# Maybe—Tomorrow/Chapter 21

​CHAPTER 21
THE RAIN HIT ON THE METAL TOP of Blake's car parked alongside a dark graveled country road and a dim light inside silhouetted two heads; one pressed against the glass of the car door, the other bent forward as if in deep thought.
Gaylord watched breathless as Blake read the letter. Watched him devour Paul's words on the slips of grey paper. Not once did he glance at Gaylord or even speak. Gaylord looked through the wet glass, out into the night through the driving rain. There was nothing anywhere to be seen. His hands lay nervously in his lap and his head ached dully, both from fatigue and from his efforts to keep from wondering. It would not do to wish he had destroyed the letter. It was too late to even think such a thing. Paul had told him to destroy it. Why hadn't he? "Tear this letter up … don't even read it again." He remembered every word. There seemed to be bands of iron wrapped around his heart, welded there by some unknown power, and though he burst asunder, he could not escape.
He was aware, after a time, that Blake had finished the letter and was looking at him, the letter still in his hand. Stiffly, he turned and tried to smile. Blake unfolded the letter and began searching. After turning several pages, he stopped and read out loud.
"I wonder if you really love Bob." He stopped and looked up. "Do you Gay? Do you love him?" He read the letter without looking at it.
Gaylord experienced an emotion of complete bewilderment. He remembered how pleasant it had been to explore with Blake those ​things he had always dreamed of. Remembered how youthful and eager he had seemed, but now something had swept all that beauty away, leaving only a more bewildering life, and a crushing sense of intolerable shame made his shoulders sag … Why am I so confused, Gaylord wanted to scream.
"Do you?" Blake whispered. He dropped the letter on the seat and turned out the light. "Do you, Gay?" he asked again.
"Oh, Bob?" Gaylord cried, and flung himself into the arms that went around him. He tried to recall just what he had planned to say after Blake had finished, but he couldn't. He reached up and touched the bronze face, shoved back the glistening wisp of hair from the broad forehead. His whole body was one big ache and the pain inside of his head was fierce, like a tornado. His lips came apart, but he said nothing. At that moment there was nothing to be said.
"Well?" Blake whispered.
"Oh … Bob … I," he cried.
"Don't answer now if you don't want to. Go on … go on and cry … get it out of your system …"
Oh, but I do love you, Gaylord was thinking. That's the trouble … it's not right. I don't want to be like those I saw in New Orleans. I want to and I don't … I don't know what to do … our loves … oh … it'll never last … because …
Blake broke in on his thoughts with, "Guess this Paul is some fellow. Sure can write a letter. I don't like to write." Blake reached for the other's chin. "Feel better?"
"I guess you think I'm an awful baby," Gaylord choked. "I don't know what's the matter with me."
"There's nothing wrong with you, and you know I don't think you're an awful baby."
"Bob?"
"Huh?"
"Do you I think I'm a … a queer …?"
"I wouldn't call you a queer."
"What would you call me?" Gaylord heard himself asking. "A faggot?"
With this, Blake smiled. He began chuckling and then uncontrollable laughter shook his entire body. Gaylord looked at him. He ​found himself waiting for the next move, braced and eager because he didn't know what words would follow. He was half frightened and half angry, whether because of his own words or Blake's actions, he could not tell. Now, as he waited for the answer to his question, he couldn't tell if Blake was laughing at him or at the question, or whether what he was feeling was not something akin to sarcasm.
"You're some pistol." Blake grinned and pulling up the tear-streaked face, kissed the lips. "And if I'd call you a faggot, I'd add 'pretty' right in front of it." He paused a second. "No, I wouldn't," he went on, "I'd add ‘beautiful.'"
Gaylord felt the masculine arms around him. They felt both good and bad … "Oh, Bob … what are we going to do?"
"Should I tell you?" He made a move …
"No … no … not that."
"Why … not?"
"Because."
"Because why?" He made another move and Gaylord drew away his hand from where Blake had placed it.
"Do you like me a little … just a little bit, Bob?"
"Sure … my beautiful little faggot … I like you a whole lot. Don't this prove it?" Again he put Gaylord's hand on his lap.
He was a faggot. In Blake's eyes he was exactly that. What was Blake? What would Blake think if he called him a faggot. He wouldn't like it … neither did he …
"You don't love me … do you?"
"Let's don't say we love each other, yet, Gay."
"Why?"
"Because."
And for an instant there was only the noise of the rain beating down on the car. There had been a look of repression in Blake's eyes, grotesque and something more. What, what was it?
