P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery by Jeffrey Round Page B
Authors: Jeffrey Round
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resort.
To a gay man, Provincetown wasn't so much a geographical destination as a psychosexual one. Each had already made a difficult inner journey to arrive at this place. To get here, they had tested and spread their wings in nondescript little clubs and taverns all across the continent, listening for that inner voice to answer the rainbow's call. It was the same voice that spoke to all gay men, one patient syllable at a time, until they were ready to hear it. It began with a secret thrill every time the handsome class president in high school passed you in the halls, or when you felt that inexplicable urge to attend the homecoming game—despite how much you hated football—so you might cheer extra hard for the devastating fullback as he scored a touchdown.
Look! it commanded. Feel! In time it progressed to full sentences: It's all right to touch. Do you like this? It's called pleasure! Only years later did it give rise to the understanding you'd felt all along but simply hadn't realized at the time: the class president had secretly yearned for the hunky fullback until that fateful camping trip and the first drunken bonk! that would resound forever in their imaginations, the unassailable love waiting beneath the palms at the end of the mind.
At some point every man encounters the specter of these youthful lovers, though never fully measuring up to their ghostly perfection. We live in a world of shadows, Brad thought, recalling desires of his own that he'd long ignored. And then one day, to no one's surprise but yours, you found yourself walking entirely uncloseted and without a second glance over your shoulder into a bar in Provincetown, of all places! The caterpillar's transformation to a butterfly was complete.
Brad made his way through the Porchside Bar toward the indoor stairway that led to the entrance to Purgatory. In a far corner, Patsy
Cline crooned an off-hours set. She would serve as his Beatrice, Brad decided, as he descended to the darkened basement.
Downstairs, a handful of men stood watching a washed-out porn video. Desire lingered in the shadows, afraid to speak its name but unable to leave. Brad's gaze traveled across the room to one of the sexiest men he'd ever seen. With his dark shaggy hair and puppy-dog eyes, wearing only a pair of coveralls that set off his V-shaped chest and sculpted shoulders, he could have been a poster boy for the world's most elite gym.
Brad winced at the sight. He hadn't been to the gym in a week. He was half convinced his muscles would begin to lose their tone in another day or two at most.
He wandered over to the bar and took a seat. The bartender acknowledged him with a friendly nod as he polished a glass.
"What's your pleasure, friend?"
A night in your arms, Brad thought. "A gin and tonic, please."
"One G and T, coming up."
Brad watched the languorous muscles stretch and flex as the bartender prepared his drink. All those hours in the gym just to be able to look like that when you poured booze, he mused. But it was worth it!
The bartender set a glass filled to the brim in front of him.
That's a nice tall drink, Brad thought. Just like you.
"Run you a tab?"
Brad's eyes traced a vein along the man's forearm, across his shoulder and neck, right up to that winsome face. He could stay there all night watching him move from one side of the bar to the other for as long as he could think of things to order. Perfection was so hard to resist.
"I'd better pay up now," he said, handing over a bill. "I'm not the sticking-around type."
The bartender gave a soft laugh. "I've been married to you, then. Several times, in fact."
Brad watched him turn and glide over to the register where he leaned forward to deposit the bill, his sculpted butt protruding invitingly. That ass, Brad thought, is a work of art.
The bartender felt Brad's eyes on him. He turned with a smile. There was something about him that reminded Brad of Ross, an amiable playfulness that said, Come
To a gay man, Provincetown wasn't so much a geographical destination as a psychosexual one. Each had already made a difficult inner journey to arrive at this place. To get here, they had tested and spread their wings in nondescript little clubs and taverns all across the continent, listening for that inner voice to answer the rainbow's call. It was the same voice that spoke to all gay men, one patient syllable at a time, until they were ready to hear it. It began with a secret thrill every time the handsome class president in high school passed you in the halls, or when you felt that inexplicable urge to attend the homecoming game—despite how much you hated football—so you might cheer extra hard for the devastating fullback as he scored a touchdown.
Look! it commanded. Feel! In time it progressed to full sentences: It's all right to touch. Do you like this? It's called pleasure! Only years later did it give rise to the understanding you'd felt all along but simply hadn't realized at the time: the class president had secretly yearned for the hunky fullback until that fateful camping trip and the first drunken bonk! that would resound forever in their imaginations, the unassailable love waiting beneath the palms at the end of the mind.
At some point every man encounters the specter of these youthful lovers, though never fully measuring up to their ghostly perfection. We live in a world of shadows, Brad thought, recalling desires of his own that he'd long ignored. And then one day, to no one's surprise but yours, you found yourself walking entirely uncloseted and without a second glance over your shoulder into a bar in Provincetown, of all places! The caterpillar's transformation to a butterfly was complete.
Brad made his way through the Porchside Bar toward the indoor stairway that led to the entrance to Purgatory. In a far corner, Patsy
Cline crooned an off-hours set. She would serve as his Beatrice, Brad decided, as he descended to the darkened basement.
Downstairs, a handful of men stood watching a washed-out porn video. Desire lingered in the shadows, afraid to speak its name but unable to leave. Brad's gaze traveled across the room to one of the sexiest men he'd ever seen. With his dark shaggy hair and puppy-dog eyes, wearing only a pair of coveralls that set off his V-shaped chest and sculpted shoulders, he could have been a poster boy for the world's most elite gym.
Brad winced at the sight. He hadn't been to the gym in a week. He was half convinced his muscles would begin to lose their tone in another day or two at most.
He wandered over to the bar and took a seat. The bartender acknowledged him with a friendly nod as he polished a glass.
"What's your pleasure, friend?"
A night in your arms, Brad thought. "A gin and tonic, please."
"One G and T, coming up."
Brad watched the languorous muscles stretch and flex as the bartender prepared his drink. All those hours in the gym just to be able to look like that when you poured booze, he mused. But it was worth it!
The bartender set a glass filled to the brim in front of him.
That's a nice tall drink, Brad thought. Just like you.
"Run you a tab?"
Brad's eyes traced a vein along the man's forearm, across his shoulder and neck, right up to that winsome face. He could stay there all night watching him move from one side of the bar to the other for as long as he could think of things to order. Perfection was so hard to resist.
"I'd better pay up now," he said, handing over a bill. "I'm not the sticking-around type."
The bartender gave a soft laugh. "I've been married to you, then. Several times, in fact."
Brad watched him turn and glide over to the register where he leaned forward to deposit the bill, his sculpted butt protruding invitingly. That ass, Brad thought, is a work of art.
The bartender felt Brad's eyes on him. He turned with a smile. There was something about him that reminded Brad of Ross, an amiable playfulness that said, Come
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