New York Stories: The Nightmare Hamptons Share

“This is Cookie. She had sex in the hot tub last night,” a guy said grandly as he shoved a tan 26-year-old girl in my path. Her glazed eyes smiled demurely as she dangled a cigarette to the side of her neon sundress. I wondered why anyone old enough to legally change her name would go by Cookie, and crossed “hot tub” off my list of things to do at the seven-bedroom Southampton share I was staying in.

When my boyfriend Josh asked if I wanted to weekend in the Hamptons, my eyes popped out as I screamed, “Yes!” I had lived in New York City for six years, spending four as a poor student and two as a slightly poorer graduate juggling bills and a shopping habit on a mediocre salary at a production company. The closest I got to the beach was a stroll along the East River. Although I was a 24-year-old Connecticut native who grew up sailing Long Island Sound, the wind had never taken me far enough to dock in the Hamptons.

I had only heard stories about the über-rich playground. I pictured schmoozing with society over cocktails while staying in a mansion with maid service. I wondered if the sand had 24-carat gold flecks and if I should buy a knock-off Dior bathing suit from Chinatown to lay in it.

Josh and I arrived via sedan on Saturday night with his older sister Marissa and her boyfriend Adam, the Share Host. Adam made a fortune charging guests per night. Our fee? $150.

“Want to see your room?” Adam asked. His enthusiasm made every idea sound spectacular. “It’s the walk-in closet. There’s a blow-up mattress!”

“We’re sleeping in a closet?” I asked.

“It’s huge, air-conditioned and has a door for privacy!” Adam gestured maniacally, our cue to follow him.

I peeked into a real bedroom. Five twin beds were lined up wall-to-wall, sardine-style. I discovered two guests occupied each bed.

“How many people stay here?” I asked, afraid. “Forty. Did you expect your own room?” Marissa sneered.

I contemplated heading back to Manhattan. Josh shot me a look, warning not to challenge his sister. With an eye roll, I bit my tongue.

After we unpacked in the 3-by-5 cell with an outside-only lock, we moved to the deck in search of Cookie and other guests, hoping to mingle. The summer was almost over and everyone had already bonded. As I stood outside the inner-circle, girls averted their gazes and guys avoided me because I was taken. Adam was busy playing host and Marissa was preoccupied taming her curls. After downing a vodka-soda alone, two 15-passenger vans pulled up outside.

“Cab’s here!” Adam yelled. A mass exodus of inebriated houseguests followed.

We arrived at The Star Room, a popular Montauk Highway nightclub, in time for Adam to nab bottle service.

“Mix me a drink?” I shouted to Josh.

“The bottle’s empty,” he yelled over the music. Of course it is: We arrived with 38 people. Hoping my buzz wouldn’t die, we hit the dance floor. In between butt shakes I spotted a busty blonde next to the DJ booth, then realized it was Pamela Anderson. Her eye makeup was piled on, but she smiled approvingly at my moves when I caught her eye.

The evening was cut short when Marissa announced it was time to jet.

“Why? They just started remixing Nirvana!” I protested, but was dragged into a cab.

At the house, I angrily weaved through stray beer cans and cigarette butts. My heels stuck to the floor. Gone were my visions of a classy weekend hobnobbing with socialites, I was at Animal House. Defeated, I curled up in my closet and fell asleep.

I awoke Sunday determined to salvage my weekend with Josh and a beach day.

“No one stays in the Hamptons on Sunday,” Marissa sniffed when she learned our plans. “We’re driving back to the city in an hour.” I lost it. If Josh couldn’t stand up to his sister, I would.

“There are no rules about Sunday!” I yelled. “You can do whatever you want. And I want to go to the beach.” A catfight ensued with Josh as referee. She caved in the end, and Josh and I won the car. Because of the weekend drama, “beach day” was lackluster.

Josh’s parents found out about my head-to-head with Marissa, and I was placed on the “not right for our son” list. A couple months later we broke up, and I swore off Josh and Hamptons Shares. From now on, I’m taking the train to the Jersey Shore.