There he is in a red camp-style shirt and vivid yellow knee-length shorts. Looking like a cross between a high school gym coach and a high school cheerleader, he arrives at The Blue Whale for Low Tea. He socializes, smiles, and chats with several people. My camera is out of my pocket and is set to take a picture of him, the infamous Popper Monster.
Then it strikes me that Popper Monster is doing no wrong here (other than the outfit). Maybe there has been a reformative episode in his life. There is no apparent offensiveness happening; his demeanor is quite sober. This is no pedophile whose picture should be posted as permanent punishment. The camera is pocketed.
Several hours and one outfit later it is a different scene. As DJ Escape spins an unmemorable set the floor at Pavilion is packed with a shirtless dancing crowd. Suddenly, over the aroma of testosterone and sweat, another scent is in the air, familiar and terrifying. The Popper Monster is in full swing searching out a shirtless back on which to lean. My hand reaches for my back pocket, where the camera had been in my shorts for most of that day. But the shorts are gone, and the back pocket of these jeans holds no room for a camera, just ass.
The Popper Monster escapes my lens yet again. Fire Island
