Having been back from college for about six months, I decide it's probably time to grow some balls. So I put on my shiniest shirt and tightest pants, style my hair into antennae, and drive to the only street in America where, on any given night, you can see an obese man in drag riding a scooter the wrong way down a one way street: Commercial Street in Provincetown. I don't know why I do this. Blame it on the memory of the way Alex touched me. Blame it on the sex Amaretto sours, and the shot of tequila. Blame it on the bossa fucken nova.
The last and only previous time I've ever been to Ptown, I went with Jennifer. We went on some lame whale watch, even though everything I wanted to see was on the shore.
Most of the bars have some theme that terrifies me. Being only nineteen, I'm forced to skip all the bars that require photo IDs. And having no stomach for kink, I'm forced to bypass all the bars with dog collared men in leather jackets.
I end up in The Alley, which, until I got to the front door, I assumed got its name from its stunning location off the beaten path. No. The Alley gets its name from the alley of dirty old men who line up from the main entrance to the dance floor, grabbing the crotch of every man who walks in the door. I am groped no less than eleven times before I reach the bar. It takes every iota of self-restraint I have not to run screaming back out, breaking through the chain of crotch grabbers like a kid in the world's most perverse game of Red Rover.
I spend an hour by the bar, as pretty people with brightly colored drinks swarm around me, exchanging phone numbers, flirtatious glances, and a variety of bodily fluids. I don't get any digits. Not even the finger. The alley fags don't even try grabbing my ass when I tango the fuck out the front door. "Red Rover, Red Rover, send the closet case over."