He outlined his long heavy cock noticeably and gazed around the bar, his eyes dimly focusing on the mass of faces, each one overly animated, each one trying desperately to create the best impression, each one hungrily seeking a partner for the night.

“Bitches!” he muttered to himself. “Nothing but a bunch of faggoty cock-suckers.”

The young man next to him turned, and grinned.

“S’matter, honey, didn’t you know this’s a gay bar?”

“Yes, I know,” he snapped. .“And don’t try to put the make on me. I’m not in the mood.”

“Sorry.” The young man turned away and Tom stared at the back of his head. You didn’t have to choke his head off, he thought. He can’t help what he is, or the way he talks any more than you can.

He glanced up at the mirror over the bar. He saw a strong, masculine face, a handsome face people said. Yes, he was handsome, all right. Tom Shaw, handsome account executive, who was sitting in a gay bar, feeling sorry for himself because he was leaving New York and going to Chicago, and he wasn’t really sure whether the move would be a good one or not.