with each bottled delusion wait for it.

"And what cats me--It was so goddam simple. So simple". His mouth contracted, his face disintegrated, as he rolled his head on the bar, shaking and crying, 1130 damn simple."

That's the night I swore off Johns. In fact I swore off gay bars. Why should some old drunk spilling off his mouth rack me up like that. I don't know. Anyway, I left the city for four years of sobriety, good job, no di kes, no Johns. Specially no Johns; they hit mo like ghosts. Whimpering ghosts with threats and revelations of all the things you try to escape thro ugh a gay bar. Somehow the phantom fears come out of the dark and assume tangible visible shapes there: the grim certain. ties flit about and puncture the butterfly laughter. The tomorrows and the "what are you looking for" and the pathos pushed in your faco. The teary echoes of & hundred old men flutter in my stomach beside the beer.

I met one more, the last one, because I'm not going back again. The whole scone bothers me.

After four years, I arrive in my gay city, trot right up to Jordan Street, expecting cheers and open arms. The boys in beards and the tourists are there en masse. I duck my head in and out of the old hangouts. It's all the same, but the girls. No girls. Where are those

di kes?

may be they'ro in Jordan Street, oven sordid than I had

Ridiculous! People don't disappear; hiding--elections are coming up. at night looks shabbi or, and more remembered. That moment in Jordan

Street metamorphosized,

I folt strange, even queer; but not gay, not a bit gay. Just...Queer, and it tasted bad.

In the old 1550, which was now a commuter's luncheon joint, I stopped and downed a few sherrys. Then I set off again, determined to root out the gay spots and enjoy them--if I over found them.

So up and down, up and down, I covered every bar in th

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