha’s Vineyard with my brother, and we found the BEST lobster roll on the island at Lookout Tavern. I recommend. If I don’t have at least 3 GREAT lobster rolls per summer, I wither away into nothing.

What I’m Reading:

Villa Coco! Recommended by my lovely Aunt Jacqui, this book is escapist, really funny, and just fun. It tells the tale of a young man gone to Italy to assist an older baroness inside her crumbling Tuscan villa — and the secrets & romances they have along the way. Love it.

What I’m Listening To:

I did a really fun podcast with my friend — and co-star — Sarah Moliski, who ALSO made the journey from the Hamptons to Hollywood to pursue an entertainment career. And it turns out we may have met before…when she was underage & I carded her…? See/listen to the fun conversation:

What I’m Watching:

I just started THE SHARDS last night and I am HOOKED! It’s very me, very up my alley. Privilege, murder, sex, a touch of horror, and dark comedy? Sign me up. It’s based on the Bret Easton Ellis book, a writer who I equally love. Watch it on Hulu.

What You Might’ve Missed…

Order The Lifeguard HERE

It had been two months since the incident at the hotel. And Kenny had been thinking about Scott and Trent ever since.

Every day at Northbound, his luxury travel and lifestyle company where he booked high-end hotels for his clients, he thought about the last hotel he was in. The night was still burned into his memory: the look on Scott’s face when he was

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Trigger warning: I’ve never been fat, let me just start with that. It’s probably a mix of genetics, being active since I was a literal toddler, and playing sports throughout my teen years that conditioned my body to stay in somewhat decent shape over time. And I coasted on those things for YEARS. Then, in the second half of 2020, when I, like so many of us, saw my body grow softer due to the midday wine, cheese, and spontaneous cocktails I found myself indulging in during COVID, I decided to make a HUGE change.

Rewind for a second. I remember in 2016 I went to the gym a lot, but I didn’t really know what I was doing re: training different muscle groups. Instead, I used machines I thought looked interesting, or that I knew would give me vanity muscles. But as I found out through acquiring different injuries, vanity muscles don’t really work if you don’t have a solid foundation first. Oops.

So, my big change in 2020 came when I signed up with an online trainer. I stuck with him for about 3 months and saw some decent results (a lot of it was him holding me accountable). But it was also around that time that my brother, Sean Langan, was getting his PhD in Exercise Science. Sean is also a Certified Strength & Conditioning Specialist AND a Certified Athletic Trainer. When I realized how well qualified he was to get me in shape and how aligned our methodologies were around fitness, I had an idea. So I fired my online trainer.

My plan? Partner with Sean and use my existing lifestyle brand, Hamptons to Hollywood, as a platform to launch the Hamptons to Hollywood Fitness Program (HHFP).

What’s the HHFP Method?

Sean has always been obsessed — sometimes annoying so — with being active. Ever since he was a kid. If we’re on vacation, forget about it. Lying around be damned! Sean will make me go on a 6 mile run at 8am, AND THEN a 10 mile bike ride at 3pm. But, his modality is one I ultimately love and agree with: staying fit to improve one’s healthspan. While lifespan measures the total number of years lived, healthspan captures the quality and vitality of those years. Yes, I still want my vanity muscles, but I also want to be able to swim and play tennis in Montauk with my friends when I’m 80. And the Hamptons to Hollywood Fitness Program takes the healthspan approach.

Using his expertise (it’s almost scary how smart he is when it comes to the science of human performance), Sean creates customized fitness plans for me, and our clients, to help us develop strength, flexibility, lose weight, and gain lean muscle that optimizes health and creates the kind of physique you’d see on the Hamptons or LA beaches.

Not only has Sean been training me for half a decade now, but he’s also trained competitive marathon runners, and even helped one client lower her A1C out of the pre-diabetes range. He’s currently the Head of Human Performance at VO Health and formerly conducted human performance research for the U.S. Army.

Customized Workouts, Every Week

My favorite part is that the workouts are customized each week. While HHFP is incredible for training athletes (and aspiring ones), or those who’re just starting out, each week a different customized workout is sent to you — via an app — that meets you where you are, while pushing you to where you want to go. It builds a foundation on which to build. And even if some weeks seem less intense than others, it’s normal. I’ve learned that results compound over time.

Look, I’m not one to hock random products or programs, but the HHFP has really worked for me. I’m literally living proof that if you are consistent and put in the effort, you will absolutely change your body. And if you don’t wanna take it from me, just know that our first client joined HHFP 4 years ago — and is still a client. Because it actually works. Check out my before and afters:

Special Offer!

Because I’m so in love with my Substack community these days, I’m offering my readers 25% OFF their enrollment! To start, HHFP asks for a 3-month commitment, and after that, it’s month-to-month.

If you’re interested in trying it out, it’s super easy. Send me a message and together we’ll jump on a free call with Sean, who’ll be your trainer, to figure out your goals and how we can make it work.

Talk soon!

In Case You Missed It…

The hotel bar had that expensive smell of cedar and vanilla, amber-y and comforting. Scott, thankful to be done with the conference that had droned on for way longer than it should have, was three fingers into his whiskey. He swirled the tumbler, watching the brown liquid catch the low light, when a laugh cut through the murmur of conversation like a blade. But the laugh wasn’t polite, or restrained, the way some laughs sound in public places. It was a real, authentic laugh; the kind that turns heads and makes other people smile, too.

He looked up. Trent was leaning against the bartop, one elbow propped on the polished wood, telling a story with his hands more than with his words. The guy had a mop of messy brown hair that fell across his forehead and a cocksure grin that let Scott know exactly how charming he was. He wore a vintage t-shirt depicting a cartoon wolf howling at the moon, and ripped jeans. Way too casual for the vibe of the bar. Scott could already tell he was cocky as hell.

Scott took another sip of his whiskey and tried not to stare. He liked confident men, sure, but he was just as much a sucker for a shy boy, too. The bar was packed with other people from the conference, but thankfully none he recognized; just other finance guys with loosened ties talking to women in heels so high they looked like instruments of torture. He had come down for a nightcap and the type of peace and quiet you can find from the dull roar of some social spaces. But apparently peace and quiet wasn’t on the menu.

Just as he was about to finish his drink and head back to his room, someone scraped the seat next to him across the floor and sat down.

“Sorry, man. Everywhere else is full.”

The guy who slid onto the stool had short brown hair and green eyes that caught the light like emeralds. He wore a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled, revealing forearms dusted with blonde hair. Fit build. Warm smile. He had an innocence that made him look like he’d just walked out of a Princeton brochure, but his Vans sneakers said he didn’t take himself too seriously, either.

“All good,” Scott replied. “I was about to leave anyway.”

“Don’t leave on my account.” The preppy guy flagged down the bartender. “Whiskey neat, or whatever he’s having.” He nodded at Scott’s glass. “I’m Kenny.”

“Scott.”

Trent’s story must have ended, because Scott saw his eyes land on Kenny like he’d just discovered a new species.

Kenny must have felt Trent’s eyes, too, because he turned, and Scott saw something flicker between the two of them. A spark. A challenge. Scott felt it in his chest, a low hum he couldn’t quite name. Was it jealousy for two strangers he didn’t even know?

Sure enough, Trent waved “goodbye” to the woman he was chatting with and sauntered over, leaning against the bar on Kenny’s other side, still wearing that grin. “She was cute,” Trent admitted, “but absolutely zero sense of humor.”

