Cali in P-Town


I once flew to Province town to get laid.  I lived in Los Angeles most of my life, yet suddenly found myself craving the kind of intimacy that can only be found with an East Coast stranger.  I had some absurd fantasy the women on the eastern seaboard would be erudite, fresh, sexy and stylish.


Woman’s Week in Province Town was about to unleash what I naively imagined as a firestorm of sophisticatedly steamy New York dames, starved for something other than the usual greasy P-town fish shanties.

As soon as I hit the streets of P-town I knew I was in trouble. The gals that began funneling into town were substantial, and not in a heady, intellectual way.  Don’t get me wrong. I can appreciate masculine women, but I have been known to shrink, pill-bug-style when pinned like a brick underneath one.  These ladies looked as if they would sooner lift a Toyota truck than search underneath to see where the car keys had fallen.  I tried not to panic.  I had a plan.

I knew of an L.A. soiree that would be filled with women visiting from California.  We were at the party for a few minutes when I eyed this tan blond beauty from Manhattan Beach.  I informed the girl that I wanted her to take me to see her hotel room.  She was rightfully dubious and wondered why I would make such a request.  I fed her a long line of extemporaneous prevarications having to do with my history working in hotel hospitality, insisting I could ferret out some upgrades if the room didn’t harbor certain amenities.  Obviously she saw through my lies, but was charmed enough to escort me to her room within minutes.  Next, I attempted to wrangle her on the bed through a game of wordplay and mind mastery.  Mostly hers.  She was perfectly resistant but I did get a kiss and the promise of a date to follow.


The next night before our date, I dropped ecstasy.  This was a maladaptive behavior I dabbled in occasionally to alter myself, so as not to appear too eager.  California, the nickname I dubbed this lovely woman from the West Coast, was not the kind of girl who understood a drug trip on the first, or any other date.  I doubt she’d seen anyone tripping on anything but a skateboard, but she was genuine and sweet enough to sit on the sand overlooking the ocean, holding me in her arms while I blazed my ass off on a mistakenly high dose.


We talked and laughed for hours until I came down enough to make out with her and convince her to join me in my beachfront suite.  Soon after, we both became magically naked but she was insistent she would not have unsafe sex with me.  This is about as baffling to me as sex can get.


I explained to her that she stood a better chance of internally combusting from eating pop-rocks, than catching anything from a lesbian.  But she insisted,  she would not let me do anything remotely fun to her.  I was perplexed, and yet turned on beyond belief.  I continually challenged her reasoning methods, even teaching her syllogisms until the sun came up, but she was unrelenting.


After making her breakfast, I told her I couldn’t see her again.  All through the four-day weekend I kept accidentally bumping into her all throughout P-town, and each time we met flirted cordially, yet remained removed.


The day I was flying out from Boston, I ran into California in line at the airport.  She looked luscious and I hadn’t yet eaten so I wanted to put her in my mouth.  I asked her how she was, if she had a great trip, and all the usual things people say that I often have trouble making look believable.  I noticed I was sort of stammering and shy, probably because the sun was out, and I don’t shine in airports.


Luckily we were interrupted when the airline informed everyone our flight was over-booked, asking if anyone would be willing to stay the night in Boston for free.  She volunteered and I immediately followed her lead, desperate to get another chance to let her deny me under another romantic setting.


The flight eventually found room on the plane, and it was obvious our disappointment was mutual.  Then the miraculous occurred.  They summoned the two of us up to the front, bumping us to first class seats together for our good behavior.  We were ecstatic.


We proceeded to drink all the champagne in first class until they had to syphon more booze from business class.  We teased each other for hours, flirting, feeding each other, playing under our blankets and being a welcomed sexual disruption to the whole front of the plane.  I told her the most impressive and sensual stories I could invent and by mid flight she shoved her way in the bathroom behind me, demonstrating with dexterity the value of belonging to the only Club that exists in the air.  California was worth the wait.

The Cali freckled, tan and blond surfer, who spoke fluent Japanese and was the best story editor I have ever met, dated me on the ground for many months after our return.  She never mentioned safe sex to me again.  I ended up totally digging her, and would have happily used a condom if she requested one.