Pleasure Island

One of my earliest memories is being around four years old and having a meltdown in a theater while watching the Pleasure Island scene in Pinocchio - the part in the movie set in a sinister amusement park where bad boys pay the price of a night of playing pool, smoking, and drinking by being turned into terrified donkeys. There, in the dark, sitting beside my grandmother, whom I wanted very much to be a ‘good boy’ for, my young gay mind permanently associated being bad with being male and being male with being an animal. 

A few years later, when I became a horny adolescent, those early fears somehow mutated into fascination and arousal. I discovered to my surprise that there was some animal in me.

On my most recent Pleasure Island getaway, I noticed a number of tech bros added to the usual mix of frat boys and bachelor partiers. Rumor has it that one of the island’s old salt mines is being turned into a data center powered by renewable energy, i.e., donkey shit.

On Pleasure Island, I hide my grey hair by sporting a backwards baseball cap like the locals do. When I’m feeling sassy, I turn it sideways at a jaunty angle.

Admittedly, me trying to speak ‘bro’ is ri-donkulous. But I believe when you visit a foreign land, it’s impolite not to learn a few words of the native tongue.

Although I’ve been there many times, I’m still a little unsure of the exact location of Pleasure Island. I want to say that it's both south of the border and inside the Bermuda Triangle. I know during spring break, Ft. Lauderdale is where one catches the ferry.

I like to think of my images being like illustrations ripped out of a book of cautionary tales to help young males avoid a life in the salt mines.

The hard part about drawing donkey boys from life is getting them to stay still. If they do well, I reward them with Skittles and baby carrots.