“You’re in luck,” Kenny snorted. “I’ll laugh at anything. Especially a fart joke. I’m easy.”

Trent’s grin widened and he extended a hand. “Trent.”

They shook, and Scott watched Kenny’s fingers linger a second longer than necessary.

The next two hours blurred like a fever dream. Trent kept the jokes coming, quick and sharp, and generously looped Scott into the conversation. He told stories about a terrible road trip he took with his grandmother and described in depth how his dog ate his favorite shoes last weekend. Kenny matched him beat for beat, laughing with an infectious cackle that made Scott’s chest tighten with tenderness. And Scott found himself talking too, about the bank where he worked (though he felt boring chatting about work), and about the house he’d bought last year that still needed a new roof. But Trent and Kenny both listened, Trent with his crooked grin and Kenny with his piercing green eyes that seemed to see right through him.

At some point, Kenny’s knee brushed Scott’s under the bar. Scott didn’t pull away. Neither did Kenny.

At midnight, the bartender called last call. Scott looked at his empty glass, then at Kenny, then at Trent. The air between them had changed. What was once awkward and light was replaced with an air of heaviness, a thickness loaded with something none of them said aloud.

But Kenny knew. His specialty was reading people. He saw the way Trent’s eyes lingered on his mouth when he sipped his whiskey. He felt the air particles charge when Scott’s hand drifted closer to his, fingers resting on the bar top, palm up. An invitation.

“I’m on the fourth floor,” Kenny announced, silently accepting Scott’s gesture. His voice was steady, but his pulse hammered in his throat. “Room 412.”

Trent raised an eyebrow. “That an invitation?”

Kenny met his gaze and held it. “I wouldn’t mind keeping the party going.”

Scott stood first, but he didn’t say anything. He simply looked at Kenny with his dark brown eyes, soft and serious, and waited. Trent slid off his stool next, cracked his neck, and shrugged like it was no big deal. But Scott noticed his hands were slightly shaking a little. If Kenny’s superpower was reading people, Scott’s was observance; he noticed everything. He wondered what Trent’s was.

The elevator ride was silent. Kenny stood between them, close enough to feel the heat coming off their bodies. Despite how many drinks they had, Scott only smelled like pine and smoke, while Trent’s scent was more soapy and sharp, like the air just before a storm.

After Kenny led them inside his room and clicked the door shut behind them, he turned and looked at them both. Two men. Strangers two hours ago. Now standing in his hotel room, watching him with the same hungry stillness he felt in his gut. They all knew why they were there, but still no one had said anything. So Kenny steered yet again.

“So, I want this,” he said. “But you guys should know what I’m into first.”

Trent plopped onto the bed, arms propped up behind him, smiling. “Enlighten us.”

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He turned his head as a carriage rolled into the courtyard, not too far away.

Right on time, he thought to himself.

Eric slung the towel around his neck and headed toward the front gates just as the visitor climbed out. The man was smaller than Eric expected. Wire-rimmed spectacles, windswept brown hair, ink stains on his fingers. He nearly tripped over his own satchel trying to gather an avalanche of notebooks. When he looked up and saw Eric in nothing but his speedo, his words caught in his throat and he paused just long enough for Eric to notice. His eyes lingered for a moment too long on Eric’s still-damp chest and the black hair that covered it. “Prince Eric?” he stammered.

Eric smiled. “You must be Milo Thatch.”

“I apologize for arriving unannounced,” Milo recovered quickly, adjusting his glasses.

“Unannounced? You wrote three letters.”

“I feared they hadn’t arrived.”

“They did.”

“Oh,” Milo blinked. “Well, I’m looking for Atlantis.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yes, well, I found one lost civilization before, but once I heard about Princess Ariel’s home, I knew I had to see it for myself. It’s gotta be unlike anything ever documented! I thought she could help me.”

“Ariel isn’t here.” Word had traveled about Milo’s Atlantis discovery in the South Pacific, and ever since, Milo had been contacting Ariel and Eric to inquire about Ariel’s own home of Atlantis. Eric thought his persistence would have been admirable, had it not concurrently meant destroying one of the greatest secrets known to mankind.

“When will she return?”

“I couldn’t say.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She’d left before sunrise, racing home beneath the waves after reading Milo’s latest letter. She feared this day would come. Milo — and explorers like him — didn’t hunt for treasure or chase fame. They wanted to understand, which made them even more dangerous. Understanding required observation, which turned into documentation, and documentation invited explorers. And explorers never stopped at looking. But if Ariel warned Triton and they moved quickly, they could prepare to hide before any human found the merpeople. Eric only needed to buy her a few hours. He didn’t have a plan of how to stall Milo, exactly, but he had always been better at improvising anyway. He just needed to find Milo’s weakness.

“Maybe,” Milo said hopefully, “you could show me where she first came ashore.”

“Not likely,” Eric smiled in a charming way that only a prince could.

“It would only take an afternoon.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Milo frowned, disappointed but undeterred. Eric recognized the look, like he had been a man who had spent his entire life hearing no.

“How about dinner first?” Eric offered.

Dinner was served at sunset — burrata salad, rack of lamb with garden herbs, and local goat cheese — and Milo could not stop trying to impress Eric on his knowledge of languages, ancient civilizations, and tidal currents. By dessert, he’d covered whale migration patterns, forgotten alphabets, and made a strong case for why America deserved better libraries. Eric had to admit, he was brilliant. Hopelessly, relentlessly brilliant. But every time Eric redirected the conversation, Milo somehow found Atlantis again.

“Are the rumors true?”

“Depends what you’ve heard.”

Milo sighed. “I’ve crossed an ocean. I don’t intend to leave empty-handed.”

Eric leaned back in his seat and stroked his chin, studying Milo. “I believe you.” But Eric also believed Milo was relentless. And unfortunately for him, relentless men eventually found what they were looking for — unless they found something even more rapturous first. Eric thought for a moment, but then caught Milo smiling at him sheepishly, his eyes drifting down to Eric’s collarbone, his chest, his arms.

And then Eric had an idea.

“Join me for a walk by the ocean?”

The cliffs glowed silver beneath dusk’s rising moon. Gentle waves folded onto the sand. The palace lights shimmered on the cliff above them.

“You really should see this view before you leave,” Eric said, gently hinting that Milo was free to go so he could be spared of Eric’s plan.

“It’s beautiful,” Milo admitted. But he stayed put.

Eric sighed and slipped off his boots first. Then his shirt. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Milo pretended not to watch.

“The water’s warmer than it looks.”

“I didn’t pack for swimming.”

“Oh come on, Milo. I thought you wanted to see the ocean,” Eric winked as he unbuttoned his pants and slid his trousers down his hard, hairy, muscular thighs until they collapsed in a pile around his feet.

Milo froze, stunned.

“Don’t make me throw you in,” Eric warned.

Milo swallowed hard and unbuttoned his shirt, undressing to reveal his thinner frame wearing underwear, too. He followed Eric into the water, pretending it was as warm as Eric claimed it was. After a few long strides, he joined Eric, treading water in the salty sea, reflecting the moonlight.

“This is incredible,” Milo admitted. “I guess princes really do have everything.”

“Eh, we have obligations, too.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose I have obsessions.”