Gaylord knew with finality that he was caught up in Blake, bound to him by some strange power, to sit waiting always for his next move, to obey his command, to withdraw, only to come back again at his call. He would do anything Blake wanted. He was as common as the worst he had met in New Orleans. There was no escape from the blind drive toward a destiny of ruthless years, and they would ​be ruthless, cruel, jealousy at every corner. Paul had told him that, and he had eyes, he could see.
"Bob … what do you think of me … am I wrong … you do like me, don't you?"
Blake laughed a throaty, hoarse sound. "'Course, Gay," the sound indulged Gaylord. It continued, "a helluva lot."
"Do you love someone else?"
"No … Come on Gay … let's …" He squeezed Gaylord's hand.
"You go out with so many … you …"
"What about all the rest of these guys you've been to bed with?" Blake's voice had changed and now became questioning.
A tremble ran throughout Gaylord's body. "The rest, Bob," he asked, plucking at Blake's pants … "The rest? Who else?"
"What about Paul? He loves you … so he says."
Gaylord had forgotten that. Yes, Paul did say he loved him. He had said other things too. Had told him about so many strange things about homosexual life, his life, for wasn't he one too? Paul's clear eyes were before him. The same far-off look that had penetrated them when they had said goodbye, was still there. Sad eyes. Sad because in this world they had nothing they could claim. Perhaps love for one night or a week … maybe a month … but not for always. They only saw things possessed by others, and Blake had the same look. It was all too complicated. But who did Blake mean when he said, the rest. There had only been Paul. No one else. His mind was muddled, confused. Everything was mocking him.
"I told you about Paul, Bob. I even let you read his letter … thinking it would bring us closer together … but when you say the rest, who do you mean?"
"Oh …"
"Tell me … I've got to know."
"Forget it … Let's don't be so serious … Life's too short. I didn't mean that … Let's have some fun … come on."
Gaylord felt the strong arms embrace him again and he allowed Blake to take his hand and lead it. He felt Blake's hard warm flesh. It shot an electric current through him. He tried to free his hand but Blake held firm. He couldn't, not tonight. Tonight it would be a kind ​of blasphemy to make love in the presence of his thoughts. He didn't want to be that way now. He wanted something more than only a few moments. He remembered his feelings toward Paul after it was all over …
Somewhere in his mind slow black clouds appeared. A bed … a long dismal hall leading to a dark varnished door … a shiny nameplate … a voice that sounded like the one who had just spoken, said, "Never lie to me … never lie to me … I'll never lie to you … never … never … never lie." The word ‘lie' dug deep in his brain.
Well, Blake had lied. He had meant it when he had said, "the rest," but now he wanted to forget it because he was anxious for love … love for one night … one night and then what? Lies and one night stands … All through life he must endure it … even Blake was like that … he only wanted sex … he didn't love anyone.
"There's never been ‘A rest'. Never been anyone but you and Paul," he muttered thickly and turned his face toward Blake. "I didn't do anything … I swear I didn't …"
"Hell … Gay … I know you didn't … I don't know why I said that … let's forget it … Come on … we're wasting time and I can't go on like this forever …"
How could he say such a thing? And why had he been such a fool to allow himself to become so involved in Blake? But he had been involved all his life with lies and names … terrible names … He saw the sorrowful faces in the dimly lighted bar he had gone to in New Orleans. Pale faces without blood. Faces full with lines of pain, grief, and underneath the artificial laughter heartaches, was so plain to him now. He didn't want to become one of them. And he wasn't going to either. His face wasn't going to become shallow, puffy, circled … his life wasn't going to be one continuous long search … he hated anyone who was going to try and make it so.
What about Blake? He wanted exactly that … and he didn't love him … he only wanted release. Only wanted him for one thing and before long he himself would become one of those unhappy creatures; one who would cast him aside after his carnal greed was ​fulfilled. There was something tearing and wild inside him, some need to attack and fight back.
Tearing his hand from Blake's groin, he screamed, "Let go of my hand … Bob."
But Blake didn't let go. Instead, he held tighter. "You can't back out now … come on … you beautiful …"
"Let go," Gaylord cut in. He stiffened his back and jerked himself, but the hand was too powerful. "Let go of my hand," he cried again.
"Gay, what the hell's wrong … damn …" he said in a shocked tone. "What in the devil did I do?" Then he grinned and tightened his grip. "Want me to fight for it, Baby?"
"You lied to me … Bob."
"So I'm a liar … you still love me, don't you?" he tried again to soothe him.
"I can't love a liar …" And this was the man he loved … Yes, he was the one, Robert Blake. A heathenish and wicked name for a man of the same nature, and to top all this he was a liar … Gaylord beat at the strong chest and tried to free his one arm … "You'll never get me to do that again or say I love you, I hate you … hate you … hate you … you damn liar."
