knew he would easily have been the most notorious harlot in the history of the world. He wanted to love every man on earth.

And he tried. His youthful nights were filled with the sounds of men. Gasps and groans and protestations of undying love that reached a hot climax then slowly died until only nervous, sidelong glances remained. And with the passing of each night's lover, something died a little in Doug, leaving him older and more lonely.

He was eventually resigned to his fate. He couldn't love them all. Perhaps some of them weren't worth loving to start with. He comforted himself with this thought.

But then he met Bill, and they took up their life together as though they were two old and settled friends. This was different. They slept together, instead of fleeing in opposite directions the minute sex had ended. They found an apartment and filled it with Bill's books and manuscript papers, and Doug's art reproductions and phonograph records. Late at night Bill would sit at the kitchen table, writing poetry in cramped, frugal longhand. His poems were never published, and he violently cursed each rejection slip. Occasionally he would write a scalding letter to the editor, reading it proudly:

"Dear Sir: Your recent rejection of one of my poems serves to forcefully and unhappily demonstrate the profound and awe-inspiring stupidity of the people who are running your magazines . .

These letters were never mailed. Eventually he would send the editor another poem. He and Doug would then wait with the expectancy of two children who had written their initials on a wall and were wondering when someone was going to notice.

They were friends as well as lovers. A happy thing. They would sit crosslegged on the living room floor, eating baloney sandwiches and leafing through Doug's Renoir portfolio.

"God, this man loved women," Bill would say, filled with his unconquerable romanticism. "Look how fresh and pink they look. They always look as though they smell of flowers and home made bread."

And the nights. Ah Christ, those nights they spent together, loving each other so completely that they were afraid of themselves. Afraid that it would end. What a miracle, that two people could know each other so thoroughly, so intimately. Often Doug was filled so full of passion that he trembled spastically, uncontrollably, insane with waiting for Bill's touch. During these times they came together in an embrace so violent and strangely tender that Bill would cry afterwards, filled with poetry and life and quiet wonder-pressing Doug to him, kissing his face, while giant tears coursed down his cheeks and ran between them, merging with their sweat and skin. And then, being held so tenderly in Bill's arms, Doug would feel normal. Only then. During daylight, while working at the department store, he was an abnormal being, forced to act like something he was not. He hated it, hated the constant act he had to put on. talking in a baritone voice and telling dirty jokes to the floor manager. Only in Bill's arms could he be himself. A man who lived for the masculine embrace of his lover. In Bill's arms he was at peace.

They slept together. Together. Doug grew used to waking in the morning with Bill beside him, stubble-cheeked and slightly breath-smelley; his legs entwined in sheets that were white and noncommittal. Every morning he had gloried in Bill-in the flesh of his chest and legs, in his hair and sex. Every

one