Eric chuckled. “I noticed.”

Milo kicked his arms and moved his legs to stay afloat, already becoming tired. “I know you’re keeping me away. I can usually tell when people lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Maybe not,” Milo looked further out to the sea, as if he were trying to sea Atlantis from the surface. “But you’re stalling”

Eric’s silence confirmed it.

“I won’t stop searching,” Milo said quietly.

They bobbed atop the water like buoys as the waves carried them higher and lower on the tide. Eric studied Milo for a long moment and said nothing. He knew it was time.

“When you got here...” Eric said.

“Yes?”

“…you looked at me.”

Color flushed into Milo’s face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Aw, come on,” Eric smirked playfully. “Yeah, you do.”

Milo looked horrified. “I’m terribly sorry, your majesty.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I wasn’t…intentionally staring.”

Eric laughed, which eased the tension in Milo’s shoulders. “You’ve been looking at me all night, too.”

“I’m an explorer,” he stammered. “I’ve...occasionally...observed.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you find?”

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They say you should write what you know. What I know is that my best friend of nearly 15 years suffered a massive stroke 4 days ago and I’ve been in the hospital with him every day since. His name is Jon.

Of course, as someone who’s always looking for the meaning of life, I started thinking about all of Jon’s complexities, his charm, his humor, what drew us together, and what kept us in each others’ lives for more than a decade.

This is what you have to know about Jon. He has a lot of friends. And that’s an unequivocal testament to the pureness and beauty of his heart. He’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. Literally. He vomits kindness unto every cashier at the grocery store, always making sure to hold eye contact and flash them the biggest smile after he thanks them and pays. He consistently shows up with a gift, or thoughtful gesture, whenever he comes to my house, just because he delights in seeing the happiness on my face when he hands me a dark chocolate bar. He’s the kind of guy with whom you build and cherish a unique bond, only to find out that he has similar bonds with so many other people as well, because his heart is so big, so vast, so cavernously compassionate, that everyone who knows him wants to bask in the warmth of the light he exudes.

Okay, so picture it. It’s 2014. I’m on a small yacht docked in Long Beach and I’m sexually confused. It’s sunset and Jon comes aboard with his friend Steven. And I immediately start basking in his light.

I had just come off a stint of dating women, but like nickel to a magnet, I was pulled in under Jon’s thrall, tempted by his chiseled jaw and unnaturally enchanting icy blue eyes. From then on, I was hooked. We had an on-again-off-again romance that lasted half a decade, sure, but what we also built in that time was a foundation of intimacy, of friendship, of truth. I pushed him to always tell me the sometimes painful, unbearable truth, and he pushed me to understand that he valued me on a level that went deeper than just blighted romance.

Over the next almost decade, our relationship unspooled from a too-tightly wound ball of yarn into a quilt of friendship patched together by brotherly teasing, new levels of trust, vexing arguments, and even more honesty. Instead of being honest about our romantic feelings, our conversations turned into optimistic ones about life — where we would go, who we would be, what we would do — and how we promised to bring each other along for the ride. No matter what. Him, always dragging me along when he booked the last-minute jet ski excursion, had one more glass of wine, or splurged on the hotel room in Lake Como. And me, always daring him to bare his feelings over breakfast, make him talk in funny accents at lunch, or sneak into a random upscale party after dinner. Ours was always a dance of adventure meeting honesty, balancing both in a tango of which one would lead.

And now we’re here, in 2026, me in his hospital room as he gets some much-needed rest, by his side, “along for the ride,” in perhaps a different way than we intended when we made those promises to each other. His road to recovery will be a long one, but I believe in the spirit of his soul, that adventurous warrior, and how it will carry him to be an even more integrated, whole version of himself than I’ve ever seen before.

There’s a saying that goes, “you can never make new old friends,” and while Jon may not be my oldest friend, he’s without a doubt been my most impactful. He’s taught me patience (a lot), how to see the world with more logic than emotion, how to be more comfortable with myself, how to love, how to trust, how I can inspire others, and how to be a great friend. And while I’m not perfect, I’m happy I have someone as good as Jon to guide me and make me a better man.

How lucky am I, then, to have one person in my life who has contained such multitudes? To have one person who’s been a lover, a brother, a friend, a confidante, a rival at times, and most importantly, someone with whom I’ve explored new countries, tasted new foods, danced to old songs, and laughed with until our cheeks stung.

I — and so many others — love you so much, Jon. And I can’t wait to be there for you on your healing journey. And most importantly, to see you on the other side of it.

If you’d like to contribute to Jon’s road to recovery:

GoFundMe Page

As a self-employed entrepreneur, having multiple income streams is not only a typically smart thing to establish, but it’s also crucial when you’re striking out on your own because it’s unusual to find one job that pays ALL your expenses right away. Because I’ve been at this entrepreneurial thing for the past 15 years, I thought I’d break down how I set up my content business to give other writers, or anyone else setting up their own operations, some insight, or ideas of how to structure theirs.

Firstly, what is my “business?”

So glad you asked. The truth is: I have a lot of jobs. But broadly, I am a content creator. That is, I create pieces of media (short stories, long stories, social media content) for people to consume. My business is called KJL Media, and I’ve structured it into five buckets:

1) Social Media Management

Me and the small team of freelancers who work for me create social media content for different businesses. We offer full-service social media management: so I build out a content strategy for a client, I write scripts, conduct photo and video shoots, edit everything, and turn it into fun, engaging, and educational pieces of content for my clients’ social media channels. I work with ALL types of clients in various industries (real estate, entertainment, life coaching, hospitality, med spas — you name it) and I have a small team that helps me create that content.

Clients pay me a monthly retainer, and I take roughly 30-40% of that retainer to pay my team, about 35% for business expenses (travel expenses, editing software, etc.), and the remaining 30% for my own salary. For hourly-paid work, I try to make my fee $150 per hour.

2) Hamptons to Hollywood (HH)

The blog I started in 2011 turns 15 years old in November!! Crazy how time flies. And what started as essentially a travelogue has turned into one of my income streams. A few years back, my brother (who holds a PhD in Sports Medicine) and I created the Hamptons to Hollywood Fitness Program in which he designs customized workout plans for clients to improve their strength and longevity. HH also collects a teensy tiny bit of ad revenue from the website, AND the Hamptons to Hollywood Podcast also is set up to work with branded partners who sponsor specific episodes.

Fitness Training — Clients pay a monthly fee and I take a tiny percentage while paying the rest to the personal athletic trainer.

Ad Revenue — Podcasting isn’t cheap! Ad revenue from sponsors pays for the podcast studio, technician, editor, and my salary if there is anything left over.

3) Publishing

I can proudly say that I am a bestselling author. It could be the accomplishment of which I feel proudest. Every month I can earn royalties if anyone purchases my previously published novels. My latest book, and first book of short stories, is called The Lifeguard and it’s easily my best work. The publishing bucket is the most personal to me, and the pursuit that makes me feel the most integrated in who I am: writing & living purely in my imagination. My other novels include Confessions of a Callboy (bestseller), Uncharted Waters (my debut YA novel) and its sequel Uncharted Horizons. I earn anywhere from 20-35% on every book sold. Roughly about $7 per book goes to me, before taxes.

