City Paper is not for tourists
When the conspicuous consumption of D.C.’s mainstream gay scene starts to feel suffocating, when late-summer swampass makes outdoor dance parties decidedly less sexy, the District’s homos head east, to a seaside respite that’s overrun with queers: Rehoboth Beach, Del. The rough-around-the-edges mid-Atlantic counterpart to Provincetown and Key West, Rehomo is a gayer-than-life utopia where ’90s-era bleached-blonde dyke spikes abound and even the graying, arthritic cashier at the drugstore is flaming. For fancypants gays who don’t want to leave their lavish lifestyles behind, there are plenty of poolboy-included mansions available for rent, but for the rest of us, a weekend in Rehomo is a chance to log off of Instagram and take a break from the image-conscious pressures of city life. One of the town’s biggest draws, of course, is that it’s a well-established safe space—Jersey Shore, it’s not. There may be curly fries and boardwalk games, but there are no d-bags who’ll holler at you and your boo when you smooch on the Ferris wheel, and the majority of people wearing those obnoxious “FBI: Female Body Inspector” T-shirts aren’t hostile straight dudes: They’re Virginia lesbians in cargo shorts and Tevas.