Thanksgiving with the family, our circuit-mad family, and what’s a holiday without drama—especially in South Beach? Because what’s South Beach without drama? Sarasota?

So we know what we’re heading into as the plane bounces wildly through the sky, through the Nor’easter that rains on New York’s turkey day parade.  Because you don’t get to fabulous being drama-free. 

And that little sandbar we love does look fab. No nasty hurricanes this season and all the palms looking perky. We’re sharing dinner with a posse of locals, South Americans and ex-New Yorkers, not all of whom are partaking in the week’s festivities, and one of whom asks us, “Why the hell would I want to be in a roomful of buff men wandering endlessly in search of sex?” 

Well, there you have it: one person’s hell equals another’s heaven. 

We know why we’re here. We’re watching the planes buzz overhead, dropping Euroboyz and South Americans onto the beach. One of them a nineteen-year-old Brazilian hottie with whom we shared the floor in London—last week. “Weren’t you just in London?” we ask, and he smiles, “Uh, huh.” These boyz, they get around. Circuit boyz and their frequent flier miles, upgrades and platinum status.

One time someone asked us if it was true that boyz actually flew around the world for circuit parties. They thought it was an urban myth, too far-fetched to believe. Ha, if they only knew the half of it. They should meet the two boyz that Adam from Boston met, the two who told him, “Hey, we’ve got a suite at the Delano with our own portable sling. Plus, we’re both bottoms.” Have sling, will travel. Party on, boyz.

As for us, we’ve got a black limo with an entourage of eight, including Josh of SobeGayInfo, and Luiz of ECOMB, and all of us in white (and drama-free, thanks very much), and it’s Saturday evening and we’re off to Vizcaya. We’ve got three newbies in tow. In fact, the same three newbies from Black and Blue a month ago, and now they’re scaling White Party’s heights. We get out at the hammock, that lush forested drive of indigenous flora, to walk amidst the white lanterns—and the spell commences. 

Not unlike the long walk into Stade Olympique at Black and Blue, the walk to the main entrance of Vizcaya for Care Resource’s White Party enables the sort of magical transformation whereby you leave reality behind and slip into fantasy: white lights, hushed voices, the half moon dangling overhead—and everywhere you look, men in white. Silver lights and white twinkling stars and rococo statuary as sentries, and up ahead, parked in front of the main entrance is the Snow Queen’s white carriage. You’re transported back to the Twenties, when James Deering, the industrialist, entertained at his Renaissance palazzo—and now you’re his invited guests. Partying for a good cause. Helping to insure that Care Resource continues to offer care for those with HIV/AIDS. Their volunteers are numerous and helpful. No drama here, just solicitous attention as they ease your transition into the fantasy which is White Party Vizcaya.

Through the Entrance Loggia thronged with revelers in white (though, of course, isn’t there always one person who feels the need to defy the dress code—wearing black tie and tails?), and into the Entrance Hall, and through the East Loggia, and out onto the South Terrace where we’re greeted by a sea of white: feathers and tulle, sailors and courtiers, white leather and lace. And shades—it’s a sunglass convention of white-framed shades. Last year, white belts, this year white shades: l’accessory du jour.           

Out on the East Terrace, Tracy Young’s at the boards, throwing down a blend that has the crowd weaving happily around each other.  Contrary to the oft-heard complaint about this party being a pose-and-preen party, the White Party is actually extremely welcoming. For one thing, everyone looks good, and everyone knows it, because everyone put effort into their looks, so everyone’s feeling it. And because we’re all in white, we’re all feeling connected to each other, and to be honest, the whole party feels like it’s comprised of fallen angels. We’re too bad for heaven and too pretty for hell. We’re angels on the loose for a night of beautiful revelry.

Up at the Mount, there’s a casino, and a cabaret performer singing show tunes. And there’s August and Parzham, of GreatPartyPics, one of the night’s sponsors. Sweethearts, both of them. We wander through the gardens, past the tables laden with food from some of South Beach’s best restaurants. Sipping cocktails and nodding to each other, people we haven’t seen looking quite so good before. We clean up so nice. And then someone asks, “What happens when it rains at White Party?” Fool. We say, “It never rains at White Party”—and then, of course, there’s a cloudburst, which sends a flurry of angels scurrying for the grottos, where our voices echo off the lava and shells. Everything’s romantic at Vizcaya, even a rain shower. The shower passes and Tracy’s back again, and then there’s Jody Watley wearing—BLACK? Two years ago, RuPaul wore red. What’s up with these colorblind gurls? It’s not enough they own the stage; they’ve got to make a statement too? Well, never mind, the boyz love Ms. Watley anyway. She’s singing about love. Looking for a New Love. Real Love. Some Kind of Lover. With songs like that, she can’t go wrong, not with this crowd.

