In my junior days, I spent a month in Cape Cod, Mass. The last town at the tip of the Cape was called Provincetown. It was a haven for fag woman, they wielded the coolest bars and the hippest stores. There were the most fantastic antique shops, with authentic lumps from some of those old, old homes on the sand. It was a beautiful summer, not excessively warm but very comfy, and in one of those shops I met a youthful woman, Janine. Janine was the fourth generation, from one of those families that came over to the U.S. aboard the Mayflower (the ship with the very first Yankees, they liked to say). They were very wealthy, they had a ample home right smack in the heart of the downtown core, right on the strand. Some in her family chose to work, if that's what you want to call it. Some were brokers, others doctors, lawyers, and some, like Janine, toyed quaint little shopkeeper. At very first, she was bashful and introverted, but after a duo of nights of bingeing, Wasps like their bourbon, it had all passed. She had a little room, above the shop, which she kept, I guess for the same reason we were there. She had the kind of beauty like freshly fallen snow. She always looked and reeked like she had just stepped out of the bathroom. Look at th at smile! Life is grand!