After ten years in a relationship, is it any surprise that a man will stray? Fifty-nine percent do, according to one recent survey. But it doesn’t mean anything. Not really. It’s recreational. Physical. And, besides, aren’t we wired for this in our DNA? Go out thee now and sow your seed.

I‘ve certainly been tempted—on Nantucket and a couple of times on the Outer Banks. Let’s face it, men are dogs and it doesn’t take much to set us howling and humping.

Woof. Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yo-yippie-yeah.

I’m thinking about infidelity and all its ramifications and justifications as my train pulls into New York’s Penn Station. In just twenty-four hours, I’m gonna embark on a passionate fling …with a beefy Nor’easter in one of the world’s most exciting cities.

Surprised? Well, people forget New York City is on the coast and, like other Eastern Seaboard towns and cities, is vulnerable to Nor’easters—those wild and wooly winter and spring storms, low pressure systems that move slowly up the Atlantic Coast producing heavy snow, rain, oversized waves that crash onto beaches, and winds that can exceed hurricane force in intensity.

Nor’easters, you might not know, can be worse than their media-hungry hurricane cousins. Hurricanes hit and run. Nor’easters linger. The great Ash Wednesday Nor’easter, for example, was a 1,000 mile wide storm that pounded the Delaware coast with 40 foot waves for two days between March 6-8, 1962. It caused more than $90 million in damages which in today’s dollars equates to over $500 million. Reho-both’s boardwalk was destroyed, as were many businesses and homes. No hurricane has done that. It still rates as the state’s greatest disaster, followed by Nor’easters in 1992 and 1998.

The Halloween Storm of 1991 was really three storms that merged into one behemoth. Boats offshore encountered 100 foot walls of water while waves of 10-30 feet were recorded from Nova Scotia to North Carolina. It was the Nor’easter memorialized in the film The Perfect Storm starring George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg. In Rehoboth, it brought tides comparable to the 1962 storm and tore up the beach.

Some readers will be familiar with my fixation on hurricanes and Nor’easters. I ride them out in my small but sturdy wooden cottage in Rehoboth, just a few hundred yards from the sea. You might say I’ve got a big storm fetish.

My routine is predictable. Stock up on wood and whiskey. Cook up a big pot of soup. Then, hunker down in front of a roaring fire with a good book. At the right time, I don my classic yellow slicker—the one with the black mold that no amount of bleach will remove—and walk down to the beach for a look.

Call me cavalier, reckless, and naïve. I don’t care. It’s worth it to wander to the edge and come face to face with the majesty of the grey of the sea, the sky becoming turbulent and to feel the sting of the rain on your cheek.

So why would I even think about straying? Because, my friends, temptation is avoidable only until it becomes irresistible. You’d never consider restricting yourself to just one type of cocktail for the rest of your life would you? Even if whiskey and water is your signature drink, admit it, sometimes, don’t you just want a trashy little bourbon and Coke?

I actually wanted a Manhattan. And show tunes and witty conversation. New York was bracing for one of its biggest Nor’easters in thirty years, and, damn it, I was gonna be there. Sorry Rehoboth…

Liquor stores all over the city were doing a brisk business the day before the storm. Nobody was buying milk. At Citarella’s, an upscale market on the Upper West Side, the check out line snaked all the way through the store, and past the foie gras. People claimed never to have seen such a line. One elderly woman clutched white and green asparagus to her bosom and warned of a catastrophe on Sunday. A smartly-dressed gentleman was purchasing three hand-dressed lamb roasts, just in case. You could just smell the anxiety at the cheese counter.

It was a turn-on, and my exhilaration carried into an evening of theatre and bar hopping. All the while I had one eye on the handsome clientele and the other on the sky, fiddling, or, should I say cocktailing, while Rome burned.

Sunday morning brought rain, wind, and a wicked hangover. Coffee and a few Bloodies were required to take the edge off. Sometime during my recovery, I learned why Nor’easters are called Nor’easters, when they actually come up the coast from the south. The name comes from colonial days, before people understood that wind circulates cyclonically around areas of low pressure. Storms were thought to travel from the direction the wind came from. Hence, people actually thought that Nor’easters were coming from the northeast. The Puritans blamed these storms on the sins of the community. Now I see where Jerry Falwell gets his ideas.

By afternoon, I was ready to venture out and face the storm. Outfitted in a stylish Burberry raincoat, I joined the few hardy souls braving the elements on the Upper West Side. Seems the beefy Nor’easter was living up to his billing, delivering a whopping eight inches (of rain) and causing all sorts of flooding and transport mayhem. As I wandered the streets, though, I couldn’t help but notice the lack of majesty, the absence of glory. It was all just broken umbrellas and dog shit washing down the sidewalks. Rats the size of mature guinea pigs were bodysurfing down West 79th Street. This Nor’easter was just hosing down the city, and even some spicy chicken wings, two shots of Trump Vodka, several Manhattans, and a Judy Garland CD couldn’t lift my spirits.

Surveys tell us that sixty-one percent of men cheat a second time because they don’t feel as guilty as they thought they would the first time around. Believe me, I understand, having felt about as much remorse as a mosquito bite in blowing off Rehoboth and traipsing up to New York in pursuit of a hunky storm. I was, however, greatly disappointed in the outcome.

Will it make me appreciate Rehoboth storms a little more? Certainly. Give me the beach and a glass of whiskey over dog shit and Trump Vodka any day.

Does it mean I’ll remain faithful to Rehoboth? What do you think? I’m a man with a storm fetish.

Woof. Bow-wow-wow-yippie-yo-yippie-yo-yippie-yeah.