4) Subscriptions

Substack has been a wonderfully helpful new income stream for me this year, and it’s definitely the most exciting — especially because I’m working on it, in some form, almost every day. It’s so inspiring to not only push the limits of my imagination and tell short stories, but to also deliver something really pleasurable to all my readers. It’s a wonderful responsibility! And this week I hit a new milestone: I was ranked #7 in Rising Fiction!!!! I am so, so grateful, so if you’re reading this, THANK YOU. I put a lot of work into this charming little sex blog!

I also earn some income from the Subscriptions I offer on my Instagram account for subscriber-only content.

5) Acting & On-Camera work

Lastly, my acting bucket. I have filmed 3 vertical microdramas this year (two are awaiting release) and have done voiceover work for an animated film. I spend a considerable amount of time auditioning, and then being on-set when I book a role, and I keep whatever I earn (which greatly fluctuates) after paying 15% to my talent manager.

Finally, I have been doing a fair amount of UGC work. UGC stands for “user generated content;” brands pay me to create videos they can use on their own social media platforms for advertising purposes. Basically, I’m filming commercials for companies, talking about their products, from the comfort of my own home. Brand deals differ, but payment can average around $250 per hour.

I could not survive on one, or even two or three, of these income streams alone: they all work together — and sometimes hand-in-hand — to create a media business that is able to support me, while keeping me creatively fulfilled, which is the exact definition of professional success, to me. Do I get overwhelmed? Of course. Do I think I am sometimes doing too much? Sure. Do I want to scream at clients who pay me late or don’t hold the same professional values I do? More than you know. But at the end of the day, I love the independence, I love the creativity and flexibility, and I love the little world I’ve created.

So, if you’re thinking about creating a media business, I hope this gives you something to chew on! And if so, please leave a comment or reach out so we can all support each other however we can :)

In Case You Missed It…

If you’ve ever driven across the country, then you’re probably aware of the mind-numbing fear that happens when you’re in the middle of the Arizona desert, there’s nothing around you but cacti and sand, and you see a sign that says “Next Gas Station 130 Miles Away.”

I became obsessed with checking the gas gauge, thankfully, because that literal warning sign didn’t even phase Beau. It wasn’t that he was careless, per se, but ever since we’d been kids he always assumed everything in his life would work out. Probably because it always did.

Me, on the other hand? Things hadn’t been so easy-breezy for me. I was reminded of that when I looked at the urn wrapped in a towel on the floor of the backseat, all that remained of my father. I thought about the last thing he ever said to me: Be true to yourself, kid.

I hadn’t been. Not with Beau. Not for years.

I stood at the gas station pump, the crumpled map spread across the hood of Beau’s battered pickup. The desert air was thick with heat and the chemical scent of gasoline. My auburn hair stuck to my forehead and I traced our route with my finger as the paper crinkled under, its edges fluttering in the hot breeze. I had planned out every mile. One week. Two thousand miles. We were almost there.

Beau leaned beside me, his blonde hair curling damply under his backwards baseball cap, the open front of his plaid shirt revealing the light golden hair across his chest. He smelled like motor oil and the coffee we’d bought inside. “You got every mile color-coded, don’t ya?” he teased, that easy grin of his making my stomach tighten the way it always had.

“Someone has to,” I retorted. “You’d just wing it and we’d end up in Mexico.”

We climbed into the truck. Beau took the wheel first. The desert stretched endlessly, the sky nearly bleeding from blue into orange and pink as the sun sank lower into the afternoon.

Our conversation came the way it did since we started the trip, in waves. We talked about cars, about the urn, about how strange it felt to be carrying my dad’s ashes across the country to be placed in the family columbarium.

“He always said the same thing when I was growing up,” I admitted after a long stretch of silence. “Be true to yourself. He knew. I think he knew I was gay before I did.”

I could feel Beau turn his head and study me. “You ever tell him?”

“Not out loud,” I shook my head. “But he knew.”

The tension between Beau and I had been there for years. Or, at least I felt tension. But wasn’t that standard for every gay guy? To fall in love with your handsome, straight best friend from childhood? Every time we brushed shoulders standing too close together in a bar, or when he’d hug me and I’d smell him before he pulled away, or when he would laugh and reflexively slap my knee. It all meant more to me than it meant to him. I thought.

“He loved you, dude,” Beau confirmed. I knew that. But I liked hearing him say it, trying to comfort me. “And I love ya, too.” He slapped his hand on my knee then, warm palm against bare flesh just beneath my shorts. The way my cock stiffened when he touched me almost made me sad. Because I still loved Beau more than just a friend.

“I feel like I’m betraying him, though,” I said softly.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not being true to myself. I’m not being honest.”

“About what?” Beau looked worried.

“C’mon man. Don’t make me say it,” I chuckled. But Beau stayed silent and kept his eyes on the road.

“I always had a thing for you,” I admitted. “Stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Beau said too quickly.

I looked at him.

“You think I never thought about my gay best friend giving me some good head?!” Beau laughed innocently. Like it was a joke. But I wasn’t sure it was. So, I called his bluff.

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The pool behind Xavier’s School was almost unnaturally still, the late afternoon sunlight skating across the water while the mansion settled into one of its rare, peaceful silences that never lasted nearly long enough. Somewhere in the distance, a yellow warbler was putting on a concert.

Remy LeBeau lay stretched across a lounge chair on the hot cement of the pool deck, sunglasses tipped low on his nose, lazily maneuvering an ace of diamonds between the fingers on his left hand. In his right, he held a bottle of beer. The rest of his deck of cards rested next to his leg on the lounger.

“Don’t tell me you still play solitaire every day?” a familiar voice asked.

Remy looked up. “Well, well, if it isn’t Bobby Drake.”

Bobby stood at the edge of the patio wearing an x-branded blue speedo with a towel slung over his shoulder. As far as Gambit knew, he was the only one who wore a speedo to swim; the other guys on the team were too self-conscious. But he was glad Bobby wasn’t one of them. He looked blonder than Gambit remembered, but older, and happier than the last time Remy had seen him before he’d left the X-Men to try living an ordinary life.

“Took you long enough to come say hello, mon ami.”

“It’s only been a day,” Bobby grinned. “I was getting unpacked. Plus, everyone else is gone for a few hours. And you looked busy.”

“I am.”

“Doing what?” Bobby chortled.

“Livin’.”

“You do it better than anyone, from what I remember.” Bobby strode over the the adjacent lounge chair and draped his towel over it.

“It’s the cajun way,” Remy smiled. “Beer?”

“Coke’s fine.”

“Thought you were excitin’.”

“I’m trying something different.”

Remy tossed him a bottle of beer from the cooler, anyway. Bobby caught it with one hand and gave it a squeeze so it became even frostier. Gambit extended his own bottle too, and Iceman touched it to make it just as cold.

“I missed that trick, mon ami,” Gambit nodded in approval as he took a sip.

They settled into a comfortable silence that only existed between teammates who had survived impossible things together. They didn’t need to impress each other with small talk; just the company was enough for both of them.

“So,” Bobby finally said.

Remy kept his eyes on the still water of the pool.

“You and Rogue.”

And then Gambit smiled. “What about us?”

“I’m happy for you.”

Remy turned toward him. “You mean dat?”

“I do,” Bobby said as he took a sip, feeling the froth of the beer dance on his lips. “I dunno if you ever knew this, but I used to think I was in love with her.”

Remy raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Just, ya know, back when we were kids.”