We’re dancing on the East Terrace, eating dark chocolate, the yacht harbor waters rippling at our feet. Biscayne Bay reflects Vizcaya’s lavender lights back to us, while in the distance, there’s the neon skyline of South Beach. Hello? This is a movie set made real. This is the movie you walked into, splitting apart the silver screen, and claiming as your own.  You want romance? All around us boyz in white are kissing and hugging, posing for the camera. What’s not to love about a party like this? The only thing better is if we were all houseguests at Vizcaya—for the entire weekend, so that the party might go on and on, through the night and into the morning…

Instead, we’re off in the black limo, our posse heading back to the sandbar for a powder and a change of clothes, and then back out the door—to Twilo. Twilo Miami. Miami’s latest Saturday night gay club. With Hilton Wolman at the helm, he of Salvation fame, Twilo Miami has the kind of buzz and reputation, even after only three months, associated with the best Saturday night gay clubs. The kind of club that gay boyz flock to eagerly each Saturday night. A core family of party boyz, the same kind of core family which made Salvation the party worth flying across the country for. Miss this party tonight? With Abel and Victor on the boards? Not a chance. We’re there—along with scores of boyz lining up along that strip of clubs on Miami’s somewhat seedy 11th Street. The doorman’s in a sick outfit, somewhere between Alice’s Mad Hatter and the guardian of the Emerald City. “I’m feeling crafty,” he says. Looking like that, he can feel any way he wants. 

Outside, in the vast smoking courtyard, there’s a bar and sofas. A lounge beneath the stars. One of the perks of Miami nights: outdoor party life.  And inside? It’s nearly one a.m. and Abel’s got the floor moving. No one’s in VIP because—they’re all on the floor where it’s speed rollerball.  There’s Ric Sena and his bf, loving a party they don’t have to orchestrate. Boing, boing, boing, enjoy the ride. I Want Your Love. What Can I See of Love? Lost in a Sea of Love. It’s a crazy mad crowd. There’s chorus boy Anthony from New York. And that Brazilian boy, again. Her? She’s all the way from London, last week. And Nurse, she’s in town too. We heard so from Adam, from Boston, and also from our New York boyz Tim and John, whose boy Rich from Rhode Island, by way of Montreal, is a friend of Andre from Ohio who’s staying at the same South Beach apartment where Nurse has flung her bags of beads and baubles. Small world, this circuit world of ours, all of us flying here and there, and camping for the night, before following the circus on to the next town. 

Abel’s in his element, happy in his new home. No wonder we overhear someone say “This party reminds me of back in the day when I didn’t miss a single Saturday at Salvation for like two years.” Exactly. Those Salvation parties on the Saturday of WinterParty week, when the club was a sauna, sweat peeling the walls. It’s the same recipe here: boyz from all over, werking it out to Abel. Boyz who can smell a camera half a room away. Flash, pop, you’re on the web. “Oh no, please not me. I know too many people in this town.” Grrrl, don’t we all?    

Because aren’t we all separated at birth, brothers from another mother?  Boyz who look so familiar, boyz we remember from— Where’d we see him before? Wasn’t he the guy—? We’re all connected, all holding on. World, Hold On. We make our way out to the courtyard, breathe in the balmy air. Outside, it’s a cocktail party. Have you met, do you know—       

Then back to the music, back to the floor—where Abel is tearing it up. That last hour with Abel, he sends us over the brink. There’s no holding back now; he’s pounding us hard, making us werk. And we love it like this: when it’s one thing after another, Abel tossing things from the booth that we pick up and make ours. Everything’s good now; everyone’s in the house. The Red Room is wall-to-wall and there’s a new swelling of the crowd, as if maybe another party has given up the fight and now everyone’s here. Here at Twilo Miami, one of Abel’s two homes.

And when we look up to the booth, there they are, all lined up, the circuit’s equivalent of the UN Security Council: Abel, Elaine Lancaster, Victor, Escape, and Power. Which can only mean one thing: the changeover’s about to happen—but not before Power’s show. It’s been so long, too long since the nights when Power took the stage on a regular basis. The drama of her performances, mixed seamlessly by Abel into the night’s production. A shot of adrenaline as the night heads into morning. Over the banister, she climbs, and stretches across: a cat in loss. It’s Christina’s latest, Adam tells us. And I guarantee you, he says, it’s going to be tomorrow’s fireworks song at Muscle Beach. Leave it to Power to trump the fireworks. She IS the fireworks. And we stand there gaping: mesmerized by her ability to translate Xtina’s feelings into movement. “Hurt,” it is, a brand-new remix by Chris Cox, and hurt she shows, and with Xtina’s voice and Power’s drama—that outfit, that headdress, and puhleez, the face, that incredibly, evocative face with those piercing eyes—say what you will about performance in the middle of a circuit party, but Power always werks. Who wouldn’t be haunted by what she sends out to the crowd: love me again, let me back in, don’t walk away, not now, not today, it’s not over yet, I can’t help wishing… Drama, and more drama. Who doesn’t live for the drama when it’s sold like that?

