I had known that it would be hard for all of my friends to accept Johnnie without prejudice, for many of them were heterosexual while Johnnie could be spotted at 90 paces. Conspicuously tall and among strangers extremely shy, he was a real sweet boy-full of fun and laughter, and the possessor of great and gentle consideration for others. Shortly after we met in the days of World War II, I was gratified to learn that his effeminacy was balanced by an appreciable amount of moral guts and even physical courage.

Eventually my friends would have to meet him, for we had started spending all of our spare hours together. Still, envisioning raised eyebrows, I postponed introductions as long as I could. I was certain he could rid himself of most of his telltale traits, but a natural regard for his feelings made me reluctant to mention it. Before he could stop acting like a girl he would have to realize the extremities of his girlishness-and I dreaded his eyes showing pain and embarrassment when I charged him with the truth. It was only when I stopped thinking about myself-what my friends might think of Johnnie, what Johnnie might think of me-and started thinking of Johnnie's welfare instead that I found the courage to broach the subject.

This was the substance of my wary approach:

most

ost homosexuals to a greater or lesser degree are born with, or manage to acquire, personality traits that usually are found in the opposite sex. Such traits serve no earthly good. Singly they have little or no importance, are not apt to be noticed. But a preponderant accumulation of them can attract suspicion, ridicule, and public scorn. This in turn can affect the homosexual's business or professional career and limit his circle of friends. It follows that elimination (or even skin-deep correction) of these traits would do much to defeat frustration and at the same time broaden the potential scope of existence in a hostile society. I believed I could put my finger on Johnnie's conspicuousness. Would Johnnie like to be less conspicuous?

I needn't have worried about his reaction. "I know I'm effeminate,” he said bluntly, "and I've always wanted to do something about it. But I don't know where to start. You point the way and I'll do the rest.”

With the corner of my eye I caught a flash of movement at the bar. The hand of my neighbor had swept to the collar of his jacket and now the long white fingers, like the tentacles of a squid, were caressing it to an upright position against his neck. Both hands finally clutched the lapels and folded the jacket tightly across his chest, shoulders hunched, elbows almost touching. The imaginary chill had struck, but I was not amused by the predictable affectation. It was Johnnie all over again—until Johnnie had mastered other

manners.

I drank the last of my beer and accepted the bartender's offer of a free bottle, noticing that it was after five and that the bar was beginning to fill for the cocktail hour.

Come along, Johnnie, and we'll make our noble experiment. But first give me your hand. That will be our inarticulate way of expressing a love so great that it can even dignify the shenanigan of changing one's natural behavior. Your touch will remind me that I would hate anyone, even an old friend, who ever made a snide remark about you. My touch will remind you that the whole business is emminently worthwhile, even at the cost of awkward and tiresome self-discipline. If I seem to split hairs in offering advice, it is only because the

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