![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rough going
When someone gives you a 45-minute sternal rub, you’re going to get a rash.
But it’s one of the things that soothed me on the fast ferry to P-town. The boat flew up and down with such violence on the choppy seas that the bar’s supply of coffee cups went south in a symphonic crash, and the woman behind me sobbed into her boyfriend’s shoulder, shrieking with terror that the boat would fly apart.
My companion rubbed my chest, applied acupressure to my wrist, and, well, loved me. And I didn’t throw up until 20 minutes from landfall!
Not bad.
**
oh the food
Spiritus Pizza must be experienced to be believed. Not just as perfect post-seasickness food, but as late-night haunt, after the bars and clubs shut down at a ridiculous one a.m.
Bubula’s makes excellent fish and chips, but you can get a fish sandwich with killer fries for six bucks cheaper, and leave the bun.
Ciro & Sal’s is cozy and old-school and has, perhaps, the best marsala sauce anywhere.
The Post Office is called that because it used to be a post office. And because it makes the best pancakes in the universe. Shut up, it does too make sense.
**
goldilocks at home
Queens are awfully fun, with their bitchy commentary and flaming affectations, but there’s nothing like bears. Big, hairy, bearded, scary dudes, from whom warmth and welcome emanate like the smell of well-worn leather. P-town regulars, drawing us into their haunts for well-mixed drinks and frank conversation. Letting my guard down, letting myself stand back and not be the center of attention, letting my language slip easily into playful raunch as I talk up my boyfriend’s assets to them. One comments on my beauty, on my resemblance to his last – ever – girlfriend. They honor me – and humble me – with their acceptance.
**
like night and day
Saturday night we slide, after closing time, down to the place on the beach known as the “dick dock” to help our new friend look for someone who’s wandered off. Secure in his safety, we move on, a while longer laughing in the streets, in new-found comfort.
Sunday morning, the streets are full of tourists, Mother’s Day in full swing in blinding sunlight and noise, dogs and kids underfoot everywhere. A woman in front of Town Hall plays a zither and sings corny folk songs.
A hetero-appearing couple, we don’t stand out like sore thumbs. We just feel like them.
**
belonging
I was a quiet outcast in high school. Drama and choir fag. Gay best friend, but not gay. Black clothes, but not goth. I wasn’t athletic. I was smart. But not a gaming nerd or science genius. I felt no one really knew me.
Poly, bi, pagan switch artist. No particular clothing style. I blend in, though I’m six feet tall and some say stunning. In some communities I find temporary respite, a place where parts of me can shine. It’s freeing to be so chameleonic. And lonely to have no true place.
P-town, embrace me in your shifting seas.
When someone gives you a 45-minute sternal rub, you’re going to get a rash.
But it’s one of the things that soothed me on the fast ferry to P-town. The boat flew up and down with such violence on the choppy seas that the bar’s supply of coffee cups went south in a symphonic crash, and the woman behind me sobbed into her boyfriend’s shoulder, shrieking with terror that the boat would fly apart.
My companion rubbed my chest, applied acupressure to my wrist, and, well, loved me. And I didn’t throw up until 20 minutes from landfall!
Not bad.
**
oh the food
Spiritus Pizza must be experienced to be believed. Not just as perfect post-seasickness food, but as late-night haunt, after the bars and clubs shut down at a ridiculous one a.m.
Bubula’s makes excellent fish and chips, but you can get a fish sandwich with killer fries for six bucks cheaper, and leave the bun.
Ciro & Sal’s is cozy and old-school and has, perhaps, the best marsala sauce anywhere.
The Post Office is called that because it used to be a post office. And because it makes the best pancakes in the universe. Shut up, it does too make sense.
**
goldilocks at home
Queens are awfully fun, with their bitchy commentary and flaming affectations, but there’s nothing like bears. Big, hairy, bearded, scary dudes, from whom warmth and welcome emanate like the smell of well-worn leather. P-town regulars, drawing us into their haunts for well-mixed drinks and frank conversation. Letting my guard down, letting myself stand back and not be the center of attention, letting my language slip easily into playful raunch as I talk up my boyfriend’s assets to them. One comments on my beauty, on my resemblance to his last – ever – girlfriend. They honor me – and humble me – with their acceptance.
**
like night and day
Saturday night we slide, after closing time, down to the place on the beach known as the “dick dock” to help our new friend look for someone who’s wandered off. Secure in his safety, we move on, a while longer laughing in the streets, in new-found comfort.
Sunday morning, the streets are full of tourists, Mother’s Day in full swing in blinding sunlight and noise, dogs and kids underfoot everywhere. A woman in front of Town Hall plays a zither and sings corny folk songs.
A hetero-appearing couple, we don’t stand out like sore thumbs. We just feel like them.
**
belonging
I was a quiet outcast in high school. Drama and choir fag. Gay best friend, but not gay. Black clothes, but not goth. I wasn’t athletic. I was smart. But not a gaming nerd or science genius. I felt no one really knew me.
Poly, bi, pagan switch artist. No particular clothing style. I blend in, though I’m six feet tall and some say stunning. In some communities I find temporary respite, a place where parts of me can shine. It’s freeing to be so chameleonic. And lonely to have no true place.
P-town, embrace me in your shifting seas.
