The oppressive heat intensified the guilt I was feeling for not having visited my family instead. I had to wonder if the combination of the ghastly temperature and my guilty conscience, was retribution for my selfishness; but, seemingly, it wasn't adequate punishment for my self-serving decision to vacation on the East Coast, because the following day I was tortured by having to go antiquing. Apparently, all that wasn't "enough already" as we were soaked in a downpour when the party with whom I traveled, couldn't wait for the rain to subside, or maybe, the experience was so irksome to them as well, that they would rather be saturated by pelting rain and hail, and risk being struck by lightning, than to be bored to death any longer. I was nonplussed, and irritated by their impatience and the weather, both of which, wilted and withered my sense of humor away.

          Meanwhile, it seemed that my discontent, facilitated my girlfriend's revenge for my initial decision to travel without her. The change in her behavior virtually commenced when we stepped off the plane in Boston. While we waited for my friend to get the rental car to pick us up, I was shocked when she ordered a drink of alcohol at the bar, as she had never before in the months I had known her. Thereafter, she shifted into another mode and another self, one for which I was not particularly fond. Nevertheless, that surprising and disconcerting deviation in her behavior, ill-prepared me for the overt change in her personality that emerged in Provincetown.

          As we were on our way to the girls' dance-club on the waterfront, the person with whom I had previously been ostensibly compatible, walked a number of steps in front of me, so as to be better able to distance herself from me, before she outright ignored me, once we were inside. She ordered a drink for only herself and promptly walked away to stand against the wall by the dance floor.

          I left the bar for the beach. On a well-placed log on the shore, I sat by the still moonlit water and visualized Portuguese whaling boats, and wondered if perhaps Tennessee Williams or Sinclair Lewis had ever stood on the very site on which I was collecting myself. After at least an hour, I returned to the club and saw my so-called girlfriend talking rather intently to an attractive girl. They talked and danced while I confided in one of the bartenders and her girlfriend who assured me that I was not overreacting. Later, I danced with the bartender's girlfriend so as not to look like I was pouting in the corner.

          My traveling partner's flaunting of her aggressive intent was not an adequate amount of sweet revenge, as I found out when she took it to another level when the place closed and she matter-of-factly informed me that she was "staying out" with her newfound friend. At that moment, she appeared to derive sadistic pleasure in launching a harpoon into my injured ego. If I had been numbing my emotions with alcohol, I think I could have eased myself into an I-don't-care attitude, but I wasn't, nor was I about to. Instead I was consumed with resentment for this person I now referred to as "Beelzebub." I was burning up, and the flames vaporized any possibility for the restoration of our friendship.

          Commercial Street was bustling with promenading tourists and parading "drag queens;" I felt like an anachronism among them as I marched the entire stretch venting steam. My adrenalin pump gave out after a couple of hours, after which I decided to retreat to the inn where we earlier had reserved rooms with the expectation that everyone would be too tired and or drunk to drive back to our place. I took a shower and laid down but, ironically, I couldn't fall asleep, more so because I was freezing cold from the air-conditioning, rather than from the heat or my aggravation. Finally, after a couple of hours, I decided to get up and go out and pound the pavement once again. As I was leaving at 5 a.m., in walked the "devil" who said, "we just talked," as if that would make a difference. Even though what she purported could be true, because her loquaciousness was oftentimes incessant, that wasn't the issue. I couldn't stand the sight of her and I left without saying anything.

          The street was quiet and I had it mostly to myself. I started to play a game where I tried to recall the names of the various shops, restaurants, and inns along the esplanade. Coincidentally, one of the few people I did see was a girl riding a bicycle who, when she turned the corner and I could see her profile, was someone I had met at a girl's club in the South-of-Market-Area in San Francisco. She was memorable because she was very beautiful and had taken me into one of the men's bathhouses where I saw harnesses hanging from the ceiling and "glory holes" in the walls; it was shocking, not to mention the pervasive, yet difficult-to-discern-smell in the air. As she disappeared into the dawn, I sat on the bench in front of the Town Hall and watched the sunrise while wishing that I had done the same as she -- taken the opportunity to travel and live in other places. With that uncomfortable thought and subsequent induced regret, I stood up and explored the town more thoroughly. It was a great way and time to see this charming coastal inhabitation with such an interesting past.

          Around 9 a.m., I went to our rental car and slept until I was awakened by the heat. It was 11, but there was no sight of anyone with whom I came; they were not at the inn and I felt abandoned as I killed time making small talk with the strangers that were sitting across the table from me. After one too many cups of coffee, my friends still didn't show, so I trod Commercial Street for the nth time. Alas, one in our company rode by waving from the back of a garbage truck, and the others, who were "gone" on gin fizzes, followed on foot. Much to my dismay, they wanted to go to another bar; we went to a dark and raunchy one and after we left, the "garbage girl" wallowed on the ground by some garbage cans. Needless to say, I was the designated driver back to the quiet hamlet where we were staying.

