Page 100 of The Rehoboth Retreat
And now here we were, standing on the threshold of the one place in Rehoboth Beach that looked like Studio 54 had a gay beach baby.
The neon sign out front flickered just once as we stepped through the gate, casting a hot pink glow over Hudson’s face, making him look like a rockstar and/or someone withvery recent charges pending.
“This is subtle,” I muttered, already regretting everything.
Hudson grinned. “Subtle left hours ago. Buckle up, Alphabet Boy.”
The moment we walked in, the atmosphere swallowed me whole. It was humid with body heat and vibrating with music that felt less like sound and more like something beinginjected into my bloodstream.
There were three things I noticed instantly:
Everyone here was underdressed and overhydrated with tequila.
The lighting made everyone’s skin look like it was edited in post-production.
Every single person had turned to stare at us.
Like literally.
We hadn’t even made it past the entrance, and already the volume dipped like a movie scene where the hot villain and the misunderstood prep school boy make their big gay debut.
“Smile,” Hudson whispered, “or at least don’t look like you’re about to faint into a glitter curtain.”
“I feel like I’m being slow-cooked in anxiety.”
“Good. That means it’s working,” he replied.
He clapped a hand on my back, guiding me forward like a proud coach dragging a show pony into battle.
The space itself was…livelyin a totally unapologetic,queer-as-hellkind of way.
On the right, an open-air bar extended out toward a tropical-style patio—think high tables tucked under wide umbrellas, the scent of salt and sunscreen lingering in the night air. Palm fronds swayed lazily above strings of overhead bulbs, each one casting soft golden puddles of light on tanned skin and gleaming cocktails. You could hear laughter rising and falling out there, people dancing on sand-polished wood, like they had nowhere else to be except right here, right now.
Inside, however, was where the real spectacle lived.
The main room was split into sections. One-half of the space was glass-walled and fully open, allowing the breeze to flow in and making the indoor bar blend seamlessly with the patio. Here, sleek stools framed an L-shaped bar that shimmered with condensation and LED underlighting. The bartenders were shirtless—naturally—and effortlessly attractive, tossing bottles with practiced flair as rainbow-colored liquor poured into frosted glasses like a Willy Wonka acid trip. Everything smelled like bergamot, vodka, and a hint of coconut body oil.
Further in, the dance floor was an inferno.
People writhed and spun in strobe-lit abandon, the lights skimming over bodies like searchlights. The DJ, high in his steel booth, worked the dance floor and decks with a focus that could part oceans.
And right near the entrance, behind us, a glowing set of oversized angel wings arched across the wall in rainbow neon lights—hot blue and electric pink feathers shooting outward in a radiant arch. People lined up, preening in front of it, spreading their arms like saints of nightlife.
“That,” Hudson said, nodding at the wings as we passed, “is where I got a guy’s number last month by pretending I was an actual archangel.”
“That’s horrifying,” I replied.
“I told him I was cast out of heaven for excessive horniness.”
“I seriously hate you,” I said, although I could barely keep a straight face while doing so.
“You say that like it’s new.”
I tried to keep walking with confidence, but I was pretty sure I looked like a gay meerkat trying to navigate a shark tank.
People were still staring.
Some in recognition. Some in judgment. Some in open, thirsty curiosity. I caught snippets of murmurs:
