The vision that greeted me as I walked into the beach house was Fellini-esque. Craig wasn’t expecting an audience for the indescribable show he was putting on – for himself, he assumed – with his back turned away from the front door. Wrapped in a boldly floral sari-toga get-up (which turned out to be a queen-sized sheet) draped and folded carefully but with odd ripples here and there and not nearly enough material around his left butt cheek, he was peeling potatoes into the sink while swinging his immense hips around as though he was one of the heftier hula girls at some low-grade Honolulu luau. And he was singing at the top of his lungs:

"I’m GaGa!

You’re ca-ca!

Oooo-la-la!

Ha-va-na!

Ra-na-na!

Vay nishma

Ha ha ha!"

I couldn’t suppress a loud bark of a laugh, which caused Craig to scream in startled terror.

"You’re brilliant, you know that?" I said, giggling.

"You could have killed me," Craig heaved, clutching his chest and breathing hard. "Ohmygod (gasp) I had (gasp) no idea (heave) you were there. Now I know what – ohmygod (gasp) – ‘scared to death’ means." He leaned back against the counter and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The sari-toga-sheet fell to his ankles.

It was with surprise and fascination that I noticed what an immense penis Craig has. I’d seen it before, of course; an outdoor shower out the kitchen window harbors no secrets. But somehow this new up-close-and-personal view was a shock. Unlike many chubby men, whose meat disappears in folds of fat, Craig was remarkably well hung in all senses of the expression. His pelvis was set in such a way that his dick thrust forward naturally, and it was itself surprisingly long and thick. I thought to myself, "That Kyle business makes a lot more sense."

"Child," Craig drawled, "have you never seen one before?"

I felt myself blush. "Sorry, it was just that I... I...."

"I am rather proud of it," he said, pulling his sheet around his waist and slinging the excess over his forearm. "Kyle certainly appreciated...." He suddenly stopped talking, and his whole demeanor changed – his shoulders slumped, and a moment later he was in tears.

"Let’s talk, old friend," I said, wrapping my arms around him. He nestled his wet face in the crook of my neck, and we stood there motionless for at least a minute before he was ready to move apart. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking, just the two of us – about Kyle, their relationship, Craig’s regrets, Kyle’s callowness, my crazed jealousy.... We started off with iced tea, but around 4:00 we decided that it was cocktail hour. Inspired by the message and recipe I recently received from "Joey from Denver," I made us gimlets, but proper ones: Rose’s sweetened lime juice and Beefeater gin in the correct proportions, and no funky brown ice. We both knew that this was not the time to get plastered. It was, instead, a time for us to reconnect over leisurely drinks as the best friends we’d been for so many years. It was profoundly comforting – so comforting that we forget about making dinner entirely. So we all went out for pizza.

A Proper Gimlet (pronounced like ­­gimp, not gym)

4 tbsp. Beefeater gin

1 tbsp. Rose’s lime juice

Gimlets offer a choice: either pour both ingredients over ice in a old fashioned-size glass and stir, or pour them into an ice-filled cocktail shaker, shake and strain into chilled martini glasses.