“You never told her?”

“…no.”

“Good choice.”

Bobby laughed. “Was it?”

“Rogue deserves somebody who don’t play their cards close to the vest. She need a man who’s all in.”

Bobby paused, taken aback by how right Gambit was, even though it sounded cocky. But he was right. Rogue — anyone — deserved someone with the courage to tell them how they felt. “I know.”

“Plus,” Remy said, lowering his sunglasses as he looked over at Bobby and winked, “she need a man wit more spice.”

Bobby rolled his eyes and groaned. “Ugh, you’d be such a dick if you weren’t so fucking charming.”

They both chuckled and another quiet moment rolled in on an easy summer breeze.

“She loves you,” Bobby added.

“Oh?”

“I can tell. When I saw her yesterday when I got here, we talked for a bit. She said you make her feel...normal.”

For once, Remy didn’t have a clever reply. Instead he smiled toward the water.

“Dat’s all I ever wanted.”

An hour later, after Remy started to burn and Bobby insisted on applying some sunscreen, they were floating on inflatables in opposite corners of the deep end. Bobby drifted aimlessly, chatting, while Remy watched clouds, listening.

“I never thought I’d be back here, honestly,” Bobby went on. “It took…a lot to leave the life I built outside the X-Men to come back. I had just started to feel ordinary, ya know? You ever miss normal life?”

“I never had normal.”

“I guess not.”

“Why’d you come back, anyway?”

Bobby thought for a long time. “I just felt like I was always pretending, in one way or another.”

“Dat don’t sound like normal.”

“No,” the word barely escaped Bobby’s mouth. “It wasn’t.” Another silence squeezed its way between them, heavier than before. “I didn’t leave the team because I was tired of superhero stuff.”

“Non?”

“I left because I was tired of lying.”

Remy jumped off his float so he could stand in the water. “Lying to who?”

“Myself.” Bobby laughed. “It sounds dramatic when I say it out loud.”

Remy waited before he spoke, giving Iceman space, all the while thinking he might have an inkling as to what Bobby was tiptoeing around. “Whether you’re pretendin’ out there, or lyin’ in here, no matter where you go, there you are, mon ami.”

“You’re smarter than you look,” Bobby teased, looking at him with sincerity. “You know why I’m telling you?”

“Non.”

“Because everyone else...” He awkwardly searched for the words as he wriggled off the float to stand chest-deep in the water. “…is larger than life. Scott’s Scott.”

“True.”

“Storm’s basically royalty.”

“Oui.”

“Jean can literally read my mind. And Logan...” Bobby snorted, “…I’m not confessing anything to Logan.”

Remy laughed softly.

“But you...” He shrugged. “You make people comfortable.”

Remy blinked.

“You flirt with everyone. You don’t judge anybody. You’re impossible to embarrass. Probably because you’re cajun.”

Remy barked out a laugh. “Dat supposed to help?”

“I think so.” Bobby took a slow, deliberate breath, tracing the surface of the pool with his finger. “I’m gay.” The word floated between them harmlessly. Nothing exploded, no alarms sounded, the mansion remained perfectly quiet.

Remy simply nodded once. “’Bout time.”

Bobby frowned. “’Bout time?”

“I might’ve had an idea.” Remy floated closer. “Anybody else know?”

Bobby shook his head.

“You tellin’ me first?”

“Yeah.” Bobby met his gaze then and swallowed. “Because I don’t think you’ll look at me any differently...”

“You right,” Remy’s expression softened.

Bobby exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Thanks.”

“So, you got yourself a boyfriend or what?” Remy said teasingly. “You ever been wit’ a man?”

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If you thought St. Tropez was in the Caribbean, no, no, no, monsieur. St. Tropez is located on the French Riviera, the legendary playground of chic, vacationing Europeans, celebrities, and Americans who have good taste. It’s famous for its beach clubs, white sandy beaches, local culture, luxury yachts, colorful houses, boutiques, and some of the best restaurants in the South of France.

If you’re heading to Europe this summer, I highly recommend you visit. Here’s a preview of what you can do in this old port village.

Where to Eat in St. Tropez

There are a plethora of dining options, from Michelin-star restaurants to charming local bistros. Here were some of my favorites:

1. Le Bagatelle: (not to be confused with the beach club) Is a fantastically romantic hideaway in the center of Saint Tropez that has the best service. You can even order a cigarette for dessert! – which I did and almost coughed up a lung. It’s located in a cobblestone alleyway and they even have live music playing. So good.

2. La Vague d’Or: Situated at the luxurious Cheval Blanc St-Tropez hotel, La Vague d’Or is a three-Michelin-starred restaurant offering a fine dining experience. The menu showcases the talents of Chef Arnaud Donckele, and the restaurant boasts stunning views of the Mediterranean.

3. L’Auberge des Maures: A charming restaurant in the heart of St. Tropez’s Old Town; it serves traditional Provencal cuisine & it’s cozy. Its flavors harken back to when Saint Tropez was a tiny fishing village — the menu features regional dishes made with fresh local ingredients. The courtyard terrace is perfect for alfresco dining.

4. Byblos Hotel Restaurant: The Byblos Hotel is iconic, and its on-site restaurant is a culinary gem offering a blend of Mediterranean and international flavors.

5. Les Moulins de Ramatuelle: Located in the nearby village of Ramatuelle, just a short drive from St. Tropez, this restaurant is inside a restored olive oil mill. Delightfully charming, contemporary mediterranean.

6. Sénéquier: A St. Tropez institution, Sénéquier is a famous café and restaurant overlooking the Old Port. It’s a great place for people-watching while enjoying a cocktail, a meal, or their renowned tarte tropézienne; a local pastry specialty.

7. Le Girelier: Near the Vieux Port, Le Girelier is a vibrant seafood restaurant with a big selection.

8. La Table du Marché: This cute restaurant is near the market square on the peninsula & focuses on seasonal ingredients. The menu changes regularly to showcase the best of Saint Tropez’s local produce.

9. Pearl Beach: Perched on the beachfront of Pampelonne, Pearl Beach is a chic restaurant and beach club. Relaxed atmosphere, good food, and stunning views, make it an ideal spot for a leisurely lunch or a sunset dinner.

10. Les Graniers: This chic, but understated, restaurant is off the beaten path, but is definitely worth the walk because it feels like a true, locals-only hidden gem. Perched right on the beach, you eat on one of the outdoor terraces and listen to the calming sounds of the water as you sip French wine. Spend a day trip at Plage des Graniers and head here for dinner.

Remember to make reservations in advance, especially during the peak tourist season.

Where to Play in St. Tropez

1. Le Club 55: Located on Pampelonne Beach on the French Riviera, Le Club 55 is a LEGENDARY beachfront restaurant popularized by Brigitte Bardot. The white, fine sand between your toes almost feels like flour, it’s so soft. Le Club 55 is endlessly chic and European.

2. Nikki Beach: The beach club to end all beach clubs. First, I gotta say, the service here was incroyable; the hostess bowed to me after I told her I was a Lord. She bowed! And our server was so impossibly kind. After grabbing a bite, head to the pool overlooking the ocean for dancing and drinks. Everyone is in a ridiculously good mood and I can guarantee you’ll make friends. Check out my Nikki Beach video.