Party of the week? Sure feels like it to us as we collapse into cabs for the ride back to the beach. 

Still, we’re an open-minded bunch and so on Sunday afternoon, we walk along the sand, heading for the music. Muscle Beach at 12th Street Beach: you can see the aquarium from a distance. Bright splashy color, starfish and sea mammals, jellyfish and perch. It’s Nemo’s world come to life and washed ashore. It’s Nemo surrounded by muscle boyz, argonauts, and nearly naked hotties. Good thing Nemo lost his daddy.

And up above us, through the clouds, there’s a rainbow. Either Care Resource has gone all out and splashed the rainbow flag on the clouds—or else it’s a ridiculously good omen for a good party.

For at least the past few years, Muscle Beach at White Party has played second fiddle to the more over-the-top beach party that is WinterParty in March—but clearly, moving Muscle Beach to Sunday afternoon has resulted in making Muscle Beach more festive, a casual day party after the night drama that is Vizcaya. Granted, there’s still no dance floor on the sand, and the set is less extravagant (although last year’s WinterParty was closer in set design to one of the early Muscle Beach parties), but one thing Muscle Beach has over WinterParty is the night—and lights for when the sun goes down. Fireworks and lights—and if we’re in luck, a selection of music which captures the romance of dancing on the beach with a bunch of other lost boyz.

A bunch of boyz happily lost, and yes, a number of them Nemos, in search of their daddies. No problem here. They know how to get their point across. We overhear one saying, “Excuse me, but I’ve got to go buy socks.” Now there’s a no-drama rejection line. “Okay then, happy shopping.” It’s a crowd bubbling with personality. There’s BackFlip Boy who clears a spot around him—and back flips in the air, to applause and cheers. Silly happy boy. And Brett’s on the boards, playing SOS and Jump and Rise Up. Songs you want to hear on the beach while sipping cocktails and doing back flips (as well as shopping for socks…) Or was it sex he said? I’ve got to go buy sex. Could be, because there’s also a boy with a steel hard-on in his shorts who’s werking a box—and getting more attention than BackFlip Boy.

Stars, all stars, stars in the making, and some stars already named. Some that make you say “Honey, I’d dive into the pool for that one,” and others for whom you know that Because of you, I never stray too far from the sidewalk. It’s a crowd of tats and shades, in all sizes and shapes, but particularly large insect shades, and hair dos and don’ts, as a means of self-expression. And above us, again, there it is: that rainbow. Stretching from the horizon, bisecting the clouds, a rainbow arcing above the aquarium where we dance. 

And we’re gagging to Jonny McGovern’s “Funk It to the Bassline,” a bit of New York, a little more New York, on the beach—when we catch sight of him: our new It Boy. The latest in a series. We love watching them bloom from season to season—and this one is particularly radiant. Such a gentle boy, polite and professional, but we’re not deceived, because we’ve seen him in action, under cover of darkness, when he’s been bad. Very bad. A bad boy. The best of both worlds: angel by day, and otherwise at night. 

And there’s this song that sounds to us like its lyrics are South Beach, South Beach. Like New York, New York—as if once is not enough. Not in South Beach. Nothing is ever enough in South Beach. Our It Boy has two shots in his hand, and our two New York boyz have a third boy, and White Party week has had at least two competing parties a night, and sometimes there’s been an abundance of drama, like the rough and tumble over at the Palace Bar on 12th and Ocean, and even when the sun has set and the rainbow disappeared, even the half moon which hangs above us as we’re walking away, down the beach, seems to hang lopsided in the sky. A moon off its tether, loopy above South Beach, like it’s had more than enough.

Maybe on the circuit, it’s not so much drug abuse—but drama abuse, that’s our problem.

And of course, there’s still more: more parties, all through Monday, and into Tuesday night. We hear Nurse is good to the last drop.  But that’s it for us. We’re toast. We’re parking it by the pool with a little Joe Caro on the Pod while we sort through our photos and live it all again. 

South Beach, South Beach. Who wouldn’t want to go home for the holidays with such a crazy, mad circuit family?  See you there next year.