          The party atmosphere continued in our cottage into the night, and it was weird. I couldn't carry on an intelligible conversation with anyone, and you could cut the drama with a knife. Between the humidity and sharing a room with this person I now loathed, it turned out to be one of the most uncomfortable nights of my life. I laid awake most of the night with detestation that was manifested physically by the sensation that my stomach was going to erupt. In the morning, latent animosity gave me the energy to go for a run, and the subsequent endorphins supplied me with a sense of well-being for the first time in two days. Soon thereafter, we went to the beach -- the exercise enabled me to take full advantage of what it had to offer. The mantra-like sound of the sea, quieted my mind and lulled me into a deep sleep that was replete with pleasant dreams -- they and the cool ocean water refreshed my spirit. The beams of light that penetrated my body, reinvigorated my psyche and, I was noticeably transformed. The "demon" that had found harbor in my being was exorcised by the sun and surf.

          Our last night on the sickle-shaped peninsula, we returned to the cutting-edge destination, that some would say, is scarred by infamy; it certainly seemed that the "devil-in-disguise" was determined to make me remember it as such, because she employed the same strategy that she successfully used before to negate any fun that I may have. When we stopped for dinner, about two miles from the playful town on the sand, she elected to sit at the bar and swill beer rather than sit with us. Before we finished eating, she came over to our table to inform us that she was going ahead and walking the rest of the way. Although we all thought it was unwise, and expressed concern for her safety, there was no changing her mind -- she was in a heat that even the darkness could not deter. I was embarrassed by her rudeness and behavior that was tantamount to deranged.

          We returned to the same club in Provincetown. The object of my disdain had resumed her stance against the wall with her bottle of courage. After awhile, most likely when she was relatively sure that the girl she had met was not going to show, she had the nerve to approach me. She attempted to engage in friendly conversation, but it was impossible for me to forget what had occurred. I was totally turned off, and mute by her audacity. Fortunately, the bartender and her girlfriend who befriended me before, were waving me over. They pointed out a girl who had expressed to them an interest in me and they urged me to ask her to dance. I approached the girl.

          After brief introductions, we set down our drinks and went out to the dance floor. She looked up at me with wide eyes, outlined by glasses and a helmet of hair that was slicked down past her ears with gel. Her sexiness was readily apparent and beyond belief. My attraction to her rose exponentially as I watched her move. Her large breasts, wide shoulders and small waist were enhanced by what she wore. After a couple of songs, she was ushered away by a girl with whom she had been dancing earlier, so I focused my attention on a ravishingly beautiful girl behind the bar.

          The voluptuous Brooke continued to draw my attention, by appearing to be everywhere and the center of attention. Intermittently she came over and flirted with me, usually just after I initiated a conversation with someone else or they with me. That sort of scenario continued throughout the evening; she made repeated attempts to persuade me to let her drive me back to where we were staying, over an hour away. Although that notion was contrary to my better judgment, I was flattered and excited beyond rationality, and I finally relented. When the "Big Bub" found out, she commented that in my so doing, I would be "evening-the-score," but I quipped, "I don't quite think so."

          Brooke and I strolled down Commercial Street. For the first time, I was able to enjoy its quaint nighttime ambiance. In the light of a full moon that streaked across the water, we kissed before getting into her car.

          As soon as we were on the highway, Brooke kept me in suspense about something she said she had to tell me. Trying to imagine the worst, I was shocked, and too, relieved when she told me, she sucked her thumb. Once she uttered her confession, it went into her mouth and remained there except when she had to sort through her abundant collection of CDs. She realized that I was amazed and in awe, rather than alarmed by her habit, so she turned on the overhead light to show me the fine white tan line across the bridge of her nose, sustained from sucking in the sun. All along the way, she entertained me with her multiple mannerisms and the music she played.

          We drove past the entrance to the cottage where I was staying and went to the beach. A soft tactile sea breeze brought us the mild fragrance of the ocean and the soothing sound of the splashing waves. Seemingly, we were alone, yet there was an element of uneasiness that the darkness and isolation created. Increasingly, we became mindful of our vulnerability, so we moved our passion to right outside the cottage that we avoided previously.

          There were three engines in her car, but it was the two sexual ones that were revved up. We maneuvered into positions for the race to sexual gratification, and we put the pedal to the metal until dawn. Once we were no longer exhibitional, we laughed in hysterical relief. Reluctantly, we said goodbye.

           En route home to San Francisco, after two out of three sleepless nights in Provincetown, I was physically and emotionally frazzled. Temporary exhaustion quelled my seething anger and dissipated the disgust I felt for my now erstwhile girlfriend, sitting next to me.

          I welcomed the distraction of the spectacular show of light outside my window. Bolts of lightning discharged in chain reactions that illuminated the dark sky with the shapes and forms of the clouds from which they came. However, the only thunderous sound we experienced was that upon takeoff, as we were distant and insulated from the shock waves that are concomitant with that phenomenon of nature. It was while cruising alongside this vast row of cumulonimbus towers that I identified the one word that best described my trip to Cape Cod -- electric!

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