3. Bagatelle Saint Tropez: If you wanna dance (on tables), luxuriate in champagne showers (but also have fine cuisine), and really get the party started in the South of France, book a table here, stat.

4. Explore St. Tropez’s Beaches: There are so many beaches within walking distance to the Saint Tropez’s historic center in town, but there are also many lining the coast. Pampelonne Beach is the most famous and stretches for several kilometers, with dozens of beach clubs and restaurants. Other popular beaches are Plage de Tahiti and Plage des Graniers (see below).

5. Visit Saint Tropez Harbor: The old port (Vieux Port) has some of the most gorgeous luxury yachts to ogle as you grab an ice cream cone and go for a leisurely twilight stroll. Saint Tropez is full of maritime history and was once a fishing village. From across the water you can see another coastal French Riviera beach escape, Sainte Maxime.

6. Walk the Old Town: I recommend take a stroll through the charming streets of Old Town, known as La Ponche; narrow, winding streets lined with historic buildings, small & upscale shops (a la Louis Vuitton), and art galleries.

7. Visit the Musée de l’Annonciade: Attn: art enthusiasts! This museum is a must-visit for the artsy set. It houses an impressive collection of modern art, including works by artists such as Henri Matisse, Signac, and Bonnard. The museum is located in a former chapel and really satisfies that peaceful, cultural itch.

8. Go for a Dip at the Plage de la Ponche: Otherwise known as the “town beach,” you’ll see locals jumping off the pier close to the center of town for morning and afternoon swims. Watch out for the jellyfish!

9. Explore Citadel of Saint-Tropez: Try visiting the historic Citadel, a 17th-century fortress that overlooks the town and harbor. Inside, is the Maritime History Museum, which showcases St. Tropez’s naval heritage. Climb to the top of the Citadel for panoramic views of the town and sea.

10. Water Sports: You can go sailing, jet skiing, parasailing, or even take a boat tour day trip around the area. Many operators in town offer rentals and guided tours for different water activities.

11. Nightlife: There are songs dedicated to partying in St. Tropez, so of course the nightlife is on point. Check out the city’s exclusive nightclubs like Les Caves du Roy or VIP Room.

12. Rent a Boat: Explore the coastline of St. Tropez by renting a private yacht or joining a group tour to visit nearby islands & secluded coves.

13. Visit the Market: On Tuesdays and Saturdays, the Place des Lices hosts a bustling market of artisans selling their goods, fresh produce, and even clothing.

14. Visit Ramatuelle: Just southeast of the Saint Tropez town center is rests Ramatuelle; a positively charming town center that looks like something out of The Sound of Music. Bucolic, serene, and absolutely stunning with its rolling hills, it’s right where some of the world’s best rosé is produced.

15. Plage des Graniers: Walk past the cemetery — which is arguably one of the most scenic European graveyards — to this hidden gem of a beach. About a fifteen minute walk from town, it’s the perfect place to unwind. And the water is shallow really far out, so no need to be an expert swimmer.

Where to Stay in St. Tropez

St. Tropez has a variety of accommodations to suit different preferences and budgets. I stayed in an AirBnB and it was so perfect and centrally located. If you’re going the AirBnB route, it’s probably more affordable than some of the resorts you’ll see, but just make sure you get something in the town of Saint Tropez and not by the beach clubs. Take a day trip to the clubs; don’t stay there. AirBnb’s St. Tropez hosts were really welcoming, in my experience:

1. Byblos Saint-Tropez: The iconic Byblos hotel is synonymous with luxury and sophistication & offers beautifully designed rooms, excellent amenities, and is located in the heart of the town. It also has a renowned spa.

2. Hôtel de Paris Saint-Tropez: Located just a short walk from the Place des Lices, Hôtel de Paris Saint-Tropez has a rooftop pool, a spa, and a rooftop bar with panoramic views of the town and the sea.

3. Pan Deï Palais: This boutique hotel is inside a historic mansion with an exotic ambiance inspired by its former life as a Moroccan palace. Luxurious rooms, a private pool, and beach, and is very kid friendly. The suites, beautiful courtyard, spa, and a restaurant all have a tranquil garden setting.

4. Hotel Sezz Saint-Tropez: Situated near the beach and within walking distance of the town center, Hotel Sezz Saint-Tropez is modern and sleek for the sophisticated modernist. It also features an outdoor pool, spa, and gourmet restaurant.

5. Château de la Messardière: Perched on a hillside overlooking the Bay of Pampelonne, Château de la Messardière is as grand and elegant as you might like. With spacious rooms, a large outdoor pool, spa, tennis courts, including a Padel Tennis Court, and exquisite gardens, this hideaway provides a shuttle service to the town center, too.

6. Hotel Ermitage: Located in the picturesque village of Ramatuelle, just a short drive from St. Tropez, Hotel Ermitage is charming and tranquil; a pool, a garden, and restaurant on-site.

7. Hotel La Ponche: Authentic! A boutique hotel in the heart of St. Tropez’s Old Town. Quaint rooms, courtyard terrace, and a restaurant overlooking the harbor.

8. Hotel La Bastide de Saint-Tropez: In a peaceful residential area close to the town center, it’s elegant, has a spa, an outdoor pool, and a restaurant with a garden terrace.

9. Kube Hotel Saint-Tropez: Love a rooftop pool? Also has a spa, and a vibrant bar and restaurant.

In Case You Missed It…

Buy My New Book — 12 Gay Romance Stories, Perfect for Summer Reading: The Lifeguard

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My skin was glistening with the sweat from my run as I walked toward the mansion. I’d just finished four miles around the grounds. I grabbed my gym bag from my car, with my costume inside, and was headed in to change for another workout: in the Danger Room. July’s humidity clung to everything — the gravel drive, the hedges, the old stone walls of the Xavier Institute that both protected us, and kept us hidden.

All I could think about was Jean. She’d just come back from a mission with Logan a few hours earlier, tracking Mystique for three days through northern Ontario. Jean had smiled when she saw me in the War Room, tired, brushing a loose strand of red hair behind her ear, relieved to be back.

“Don’t worry, Scott. We handled it.”

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She had kissed my cheek. But as she headed for the door, she reached for Logan’s forearm. It was just a touch, just her fingertips. But they lingered. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe leadership had rewired my brain to always search for evidence that something was wrong.

Or maybe I just knew Logan.

The Professor had insisted I stay behind: “You need to lead the Blue Team to find Mr. Sinister. He’s after you, specifically, Scott. That’s exactly why you cannot chase Mystique.”

I had hated the plan. Mr. Sinister always wanted me alive. It seemed to me that being indispensable was just another word for trapped. But I had followed orders. As always.

Just then, I heard the rhythmic thunk of an axe echo across the grounds as I walked.

Logan.

I found him beyond the gardens where the Institute kept a woodpile for the fireplaces. He was wearing worn jeans, old work boots, and a sweat-stained shirt that probably used to be white, but had turned a dull grey. Sweat darkened the waistband of his jeans. His shoulders rolled beneath weathered skin as the axe came down again. Thwack. The log split perfectly. He didn’t look up.

“I figured you’d be inside,” I said.

Another swing. “I figured you’d be in the Danger Room.”

“Headed there now.”

“Hmph.”

Silence settled between us. I’d spent years arguing with Logan, competing with him, distrusting him. Somehow it had become...routine.

“Find Mystique?” I asked.

“She ain’t an issue any more.”

