In Provincetown with Alice. Commercial Street is packed with fey homos and hippies retreated to this end of the road refuge. Both can be who they acre without pretending to be what the rest of America wants them to be. I look for any old friends from the 1270 in front to the afternoon Meat Rack. I recognize none of the face, but hustlers' etes scream, “Lose the fag hag.”
Alice yogas on the beach like she was Isadora Duncan. A bull dyke shoots fotos. Alice obliges her. It’s a lovely pas de deux. Alice loves the attention. I wander off to the Atlantic Bar. More gay men. I know one. I recall fucking him on Newbury Street. An apartment with brown decor. Gary buys me a beer. We talked who knows who. He comes from Boston. He knows my good friend Donny Ward from the 1270. We both love the black dancer extraordinaire. We huff poppers at the bar. He strokes my cock. It gets hard. I touch his. A huge cock. P-town is hot. Gary says, "Lose the girl. I want to fuck your ass and you piss in my mouth."
He is hard as steel. Me too. I reject his offers of sin. For some reason I don’t queer any more. Sexually.
Alice has finished her session. A bull dyke scowls at me. She’s not Alice’s type. She likes them femme.
We go back to our hotel room. She throws up in the shower. A sensitive stomach. I stand on the deck naked. The Atlantic air medicine. Alice has recovered from the nausea. We fuck. I feel great. Away from New York. Away from the sullen summer of West Virginia. The pollution of Manhattan, and the imprisoning familiarity of Boston. Our problems two hundred miles away. We both have money in our pockets from my painting her father’s house, even in thought I got paint on some of the bushes. Alice is in a good mood. She’s singing a parody of Patti Smith’s HORSES with Race Point in view. So very funny.
I love the dead end on the Cape.
Later a naked gay man with a small penis approached us and said I looked like Jesus’ brother.
“No bearded.” He eyes my crotch.
I laugh and he drifted away to the dunes with a backward glance, as if he expected me to follow. Alice shrugs like she doesn’t care. I stayed with her.
Suddenly think of whether Jesus had a younger brother or a son with Mary Magdalene. She was no whore, although the nuns taught she was.
I wondered if Jesus had a brother or son. Blasphemy. A mortal sin for the Church. Worthy of eternal damnation, unless I ask for a pArdon from Hell. Atheists don’t fear an afterlife.
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