deep, masculine voice. Even here he could not drop the mask. He remembered Pete's words: "You're too damned nervous about everything. You gotta learn to loosen up and be yourself." Jim crushed his half-smoked cigar into an ash-tray.

His beer was brought and the bartender paid. Jim took a small sip from the glass, then began the ritual of studying the other faces. His gaze never drifted beyond the man sitting next to him. Beside him sat a young man wearing a green shirt.

Jim noted he was tall and tanned, seemingly the athletic type. His face was straight featured with high cheekbones, his hair chopped short in a crewcut.

For more than fifteen minutes Jim sat without moving, his thoughts and glances directed toward the green shirted man. His heart seemed to be beating frantically, the desire filling within him like an inflating balloon. He wanted to reach out and grab the green shirt, so say hello, to get his attention, to do something besides sitting here like a mute idiot. Yet, he remembered Pete's warning. Green Shirt looked too square. Jim began to sense something deep within him, something that said cop! That's it! the guy is a stinking cop. The way he moved his hands, the way he nodded to the bartender. It all spelled straight and here that meant cop. But this sudden realization did not kill the desire. It only made the situation totally unbearable. Jim wanted to place his head on the bar . . . and cry.

The bitter loneliness began cutting through him like a dull knife. It was always the same. The big desire to suddenly come alive and show the world his identitybut the big fear lingered and blotted out reality. And with the loss of his reality came the loneliness. So many, many times-more than he cared to count-Jim had made the lonely walk back to a bleak hotel room. And always he had flung himself upon the bed, buried his face in a crisp cool pillow, and wept like a frightened little girl. The weeping, too, was part of his reality.

Jim noted that the green shirted man was contemplating a vodka collins, seemingly lost in thought. Lurking, Jim thought. He's lurking and waiting for me to touch him. Waiting to spring his trap and lock on the handcuffs, then drag me through the horror of jail, and trials, and publicity. He wants to punish me for being honest. There's the paradox of gay-life, he thought. If you're honest they punish you, but if you remain dishonest no one says a thing. It was the compulsion that alarmed him, a consuming desire to reach out and touch the green shirted young man. Yet, he knew what that might meanarrest! A sort of panic began forming deep in his stomach as emotion fought Finally, he realized the compulsion was winning out. In a final burst of reason, he leaped from the stool and dashed outside.

The man in the green shirt turned to a companion. "Did you notice the one next to me? Damned good looking, but so straight you could smell vice-squad written all over him."

Outside, there on the wet sidewalk, Jim's composure returned. He removed a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it, bit off the end, and lighted it. Then Jim Blake began walking.

The sky had clouded over, and now a fine mist was starting to fall. Timeclocks switched off the neon lights and the color drained from the puddles. Even the taxicabs had disappeared; the city was deserted.

The bitter loneliness filled him completely, and Jim knew it was only a few blocks away to where his hotel room waited with a clean, fresh pillow.

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