Just got up from my afternoon nap. I had an awful dream.
I usually don't remember the details of my dreams, but I often remember if my dreams were good or bad. This one was a bad one folks. BAD.
Here is my dream in all it's disturbing detail:
I was hanging around Casa Tipton-Kelly (our palatial home here in southern Delaware) and I got it in my head to bike to New England. Specifically Provincetown, my former vacation choice de jour during my Glorious Youth.
I don't remember where Bill was but I think we were having some kind of disagreement and he wasn't speaking to me. This happened not infrequently when we lived in Philly. We would have a disagreement and I would take off for the weekend to visit my friend Bob McCamley who lived near Rehoboth Beach, Delaware which is where I live now. By the time I returned home to our town house in Philly (Philadelphia, PA) Bill would have forgotten what our disagreement was about (usually something insignificant) and my anger would have cooled down. But this time I was already in southern Delaware when I decided to take of ON BIKE for Provincetown, Mass. And I wasn't going to tell anyone about it, which is what I often did when I left Bill in Philly for real back in the Seventies when we had our tiffs.
So there I am, in a major pout taking of on my journey of eight hours and twenty-seven minutes and 503.1 miles from Lewes, Delaware to Provincetown, Mass.
In my dream I don't remember much about my actual journey, only that it was long and I arrived late afternoon Saturday in Provincetown on my bike. No suitcases, backpacks or even a water bottle. Nada. Just me, my bike and my now flabby body. No longer did I have my trim, tight, six pack abs on display to impress and possibly get me a free place to stay with "benefits."
As I am riding down Commercial Street in Provincetown (yes folks, the main street in Provincetown is called Commercial Street, one would think they would have named that street something more intriguing Provincetown being the Gay Capital of the East Coast and all).
As I'm riding down the crowded with tourists Commercial Street I see a gay establishment along the side of the street. Probably something akin to "The Ranch" is where I stayed the very first time I visited Provincetown in 1974 when I was a young and desirable thirty-three year old gay man.
|Me at Herring Cove, Provincetown, Mass 1976, back before my "pouch" (which you will NEVER see a picture of in this blog)|
The proprietor of "The Ranch" (which is what we'll call this gay B & B for lack of a better description) motions for me to pull my bike in. He is intrigued by my still remaining good looks (which is amazing after seventy-six years of a fairly stressful and adventurous life) and asks me to "stay awhile."
|"The Ranch", 198 Commercial Street, Provincetown, Mass|
(when I did stay there in 1974 it was on the first floor to the right in a room called "The Harness Room")
Now I'm starting to lose the details of my dreams but I'll proceed the best I can with what remains of the details of this disturbing dream I just had about an hour ago.
My "host" was dressed like the Jonathan Pryce character in "Game of Thrones", the High Sparrow.
|Jonathan Pryce as the "High Sparrow" in "Game of Thrones"|
(at least he wasn't making me walk "The Walk of Atonement")
Not a good sign. He invite me to have a seat and relax after my long ride. And a long ride indeed I did have. I do remember being very exhausted and thinking that I had to make the bike ride back the very next day (Sunday) to Delaware. That's a LONG bike ride folks. I wonder if I was on I-95 at any part of that ride. But I digress.
But here is what I remember about my dream. I needed a place to stay and the town was pretty full because of the holiday weekend. I don't remember what holiday but I do remember that lodgings would probably be slim pickens if I looked. I don't remember if I had my Discover card with me.
My host, the "High Sparrow"
said I could stay at his place but I would have to "perform a few functions." Immediately my mind raced to imagine just what those "functions" would be. Since I am a Good Boy at my core (and heart) I wasn't prepared to whore myself out just for a night's lodgings.
I never did find out in my dream what my "functions" were to be but I do remember clearly, VERY clearly where he wanted me to stay overnight. It was a small stable like area of about two feet by five feet, separated by burlap bag curtains. I went in but when I laid down my feet stuck out the burlap bag curtains, almost like I was advertising for "company for the night." That's not me folks, never was and never will be. I have somewhat of a checkered history of doing things I wasn't proud of but whoring myself out wasn't one of them. And I wasn't going to start now.
|Gay bathhouse private room - yes, I've been here. No straw on the floor and I kept my door closed ALL night.|
As I emerged from my stable chute (and I think the ground was covered with straw) my shirt flapped open and my host, the High Sparrow saw my flabby mid-section and an immediate wave of revulsion washed across his face like a dark cloud passes over the sun on a sunny day. I thought "uh oh." I immediately thought that I should exit said premises and take my chances on paying for lodging somewhere else in Provincetown.
The last part of my dream that I remember is that I am leaving my hay strewn stable with the burlap curtains (separating me from other stay overs, God knows what "functions" there were performing for such luxurious lodgings) and mounting my bike on Commercial Street with my flabby stomach and heading east in search of cheap accommodations. Thankfully this is when I woke up.
I was exhausted.
I felt dirty.
I felt like a flabby 76 year old gay man.
I felt like my Glory Time is over.
And here I'm blogging about it.
I bet this is probably the strangest blog posting you've ever read but hey, this is my blog and this is my life.
Welcome to my world.