“Everything else went…fine?” The questioned rolled out of my mouth clumsier than I intended.

“Fine,” Logan nodded once. I think he might have smirked.

“Good.”

Another log shattered. I watched the muscles in his back tighten beneath old scars. There were dozens of them; knife wounds, burns, claw marks — his own? — that somehow even his healing factor hadn’t erased completely. His body was a map, a living history of violence.

“You missed one,” I said before I could stop myself. One of the logs had split unevenly.

He glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“On the left.”

“Didn’t know our fearless leader was gradin’ lumberjacks now,” he snorted. It had to bother him that I was the leader instead of him. It had to.

“I notice details.”

“You think so, bub?” There was another almost-smile, one that somehow managed to show both his amusement and anger, and a subtle laugh that followed. “Maybe you’re startin’ to lose your edge.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His pile of split wood had dwindled to almost nothing, so he planted his axe in the stump. “Need more.” He disappeared into the adjacent forest without another word. A moment later I heard the unmistakable metallic snikt of his claws deploy from his knuckles. His claws tore through fallen trunks faster than any blade could.

I should have gone inside, but I followed him. I needed to know what he wasn’t saying.

The woods swallowed the familiar sounds of the mansion. There was only the chirping of birdsong, a quiet flow of the creek, and the sharp scrape of adamantium through old timber. Logan stood next to a fallen oak, claws extended.

“What happened in Ontario?”

Wolverine smirked again, like he was entertained by my paranoia. His sweat had completely soaked through his shirt, and in one fluid motion, he grabbed the bottom of it, lifted it over his head, and threw at me, the dampness of it making it heavy. It hit me in the face. The faintest scent of his musk hit my nostrils before I threw the shirt to the ground. It was a playful, if not blatant gesture of his typical disrespect.

“You think this is funny?” I almost yelled, taking a step closer.

He turned and faced me, the smile gone. “You’re too easy to get riled up, kid.”

“What did you do to Jean?” I asked through gritted teeth, taking another step closer.

“Nothing she didn’t want, bub,” he said as he took a step toward me, too, confrontationally. We were chest to chest.

“If you touched her, I’ll —”

“What? You gonna kill me, Slim?” His clawed hand rose and he carefully pressed the points of the cold adamantium into my arms, without breaking skin. “I’d love to see you try.”

“You…I fucking hate…”

He looked at me, with those dark eyes, ripe with pain and rage and jealousy. I wanted to rip off my glasses right then and let him have it. I wanted to unleash onto him and watch as my optic blast would hit him in the chest, shoot him backward, through the the forest, his body breaking as it slammed against tree trunks and rocks. I wanted to release everything I had onto him, make him pay for whatever he wasn’t saying, to destroy him for putting his filthy, muscled, hairy body all over my wife. He finally needed to die. I needed to —

But then his claws retracted. He still stared at me, but he was backing down. “You ain’t fuckin’ worth it,” he snarled.

My body was shaking with pure, unfiltered rage, my skin humming. I couldn’t let him get away with it. I needed to do something.

Without thinking, acting purely on adrenaline, I grabbed either side of his shoulders with a force I barely knew I had, like I wanted to squeeze the life out of him. And then, I felt myself lean forward, and kiss him.

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It’s summer, so I thought for the next few weeks I’d put together some travel guides for those of you heading overseas this season. First up: Positano.

As you probably know, Positano, Italy is an Amalfi Coast town built into majestic rocky cliffs in Southern Italy. It blends old-world charm with contemporary luxury. There are so many things to do in Positano, even the most intrepid traveler won’t get bored. Here are my recommendations of what you absolutely must do on your Positano trip.

First, let me just say that Italy’s Amalfi Coast has always been a dream of mine since I heard Kate Hudson singing about it in the critically panned movie, Nine. I thought, “where is this Positano place that sounds so chic?” AND THEN, when I saw The Talented Mr. Ripley (one of my top 5 favorite movies of all time), I really fell in love. I immediately bumped lounging at an Amalfi Coast beach club as an even higher priority on my bucket list. Romance, intrigue, private beach escapes, a bit of mystery, fine dining, wonderful scenery, art galleries, exceptional service: visiting Positano has it all.

Warning: there are a lot of steep hills. Bring comfortable flip flops and/or beach shoes because the trek down to the Amalfi Coast beach club can be lengthy depending on where your lodgings are located.

Where to Eat in Positano

In Positano, the food is impeccable. I have been telling people in droves about the calamari because it’s one of the most important things to do in Positano, in my humble opinion.

Bruno

I’ve promised you this. As far as things to do in Positano are concerned, you need to have fresh seafood. You just do. Specially, calamari. And Bruno’s Restaurant does it best. Maybe it’s something to do with the light crispiness of the batter, or how some of the squid in the hors d’oeuvre can’t even bothered to be battered at all, which speaks to the casual nature of the Italian lifestyle. Regardless, this calamari is worth the trip from America, alone.

Chez Black

Right across from the beach clubs on Spiaggia Grande is Chez Black. It’s a touristy beach eatery, but good. My list of things to do in Positano was mainly eat as much Linguine Vongole as humanly possible. And guess what? I did. Chez Black had a decent one.

Caffe Positano

Come for the views! The Amalfi Coast can be seen in all its picturesque glory in this romantic eatery perched on the Italian cliffs. It overlooks Positano Beach and is right in the center of town. If you squint, you may even be able to spot Capri in the Tyrrhenian Sea. Great seafood dishes here. I had more Vongole.

Rada

This ritzy eatery adjacent to Spiaggia Grande Beach Club is great for a group for dinner or lunch. We did dinner. And if its on the menu, I highly recommend the flourless chocolate torte. To die for. Chocolate just tastes better on the Amalfi Coast.

Spiaggia di Conca dei Marini

No surprise here, I had more pasta dishes. Vongle, to be exact. This restaurant is one of those Positano attractions you probably won’t find without a local’s help. On the way back from the Emerald Grotto (see below) is where this casual restaurant rests. Great local vibe. Good wine.

Da Adolfo

Located on Laurito Beach, this is one restaurant you HAVE to go to, mostly because you have to take a boat with a boat captain for hire to get there, which feels very chic. The restaurant provides a free boat shuttle from Spiaggia Grande Beach to the eatery, so its not cost prohibitive. Da Adolfo has the feeling of a locals-only spot because its located on a private beach, the food is incredibly fresh (I had the octopus), and it feels very understatedly cool. There’s also a tiny beach club adjacent where you can rent beach chairs and take in the spectacular sunset from the small beach. If you love hidden gems, you’ll love Da Adolfo.

Franco’s Bar

Great date spot, especially for drinks. Lounge-y and fun. It’s located right near Bruno, so you can eat the best calamari of your life and then drink yourself stupid. Fun! Oh and the views of the Amalfi Coast are positively insane. Go. Go. Go.

Where to Play in Positano

Ride a scooter along the Amalfi Coast

One of the things to do in Positano that is just so Italian is riding a scooter along the Amalfi Coast. Marina Grande Beach, the main Positano Beach (also known as Spiaggia Grande, in Italian), has information of where to rent one for a scootering day trip.

Path of the Gods

The Path of the Gods is a hike close to Positano that many active visitors like to tackle when they look for things to do in Positano. Walking the length of the trail will take 1.5-2 hours, one way, depending on your speed and how many selfies you stop to take along the way.

