About a decade ago, I took my maiden voyage to the 31-mile stretch of sand along the southern shore of New York known as Fire Island. At the time, I didn’t know that much about the Pines. I’d heard about “tea” and the whole concept as a kind of gay guy Treasure Island for brave New Yorkers who took a train to another train, then a shuttle, then a ferry in search of known and unknown plunder.
Despite the island’s 160-year history as a refuge for queer artists and writers, its more recent reputation as a Speedo-ed heathen’s expensive vacation spot precedes it. That’s why, when I got off my very first Sayville Ferry, I was stunned to discover the Pines’ lesser-known offering: a forest so lush and overgrown, it felt mystical. No street lamps? No cars?! The beach was empty for miles!
The air smelled like juniper and raw cedar and a family of deer was walking right in front of me with nothing to fear. Canopied by flowering foliage and dappled light, I felt so far away from the sex gods and substances just a few steps down the sandy boardwalk. Eden had nothing on this secret garden. People have to know this place, I thought. Later, when I found myself at a RuGirl-studded pool party co-sponsored by a vodka brand and a gay dating app, I realized that people did, in fact, know this place.
Just not my people. What followed
Just not my people. What followed was a burning desire to show my girls the way. After years of mooching off of friends’ timeshares, one year I finally rented a place of my own for a week, splitting it 14 ways. On any given night, there’d be a drag artist on one couch and nonbinary trade on another. Each room hosted two or more people, none of whom belonged to the island’s main demographic.
Instead, they were Black and brown art fags, women, and people I’d describe as punk-of-center. Gays were in the kitchen cackling, dykes were bringing soft drugs, and the cross-dressers held court in a hot tub that had never seen so many top surgery scars. We’d curate music all day, and at night we’d lip-sync on the balcony and perform for each other with handheld spotlights.
We grilled vegetables, baked pies, stuck temporary tattoos all over our bodies, and made friendship bracelets. It was transsexual summer camp. Year after year, I’d return to the island to reprise that tradition. Then I started pitching around the concept of a “Doll Invasion.” I wanted to rent a house, book some DJs, and throw an actual party, inviting trans people—and anyone who loved trans people—to overcome the deterrent of the island’s reputation and make their own maiden voyages.
The event’s name was an homage
The event’s name was an homage to the island’s annual Drag Invasion. As the story goes, in 1976, Teri Warren, a drag artist who identifies as a trans woman today, went to have dinner at a space now occupied by the Blue Whale restaurant, but she was denied entry. This was at a time when labels like “drag queen,” “cross-dresser,” “transvestite,” and “transsexual” were used more or less interchangeably, and even in the Pines—a community already at the margins of society—those on the margins of the margins often got the boot.
But Teri wouldn’t stand for it. She told all her friends (who were pissed, by the way) and on the Fourth of July, Teri got all her girls together in head-to-toe glam and took a ferry to the Pines, where they descended on the crowded restaurant in fierce fantasy fashion. Thus, the “Drag Invasion” was born. Now we live in a time where drag queens can be moguls and political players.
Trans women, on the other hand, largely do not have the same presence or standing—on Fire Island and beyond. That’s why we spoof the “invasion” each year in our opening ceremony, docking an H2O Limo filled with dolls right on the harbor to thunderous applause. It is an insistence on placing that history within the current moment. Year after year, we’ve taken over properties like Reflections or Froot Falls (under former management as “Viagra Falls”) that used to be “men-only.”
Though every year has felt like a landmark for our organization, 2026 felt like the apex of what exactly we could “invade.” This year’s “total tea takeover” programmed 58 hours of music and shows across the Pines’ iconic “teas” (a local term for gatherings at three Tryst properties: “Low Tea” at Blue Whale, “Middle Tea” at the Pool Club, and “High Tea” at Pavilion).
All our artists get housing, enough
All our artists get housing, enough of a Lyft credit to cover a round-trip ride from Brooklyn, and a morning movement class on the beach from Nike. On Saturday and Sunday, Doll Invasion has a “free ride” program that provides free buses and ferries for a couple hundred lucky invaders, prioritizing those with self-determined financial or accessibility needs. (Mind you, Doll Invasion’s first iteration of this program was just me personally Venmo-ing $64 to anyone who asked for transportation.)
Doll Invasion’s auction with Queer|Art, running parallel to the weekend’s festivities, featured contributions including Chappell Roan’s Gov Ball bandanna, the makau from Sasha Colby’s entrance look on RuPaul’s Drag Race, Cole Escola’s wig from last year’s Tonys, photographs by Ryan McGinley, and even a book from Angela Davis.
(Angela freaking Davis!)
As designer Willie Norris mounted a full Doll Shop on the harbor, a montage of Fire Island’s history rushed through my head—from the 1800s, when Oscar Wilde came here to write; to the 1950s, when Truman Capote holed up at the Carrington House to finish Breakfast at Tiffany’s; to a few decades ago, when Robert Mapplethorpe and Peter Hujar were snapping photos of their friends on the boardwalk and slowly dying.
I could feel our sissy ancestors smiling down on our entries into the Fire Island canon: reusable “DOLL JUICE” cups, dance towels that say “ALL DOLLS GO TO HEAVEN,” and tank tops with the words: “FUN NEVER DIES.”
These were memories in a lineage that wouldn’t be lost to time. Justin Vi footage where Teri was turned away at the door for being a cross-dresser
Adam Lambert mogged someone at High Tea
Adam Lambert mogged someone at High Tea and Chelsea Manning stood at Doll Check-in on Sunday, where we gave out little maps that said “WELCOME TO TRANSGENDER ISLAND” to 1,200 people. Jynx 007 twerked on the DJ booth podium while Amarji King tore it up. Dylan Mulvaney wandered around wearing one of our fundraising prizes, a red sash with the glittering letters “CIS EXCELLENCE.”
Julie J, the sitting First Lady of Brooklyn Drag, whipped a wet wig around her head to Kelis’s “Acapella” shortly after Cherry Jaymes conjured the very spirit of Deborah Cox, and all before Mthr Trsa lip-synced Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” for the finale group number, lit once again by handheld spotlights.
Colette March cooed to screaming fans with practiced pop-star flair and a mug by celebrity makeup artist Laurel Charleston, who did makeup for our performers while fashion illustrator Richard Haines drew live portraits. Geena Rocero, who’d spent the week cooking for our team with an enclave of Filipinxs, was roaming the boardwalk, smoking cigarettes in a Playboy bandeau and cracking jokes with Charlene Incarnate and Tyler Ashley.
Jasmine Infiniti reported that she would come back and play again. We were finally here, sun-kissed, escaping the world, and archiving the “T” into over a century of “LGB” history on the island.
Source: www.vogue.com
