Mike the magnificent, the tease, the arrogant, the unapproachable. Shot down? Impossible! He'd kill any queen who laid a hand on him. Still-what the hell was happening?

The blond made himself comfortable, lying on his back, then turned his head to face Mike again with a great questioning look. Mike allowed himself to boldly map the profile of this person-the slender, fine legs, the barely concealed masculineness, the delicate hairs on the belly, the fine bones of the chest and neck-that blond, blond hair. And then Mike's eyes again came to rest in the questioning depths of the great black-velvet framed violet pools facing him.

Big Mike, Mike the big man, inexplicably found himself wanting to cry. This emotion, so foreign to him, drained him of all his arrogance, cruelty and courage. He found himself wanting to be all alone with this creature-alone and abandoned to its whim-whatever it may be.

Mike shook his head as a dog would shake and managed a weak, apologetic smile for his tormentor. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the trees that border the greens alongside the Presidio. The blond boy rose to his knees, gathering his belongings and murmuring something about the long walk home.

"I have a car-" Mike blurted, then blushed. "What I mean to say is-I'll drive you home." His answer was a smile of gratitude.

As they pulled up near the apartment house, the young man asked Mike in for a cup of coffee. Mike had been over this scene many times before in his mind, and each time his fists had tingled at the thought of smashing into a simpering face, relishing the feeling of destroying a queer. Yet, when Mike heard the invitation, he could not refuse-in fact, he found himself eager to see how this creature lived.

So he found himself following up stairs as if drawn by an irresistible magnet, obedient as a puppy. The apartment was small, efficient and neat. The living room had a twin bed that had been fitted with bolsters so as to serve as a couch. There was a chair and a chest-little else.

The young man put the apartment at Mike's disposal. Mike's main wish was to shower off the afternoon's accumulation of sweat and salt from the bay. He disappeared into the shower, lingering, hoping to wash away the new confusion and uncertainty, feeling the water caress and cling to him. Finally, finding no more excuse to linger, stepped out, and having dried, went into the living room with only the towel draped about his middle. He sprawled on the couch, hands behind his head, staring at the darkening sky that just showed through the lightwell.

His host was busy in the kitchen when Mike finished his shower, and Mike didn't see him when he too went to shower. Presently, the shower noises stopped, then the young man appeared from the kitchen with coffee, also clad only in a towel.

Mike made no attempt to rise from the couch as his host sat beside him, resting his hand lightly on Mike's chest. Each finger made its own electric shock that ricocheted throughout Mike's being.

Their eyes met and held their gaze with a heavy silence. Mike's mind was grasping at bases to preserve his equilibrium-he thought of the coffee-beginning to get cold, those hypnotic eyes, the chill of the bay, that lean, perfect body. . . he felt cool, strong fingers loosening the towel from his waist... his head was buzzing again . . .

Eagerly, he awaited the touch of those lips that were now descending toward

his own.

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