When it comes to the genealogy chart of Rehoboth Beach houses, I am a proud third generation descendent of the shared House of Linoleum, a/k/a the "Linoleum Palace" founded in 1992.

From the humble shared origins of a group house sprung from what is now affectionately referred to as Rehoboth’s Gay Kennedy Compound, the epicenter of which is at the corner of Dover and Kent streets in the Pines. (Tours by appointment only)

If you’re on Rehobus and headed to your shared beach house you’ll want to take notes! This could happen to you: One night you’re a dancing fool, a few years later just a fool. And no more dancing—except in rare cases with the aid of an Advil and Absolut straight up.

Everything on your body goes south—except your friendships. That’s the good news. Really good news.

15 years ago, my D.C. friends rented a little house on Henlopen Ave. for the summer. It was about 1,500 square feet and had just about as many rooms. Choppy, choppy, choppy. Paneling a go-go. Tacky, tacky, tacky. Long before Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, the innate talent of certain enterprising young (well, sort of young—at least young—grrrr) homosexual males was evident. Fluffed and puffed, The Palace was a cheap but cheerful flop house for a friendly fraternity of carefree cosmopolitans. (Note to the youngsters on Poodle: This was before the cosmo cocktail come-back, so think urban raconteur, not red cocktail)

Back then, my partner Charles and I were guests at the Palace a couple of times—and how vividly I remember the year that our hosts talked the landlord into letting us stay through Thanksgiving week. (As if you had to beg an owner to take your money in the off season back then!) We all converged on what was now known as Halcyon by the Sea, the Friday after the Turkey day we’d spent with our biological families—and re-created the whole turkey dinner with our adopted family.

I gave wholehearted thanks for the world of wonderful men who welcomed us and I was watching the friendships of the seasonal housemates deepen and grow vividly alongside the fading pastel hydrangea.

There’s something magically transformational about trading wingtips for flip flops and belts for elastic (thank HEAVEN for elastic in a town with more ice cream shops than gas stations). Like everyone else I suppose, homos in hammocks relax enough to get to really know one another. It isn’t just hammocks. It’s hamburgers. Leisurely bike rides to get a burger.

Back then, we didn’t have cell phones or iPods. (Though I fell a lot. Ergo I clod.) We had lap dancers but no lap tops. In retrospect, that simple quiet Thanksgiving holiday indulgence was an arbiter of what was to come. What started out as incrementally nudging into November became yearning for year round and—with it, of course, researching real estate.

The responsible perfect couple of our group bought the "anchor property" at Dover and Kent—and the others began renting houses nearby until they could purchase on the block. By then I was single and invited to the new gorgeous anything- but- linoleum Halcyon on Dover St.

I arrived late that Friday night. The perfect couple, off at a dinner party, left me a note on the perfect counter top in the perfect kitchen. I was to use the BLUE bedroom.

Upstairs, in that blue bedroom, I found blue striped curtains, blue throw pillows and a cozy chenille bed spread. On the nightstand, a blue canister held ice water next to a blue vase with fresh flowers and the city guide to Rehoboth. On the towel rack hung a blue beach towel, two blue bath towels, matching face towels and wash cloths and a blue cinch sack with SPF 15. On the key ring was an extra house key on—you guessed it—a blue fob. Cue the Jefferson’s theme song: "Moving on Up."

So much for celery green linoleum. I put some "lipstick money" and my blue fob guest key into my blue cinch sack and went to the Moon (and what color is the moon???) I was going to find me a Vanderbilt or a Rockefeller to bring home. OK so that didn’t work out. What did work out was my move from the guest room to the cottage behind the house, where I became a renter. And I’m still there, now and for the foreseeable future.

I became the proud Cato Caelin of the Gay Kennedy Compound. Former housemates followed, buying property nearby—new friends and neighbors were quickly assimilated.

What comes of this is truly the texture of my life. Our family expanded, including Kennedy women—the lesbians across the street (and the only ones who play touch football, so technically that gives us the Kennedy mystique). And it wouldn’t be a Kennedy Compound without breeders! We have parallel hetero and homo heavens. I live for the quiet times and the houses full of laughter and friendship.

To the boys on Rehobus: your hair will turn grey, your clothes will get tight for no reason whatsoever, and your eyesight will fail (this, you will come to learn, is welcome in bars). As you descend into middle age, your friendships will proportionately ascend.

I am a proud descendent of the House of Linoleum. I thank my family for making my life shine brighter than I ever thought possible.

(If you have a Queen-E-ology story to tell, email Brent at cajunonq@comcast.net).