Dating Bradford: Summer Luvin'

“Where were you last night till 3?” Asked Jetson on the deck of his shack on the water in P-Town, “Everything closes here at one, so I take it you got into some trouble?”

“This mystery man from Memphis…” I began with a playful sigh, “I met him at the underwear party at Purgatory but he wouldn’t go all the way–though I kept trying once we got-down under the dick-dock.”

“You skank!” Cried Jetson in mock alarm, “You need to be careful under there, the cops have been busting people lately.”

“Oh, it wasn’t really under THE dick dock, I just like saying that because I’ve always wanted to legitimate the legend so-to-speak—merely for cultural reasons you understand.”

“Yeah right” said Jetson, “You and every other fag who wants a blow job on his way home from the bars.” It was true, the back deck of the The Boat Slip Hotel and bar—home of their self-proclaimed “world famous tea dance”—is well-known for the frisky business that ensues on the beach beneath, like P-Town’s own horseshoe crabs scuttling around in the sand at night.

“The truth is” I continued, “We were on a secluded section of beach making-out for what seemed like hours in the chill sea-mist under a boardwalk. It was a Danny-meets-Sandy-summer-luvin’ moment to be sure, and completely intoxicating.”

“Were you naked?” Jestson asked, wondering if I’d jeopardized his “towny” status with my tawdriness. Like most of the seasonal workers in Provincetown, Jetson would be returning to his real life back in Boston in September.

“No nudity” I said with a coy grin, “But I think that’s what was so exciting about it. He was holding-back because his boyfriend was asleep in their hotel room and—although he didn’t say—I could tell he was struggling with his conscious.”

“You homo-wrecker” said Jetson.

“Not even, they’ve been married for 15 years and have an open-relationship.”

“Sounds fishy” he said, “If it was ‘open’ why the hold-back?”

“That’s what I wanted to know” I said, “But his tongue was held as if clawed by a lobster. Regardless, if I never see him again I will have had a little summer luvin’ to remember him by. There’s something special about leaving unfinished business, it retains some mystery and gives you a little bit of fantasy to hold onto rather than a come-stained blue dress.”

“I always feel used when I’m having an affair with a married man” said Jetson, “If I can’t have it all, I don’t want any of it.”

“That’s too bad because you’re letting your expectations keep you from adventure and possible romance. Married men in ‘open relationships’ don’t always stay married. A romantic one-night affair could be a turning point in someone’s life. Besides, after that long together one needs a little sexual pick-me-up now and then. Who knows? I might have been the breadcrumbs for their leftover meatloaf.”

I thought about my mysterious Memphis man all morning. True, he’d sent me home with a hard-on, but he’d also mentioned a few things he wished we could do in the sand-dunes out by the gay beach during the day if he could steal away.

Anticipation made him seem that much more alluring, so I text him to see if he wanted to drop in for a bite around lunch time, before I dived off Jetson’s deck into the cool Cape Cod waters of Provincetown Harbor.

When I emerged, drip-drying my way up the weather-beaten wooden stairs, he was there. I smiled wanting to say something funny about espionage and intrigue but it would have ruined the mood so I stuck my tongue in his mouth instead.

What followed was hours of delicious love-making where our clothes were peeled away over an eternity, and his every touch felt like a plush toy being slowly rubbed up my inner thigh—threateningly ticklish, however delightful.

Instead of looking over our shoulders at every noise as a possible police arrest during a race to the finish line, we relished each second. Our every mouthful savored like forbidden decadence not on ones' diet.

His well-defined chest and abs were the sand-dunes we'd never made it to, and the way his lithe muscular arms held me—effortlessly caressing without a hint of hurry—was my beach blanket to curl up in. And the way he kissed… It was all about the kissing….

When we were done and lay sweaty in the afternoon sunlight streaming though the old paned glass windows of Jetson’s shack, I was glad we hadn’t done it in the cold mist and damp sand the night before. That would have been the end of it, our business taken care-of. A period point to finish an evening, easily forgotten or blamed on by alcohol in the morning.

“This is what summer romance should feel like” I told him, “The uncertainty, the mystery, the longing for more. The fleeting feeling that our magic together will soon dissipate into our respective circumstances, and that these few stolen moments together might be our last.”

“You sound like a romance novelist” he said laughing, before diving in for more kissing.

“If only you knew” I thought, and was swept away into his Cape Cod Bay.

My P-Town fling got me thinking that no matter how our story ended—be it a bit of bliss in the night mist, or episode two in a shack by a slew—I found value in it all.

But this is new, as I too, used to boo-hoo a one-time screw. Was it because I was in a resort town surrounded by horny fag-ationers? Or was it that I’d really lost my need for—as Jetson put it—wanting it all?

So I ask you:
When facing a chance meeting that might be quite fleeting, what gives you the rub about a bit of summer luv?

(Photo: Topher)