"It's only 'bout four blocks from here," the old man began. Then he took a sheet of scratch-paper from the desk and drew Jim a crude map.

Moments later Jim was walking slowly down the lonely street of a strange new city. He was a salesman and this city was part of his newly-assigned territory. Now and then large drops of water landed on his crew-cut hair. Jim wore no raincoat because from his hotel window, he had seen the soft glitter of stars. But the dripping water also landed on his suit; it was somewhat annoying.

Suddenly, Jim halted abruptly. He was passing in front of Saxton's Department Store, a huge twelve-story building which covered half a square block. Tomorrow he would be calling on the lingerie buyer, showing her his company's new spring line. Somehow, the thought made him a bit nervous.

Jim moved slowly along the wet sidewalk, checking each display window briefly for content. Finally, he halted in front of a lingerie display where his company's products were being shown. He moved close to the window and considered every detail. Taking a cigar from his shirt pocket, Jim placed it between his teeth and then lighted it. The display of girdles, bras, and panties was very well done, he observed.

His gaze halted and lingered on a display of women's panties in several styles and colors. Jim laughed aloud, remembering the desk-clerk and his remark about sissy-boys. I wonder, he thought, what that old man's reaction would have been, had I dropped my trousers and showed him that, instead of shorts, I was wearing pink, lace panties. The old goat would have died from heart failure. Wearing women's panties was important to Jim-as important as the cigars he smoked. The panties were his secret reality, something he had shared with only an esoteric few. A secret badge he could wear to prove his identity only to himself.

The cigars were the reverse: something which established the actor's role he had accepted. He truly enjoyed smoking a good cigar, but that, in itself, was not enough. They were only a part of the overall false picture he presented to the world. A picture so well-painted that a desk clerk warned him about sissy-boys.

Jim uttered an audible sigh, then moved on slowly down the street. He pulled the paper from his pocket, glancing quickly at the note Pete had written: There is only one gay bar in town. It's called the Crimson Jewel, and is located on the corner of Eighth and Broadway. Watch out, though, THE JOINT IS CRAWLING WITH COPS. And too, they're not opposed to entrapment!!!!

He tore the note into several pieces, then dropped them one-by-one into the water-filled gutter. Minutes later, he stood outside the Crimson Jewel. Then the fear filled him. It was always the same: perhaps, inside there would be someone who knew him, someone who knew his mother, someone who knew his boss-someone who would tell! Yet the desire to enter was stronger than the fear.

His heart pounding wildly, Jim stepped inside the darkened bar. Although he had never been here before, the sight was completely familiar. The long line of occupied stools, and the soft music, and quiet men, and the turning heads, and the unheard whispers it was all the same.

Only a single stool remained empty-one next to the wall. Jim seated himself, then unbuttoned his coat. "Make it a beer," he growled at the bartender in a

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