Provincetown is packed with cruising homos and hippies retired from the world. P-Town is the end of the world. Thankfully beyond the end of US6 and a ferry ride away from Boston. Ann suffers from motion sickness after a morning session of sit-ups and yoga. I feel free her, fresh sea air, a morning fuck, some money in our pockets, New York and its problems hundreds of miles away. I almost feel like getting a job here. Some queer restaurants must need a butch dishwasher. Ann could work in a sea taffy shop. Certainly a better holiday than the stifling heat of West Virginia, the smog canyons of New York, and the overbearing familiarity of Boston. We head out to Race Point where Ann rants a wicked version of Pattie Smith’s GLORIA. She is so very very funny and cute.

Did Jesus have a younger brother.

Or was he the Only Holy Child.

Blasphemy is considered a deadly sin by the Catholic Church, but at death I fear not the lightning of a Myth. I shall not ask for the Last Rites. I shall not shake with fear for the loss of my immortal soul. I shall be dead.

Jimmy Jesus lived to to be into his thirties
The sole son of Mary Magdalene
His father had survived the Crucifixion
To seek refuge in the Himalayas
Where he had spent in youth.

Kashmiris said, “You look like your father.”
Wandering Jews begged for forgiveness from the only son of the Holy One.
But Jimmy was gifted with visions.
A stutter.
A stammer.
A lisp.
No one could understand him.
He was not god-struck,
Just a little gob-struck.

Mary took him every day
To his father’s grave.
Screaming, “Why Jesus? Why Jimmy? He has no sins.”
The Heavens remained silent to all.
Except Mary Magdalene heard a voice.
“I told you not to call me here.”
Jimmy Jesus calls out, “Jesus, Da-da.”
A bolt of lightning struck him.
Dead for want of a father’s love.

Minor Blasphemy.

Still at the beach. The water cold as ice. Windblown sand whispers against our naked bodies. Creepy men saunter along the strand. White bodies hidden by white shirts, black shorts, high white sox, loafers, binoculars hanging from the neck. More unneeded feet on these secluded beaches, crushing the fragile ecology, although the Park Service allow dune buggies to furrow across the sand. I stand up naked. My swimming suit dry. I would so like Ann to suck my dick now.

Dunes everywhere I look. Angles of sand topped by sea grass and more voyeurs. Damn them, but then so what. They have their own pervy lives to live. Honest citizens hiding their wicked ways fifty weeks a year to being themselves for a two-week vacation in P-Town. Next Saturday they will return home to be replaced by others of them. The beach calming the cravings they can feel at home.

I saw Jeff Berger, one of my old lover’s at a bar. A go-go boy cutie fighting off early old age. Ann and I made love twice tonight. She asked, “What was it like fucking a man?”

“Different from you.”

“How?”

“Savage versus vicious.”

I show her how.

Damn, my wisdom tooth is fucked.

Foto by Monroe Wheeler, Provincetown, 1947