The sun. It was all about the sun—sunbursts and sun scrims and sunglasses. Sun brimming boiling over the beach. A cock-eyed, tweaked sun leering above the pool. Mister Sun grinning and googly at the mass of boyz under his light. Those RKM boyz and their deliciously warped artistic vision, and the Surfcomber’s splendid setting, amidst this billion-dollar sandbar, and Wayne G. and Luke Johnstone at the turntables, tag-teaming in complementary camaraderie. Thank you. Thank you.

Oh, what a beautiful day. Pilgrims to the oasis, by the couple, by the score, walking through that long, lush tropical rain forest entryway—and into a crowd of party boyz. Well-bred and well-mannered and well-behaved boyz—and well-endowed as well, and also polished and pretty, and all moving to the tune of “That Makes Me Love You.” Indeed it does.

It’s hot. Acid yellow and radioactive orange hot. It’s a crowd of smiling, happy, body-painted and henna-tattooed boys, every one of them a sun in his own galaxy. And we keep hearing, “Keep your eye out for…” For everyone. For everyone’s here. They’ve flown in for the party. There’s Joe Caro and Adam T. and Richie and Andrey and…

It’s an endless litter of bouncy puppy boyz. And that model from Santa Cruz, the one who’s thinking of relocating here. And why not? Why shouldn’t he? He’ll certainly be popular. Because, yes, as someone says, “I’d lick him twice—but why stop there?”

This party, it’s the perfect convalescence—for anyone suffering from cruise deprivation. Because this party is a cruise ship run aground—and ain’t no one getting off the boat. And Wayne and Luke are plattering perfect Mercury-in-retrograde music, such as “If You Could Read My Mind” and “The Love I Lost (Was a Good Love),” whereby you hear again your past, while all around you are boyz living their past for the first time, and bottom line: it’s Harold Melvin done justice.

And of course, this being South Beach and the circuit, there’s gotta be drama: boyz moving on, and letting go, and finding someone new because, after all, “You Got To Get It Right.” And there’s Doug and Josh, those ever-irrepressible-golden-retriever-boyz, and Hilton and Mel, and Luiz and Rodrigo and Ivan and Mike and someone else who says, “I ain’t interested in children; I need me a man.”

And meanwhile, upstairs at the oasis, with Wayne G. and Luke J. overlooking the pool, it’s a pizza party for dozens—while they throw down Beyonce’s “I Can’t Let You Go” and her mentor, Miss Ross’s “The Boss” who sings “Love taught me, who was the boss…”

And speaking of love, there’s Jason and Marco, a couple for the calendars, and Don and Todd from Toronto, and Scotty and Lawrence from Lotusland, and Ernie, and Rusty, and some one more boy worried about his ass “because you never know when you getting some booty…”

And Parzham and August, ever-gracious hosts and coordinators— And always, that sun—and the boyz in the booth are throwing down “Let the Sunshine In” and “You Make the World Go Round” and the oddly bi-polar “I Just Wanna Dance,” that either-you-love-it-or-hate-it anthem. And there goes Princess Can’tDealwithPortaPotties, heading for the lobby.

Oh, it’s all good. It’s all easy. It’s so good and easy. It’s a smorgasbord of body types, everyone welcome. The expansion of the word ‘circuit,’ becoming ever-inclusive, ever-tolerant. For what else are we but open?

And it’s no wonder, as someone says, “I was just in three places at once, more than once.” Because we are: we have that gift. We move forward and backward, over time. The music takes us there. Jamie Sanchez’s mash-up of “Got the Groove/Horny Horns/BeQuiet.” Places we remember, people we know, boyz we’ve been watching, all of us coming and going, together, as one.

And the best part? The long sunset walk home, along the beach—knowing there’s more, oh, so much more, yet to come.

Happy Pool Party, Happy WinterParty. Bring it all on.