Then with a tired chuckle, he finally said, "The hell with this!" and reached out a warm, silkhaired, hardmuscled arm over our chest, rolled us over and drew himself hard against us, his underwear open. His nose touched ours and he chuckled again.

"You've really never done this before, have you?"

"Done what?" we asked, still afraid to believe our excited senses.

He kissed us then, wetter than we ever imagined a kiss would be, and longer, first inserting his tongue, then drawing ours deeply into his mouth, till we were desperate for breath. His fingers gently explored, and his other hand, warm, soft, moist, found our hand and guided it south. We'd never felt one, besides our own, before, and this was more impressive than our own. And with fondling and kissing, a little turning and sweaty sheets in the way, and repeated confessions of our innocence, and a wild outflowing of gratitude, we passed another hour or more with him.

Then he disentangled himself and removed his underwear. "You don't have the least idea what to do, do you?" he asked, that soft chuckle still in his voice.

We didn't. Our fantasies had never been very specific, and our female informant had vaguer notions on this aspect of things than we ourself. But from the time we were seven or eight, we had revelled in visions of walking off into the sunset, arm in arm with another male.

Our lesson lasted past midday, with an adjournment for afternoon breakfast. He was tireless, versatile, astonishingly flexible. We were silly about it all, sentimental and unbelievably clumsy we haven't changed too much. in those particulars. We were decidedly incompetent in some matters, but all of it was excitingly romantic, the fulfilment of undared dreams, though some of it also was shocking or painful. To put it in the most banal way, and we were then oozing banalties, we enjoyed every minute. And idealized every minute.

We slept awhile, then got up and washed at the face basin, embracing standing, till we both were almost asleep again on our feet, and suddenly, without expecting to do it, we began to tickle his ribs, and fell together again to the bed, with protests and giggling. He was lighter than we, and it was our first taste of dominance. We suddenly became more virile than we'd been earlier, and the devilish tickling gave way to warmer forms of wrestling.

But briefly. It was quickly finished. His ship was to sail within the hour.

We walked together, longing for closer embrace, down to the waterfront,

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which never before had seemed to us so tragically romantic. We were blabbering about how we would love him forever, when he kissed our cheek and was gone.

We didn't have nerve to contact the friend whose address he gave us, and so we continued another six weeks with little further education, till the night we met him again on the same

street.

After all our lugubrious longing, the second session turned out to be mainly tickling, much to his annoyance-and without helping our virility much. As he had only two days in port, he introduced us to his friend, Danny, a husky, masculine sort, with whom we instantly fell in love, though feeling guilty over our fickleness.

We soon got a job in the war plant where Danny worked. Our reading having progressed a bit, such as the literature was in those days, we were now prepared for total immersion in the gay life, which we viewed as something like joining a new religion. But Danny, a cynic, who despised the "faggotty crowd," dashed our ideals with rages about "all those silly, irresponsible and vicious bitches." This was a sore disappointment to us, till the day we found a gay cafe near the plant. This was a discovery as exciting as our first night, and we couldn't wait to get back to Danny with the news that we'd found a whole group who weren't at all the unpleasant sorts he had met.

Alas, they not only were the sorts he knew, but the two who'd most impressed us were former lovers of his. So our romance began to go on the rocks. Danny had carried us through a rough period, and given us needed

lessons in non-sexual matters as well. He introduced us to French and Italian restaurants, to French and Russian movies. We'll never forget sitting snuggled together on the bearskin rug by his fireplace, sipping sherry (wines also were new to us) and humming, "You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To," "As Time Goes By," "Can It Be Wrong To Love?" and "The Man I Love." They don't make songs like that anymore.

It was a five-week sentimental jag, the like of which we've not had since. But we were lusting for the gay life. Not at all tired of Danny, we rebelled against his insistance that we avoid the gay crowd. We'd dreamed of this gay life long before we found it, and the dream, unspecific as it was, yet prescribed a romantic love, such as he gave us, plus a freemasonry of kindred spirits, which he forbade. His only regular homosexual friends were all alcoholic: one very garrulous old fool, and two tiny, weatherbeaten bulldykes, who fought one another, and anyone who tried to separate them, bloodily at the slightest provocation. So our first love affair was doomed the day we stumbled into that gay restaurant, and we began leading a double-double life, concealing some from Danny, and all from our family.

We idealized everyone who was "our kind." He despised them. Though we still loved one another, there was no compromise. We were explosive with plans for a great protective league, or for a crusading magazine. He laughed at such goals: "Who the hell wants to listen to a bunch of screaming faggots?"

So one night we traded his bed for that of one of his ex-lovers. This was our first contact with a queen, and we were wide-eyed with amazement and admiration. It was largely another tickling match, but both of us enjoyed it.

Ted, or Theodora, was slender, blond and radiantly beautiful and fully twice as old as he looked. He was known around town as "The Countess" and claimed to be legally married to a real Count with a castle somewhere in the Carpathian Alps. He designed women's costumes-he showed us several drawing books full of simple female figures, slinky and heavily ornamented, and he had a closetful of gowns and furs and a large collection of jewelry. His father was a leading local banker.

And would we be willing to escort him, tomorrow night, to a wedding at the best hotel in town?

Willing, delighted and excited, we were, and quite unaware of the inadequacies of our wardrobe or our public demeanor.

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