Private Boat Tour

The Amalfi Coast towns are all gorgeous, let’s face it. Along with Positano, its neighbors include Praiano, Sorrento, Ravello, and Amalfi. If you’d like to see them all from the water, a boat tour day trip in the Tyrrhenian Sea is the way to go. While a private tour might sound very fancy, if you’re with a group, it’s 110% worth the cost. We had an incredible guide named Salvatore who brought us a bottle of Prosecco and encouraged us to jump off the boat throughout the tour and swim. You may even see the Emerald Grotto: a small cave that was formed naturally over the millennia and gradually filled with seawater. When sunlight filters through the turquoise waves of the Mediterranean through underwater openings, the light becomes tinged with a magical emerald color that sends sparkling reflections up the cave walls. It’s now home to an underwater nativity scene made up of ceramic statues.

Day Trip to Capri

If day trips are definitely your thing, check out Capri. I regrettably didn’t get to go because of inclement weather, but this little island along the Amalfi Coast is known for its shopping and fresh lemons. Limoncello, anyone!?

Become a Professional Sun Lounger

On the main beach in Positano, rent yourself a lounge chair or beach chair and work on your tan. It’s honestly, great, especially if you went out dancing the night before. Which brings me to…

Nightclubs

Music on the Rocks is right above Rada (the aforementioned Restaurant). There is a level that looks like you’re partying in a cave, and then up another flight of stairs is a rooftop bar where I partied into the wee hours of the Italian night. Even if you go solo, you’re sure to find fun people. It’s above the beach & open air, so you still have a beach club vibe as you drink and dance.

Shop

There are many souvenir shops (especially during tourist season) along the street “via Cristoforo Colombo.” I highly recommend you buy linen in Positano. Shirts, pants, underwear – anything! Everything is made with superior Italian craftsmanship & quality and is a lasting memento from your trip.

Visit the Church of Santa Maria Assunta

This beautiful church is located in the center of town and is known for its striking dome and colorful majolica tiles.

Arienzo Beach Club

A bit off the beaten path, in that you need an Amalfi Coast boat to get you there, Arienzo beach is a delightful hideaway where you can rent beach chairs that come with a two-course lunch and bottle of Prosecco. Lounging the day away on Arienzo beach is never a bad idea.

Explore the Amalfi Coast Towns

Ravello, the Sorrento coast, and more are all a short car ride away along the Amalfi Coast and they’re what day trips are made of. Eat your way through each of them on a cute day trip and see delightful Positano attractions, like the lemon groves and positively chic inhabitants of the area. You could do this via a boat tour or rent a car.

Where to Stay in Positano

There are top attractions and things to do in Positano, like stay in luxury hotels along the Amalfi Coast, but the smaller boutique hotels and AirBnb’s are just as cute if you want something more understated.

Hotel Poseidon

It was once a beautiful Mediterranean villa and is nestled right in the heart of Positano. Its unique position overlooks the “vertical village“ of Positano and the Amalfi Coast. The views are breathtaking. The “Il Tridente” Restaurant is located on the Hotel Poseidon terrace which offers a breathtaking view of Positano, its colored houses, the sky, and the sea.

Hotel Buca di Bacco

A little less spendy than the others (but not cheap, and good quality) it’s funky, fun, and overlooks the ocean.

Villa Treville

STUNNING. It feels like a hidden treasure, an exclusive hideaway. Romantic, lovely, and great views.

Casa Aurora

Great views of the beach, only 1,000 feet from the beach and great attraction.

AirBnB’s

I stayed in a positively cute AirBnB with friends that had a view of the Marina Grande, beach clubs, and water. To reiterate, there are A LOT of stairs in Positano. So if you’re bringing a stroller, staying closer to the beach is your best bet. Bring comfortable walking shoes, too.

Best Time to Visit Positano

In my opinion, the best time to visit Positano, the Amalfi Coast, and Europe in general, is in September. There are so many things to do in Positano, you don’t want to get waylaid by hundreds of tourists in the peak summer months when you’re trying to splash around at Spiaggia Grande. June is also a very nice time to go to the Amalfi Coast.

What To Pack For A Trip To Positano

Bathing suits, of course, are a must. And bring multiples, especially if you like taking pictures and want to make it appear, via Instagram, that your vacation is lasting longer than it actually is. Sandals, of course. And again, walking shoes — and sneakers if you want to hike the Path of the Gods. Light, breezy cotton and linen are also solid options, but make sure to leave space in your suitcase to buy even more Italian linen and goods in the chic Positano markets.

Listen, you’re going to have a great time. Drink all the Prosecco you can. Eat all the vongole. Chart that boat tour along the Amalfi Coast. These are things you will remember for a LIFETIME. Even if it seems a little pricey in the moment, go for it. Suck in the experience and live la dolce vita.

“Should I take off my shirt now?”

I looked up from my palette. Gabriel stood in the center of my studio with one hand hooked beneath the collar of a faded navy tee. Behind him, enormous windows overlooked the rooftops of Paris’ Marais district. Rain threatened beyond the glass, turning the afternoon summer sky the color of pewter.

The first thing I ever painted of Gabriel’s body was his shoulder. It wasn’t particularly remarkable, or a museum-worthy shoulder by any means, but I simply couldn’t stop looking at it. I was mesmerized how it capped his lean bicep, its sinews visible beneath the skin, and how it flowed into his clavicle effortlessly. The body of a young man was often a masterpiece in its own right.

I stared a second too long, which of course Gabriel noticed. I blinked. And he spoke again: “My shirt…?”

He removed it before I could nod, tugging it above his lithe frame, exposing his armpits and the taut flesh of his abdomen. He smiled after he did. I think he knew the effect he had on me. He knew, probably, because he’d been coming to sit for the portrait I was crafting of him every Tuesday and Thursday for nearly three weeks. It was a gift for his boyfriend, or so he said. Every time he sat down, in nothing but his black underwear, I felt my own underwear tighten. Painting someone, taking in every inch of their body, scanning them, appreciating their form, was incredibly personal, intimate, erotic.

The piece was almost finished. I hadn’t felt so driven to finish a portrait in years.

“Pants, too,” I said.

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I landed one of my first BIG clients in 2019 — and we still work together. He’s a famous relationship coach whose advice you’ve probably seen online, is a bestselling author, is the son of a famous thought leader — and when he hired me, he had 1,031 Instagram followers. Today he has over 350,000 on just Instagram & TikTok alone. Wanna know his name and how I grew his following?

I don’t always share the names of my clients (especially the big ones), so this post is a little more personal…

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The steam from the lobster bisque on the stove curled between Jason and me teasingly, like it knew something we didn’t. The adjacent dining room in the Nantucket mansion hummed with the clink of silver and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

But the lobster steam couldn’t keep secrets from me; we both knew Jason, the new sommelier that season, was gay.

I’d just plated the second course for the Anderson’s, who owned the mansion, and the friends they were hosting for dinner. Jason leaned across the island in the kitchen to pour two glasses of pinot, his muscled forearm brushing mine, skin warm and faintly salted from the day’s heat.

“Cheers,” he said to me.

“Cheers.” I brought it to my lips. It tasted perfect.

In the tiny staff cottage on the property Mrs. Anderson crammed us into, every morning started the same: Jason stretching in the doorway wearing nothing but

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