Queer travelogues and cruising diary. Provincetown edition, part 2. Read part 1 here.
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“Why the fuck are we doing this?”
My friend was holding his camera bag over his head and the melted fancy cheese was getting soaked in my tote. We were hungover and it had been 30 minutes of biking then slogging through the mud, and we weren’t even halfway. It was blistering in Provincetown and high tide, and we had foolishly decided it was a beach day. Not just any beach, Boy Beach.
Provincetown is surrounded by stunning beaches that take minutes to get to but Boy Beach is the naked, cruisey, extra Gay one. To reach it, we had to trek through the marshes in waist-deep water teeming with slimy life and deep enough to drown a toddler. That, of course, is by design. Homosexuality requires its own terrain.
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As we hit halfway, we realized not only did this suck, but we’d have to do it all over again soon if we wanted to make the tea dance. As we were ready to turn around, we passed an older man headed back, naked and sun-kissed. Like a gentle tour guide, he told us, “Fellas, the water will still be waist-high for a bit, but when you make it to the dunes, there’s a 60-man orgy waiting for you.”
Well, that put a PrEP in our step. We stomped through the mud, scaring off the tiny crabs and fishes. Fuck the wet cheese. As we got closer, we could hear the ocean and saw silhouettes climbing up and down the dunes.
Then, from the distance, set dramatically against a postcard lighthouse, we saw the clusters of dozens of bodies. Daddy wasn’t lying. There were guys were in that unmistakable circle of jerk. Guys on their knees. Holding one another up for balance as they got pounded on the sand. We made it to the promised land.
We slowed our step, trying to look chill and sexy as we approached. Some cruisers broke from the pack and walked toward us, eyeing us and yanking at dicks red from friction and sun. We joined the mass of bodies.
Our trip back was much faster; the tide had receded and we were carrying lighter loads.
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