"Now Gay … this is too much … you are acting like a baby … you know I wouldn't lie to you … say you know I wouldn't lie to you," Blake said, still holding his grip. "I'm not going to let you loose until you say it … come on … say it …" Blake held fast to the struggling boy. He was still grinning and wondering why this had happened … "Come on … honey … let's don't fight … you know how I feel towards you."
"No … I don't know … I know I hate you … you … you damned faggot," Gaylord moaned.
"Me?" laughed Blake.
"Yes you …" Gaylord didn't hesitate but let his hand fall with all its strength across Blake's cheek. The sharp slap echoed in the glassed enclosure. "There … now are you going to let me go?"
"Why you …" Blake grabbed the hysterical boy and shook him hard. "Now look," he said, "this has gone far enough … what the hell's wrong?"
​"Let me go," screamed Gaylord.
"Sit down here and let me talk to you," Blake demanded.
"You can't boss me like you do everybody else. I don't want to talk to you," he shouted through tears and let go another whip-like flash across Blake's cheek.
Blake released his grip. He looked as if he had seen a two-headed giant. Gaylord sprang for the door.
"Damn you … come back here," Blake shouted. "You're not getting out of here that easy," Blake grabbed and dragged the sobbing boy back. "There," he said, letting his hand fall on Gaylord's check with lightning force. "How do you like it?"
Gaylord uttered a shrill cry of pain and tried for the door again.
"Go on," Blake laughed loud, "go on get out of here … I won't try to hold ya." He pushed Gaylord closer to the open door. "If you want to go … go."
"You're damn right I'm going," Gaylord sobbed and slammed the door after him.
"And don't come back," cried Blake.
There was only slush, ankle deep and with biting rocks, ahead of him now. There were only the rain gusts stinging his eyelids, only the cold ache in his fingers and the deathache in his heart. He was running, crying, stumbling down the rough water filled ruts of the gravel road. "I hate him," he sobbed, knowing he didn't at all … "I hate everything … I wish I were dead." And he was sincere.
He heard dimly the muffled voice of Blake calling, swearing. It came through the darkness pistol-shot clear. He ran on, looking neither to the right or the left, while the rain clung to his hair and flattened his shirt and trousers. He ran faster, and as he ran his lips moved in prayer. A strange rhapsodic prayer of his own invention.
"Oh … God … everything's over … finished now. Take back this life you gave me. Do not ask me to go on living. I can't bear any more. You could have made me different … Why didn't you … why did you make me fall in love with Bob? But no … you let me love him … knowing all the time it was all wrong … and now I've lost him … he's gone … gone forever, and there's nothing left to live for … strike me dead … lightning come down and rid me of this anguish, this torture."
​He stumbled hurriedly on, tears mingling with rain-drops on his cheeks. He did not see the trees he passed. He was unaware of the rocks. He plunged on through the driving rain, his head bent, hearing old words in his heart. ‘You do remind me of Venus' … ‘I wouldn't hurt you' … and again Blake's bass rumble … ‘and I hope you have a lousy meal' … ‘Come on … love me.' His heart was breaking.
He tried to push the dripping hair from his eyes. It was raining as if the whole heavens had opened and the rain was the tears of millions of angels who understood and were sorry for him. Sorry they could not help him find his way.
He was tired and his legs heavy. He had passed over the rocks and was now on a bridge. Its loose planks tore at him savagely, worrying his legs. It pickcd up needles of slush and flung them blindingly around his feet. It caught at his shoes and snatchcd at his trousers so that his head reeled dizzily and he was aware that he was scared … Lost … lost in a downpour of cold glass arrows. The terror became panic, cutting and overpowering.
There were moments when he thought he could hear Blake running after him, calling in a deep rich voice for him to come back. But that too could not be for Blake had left by now and he was alone. Instead of slowing down, he ran faster, over the rocks and puddles, into the blackness he staggered; past weird sounds reaching out trying to stop him, clutching and grabbing. He moaned because he was breathless, because even though he wanted to die he was afraid of death, afraid of drowning in that endless crevice beneath the loose planks.
"Gay … Gay … Wait!"
He heard the voice and it was God-sent. It rang in his ears and he wanted to wait, but the nothingness in front urged him on. He glanced back and in so doing, collapsed. He did not try to rise but lay in the dirty slush, his head against his hands that touched rough gravel beneath them. Oh, if the slush were only deeper. Why doesn't it cover me completely? he cried inside … end all this misery of forever running away.
"Gay," cried Blake, his big hands tearing the soaked body from the guttered road. Sobbing, he sat down in the shallows and cradled ​Gaylord's head and shoulders across his knees and in his arms. He pushed back the hair still bound around the forehead and drew him close as if trying to protect him from the driving rain.
"Bob … Oh, Bob."
"I'm here," Blake cried and kissed the quivering lips. "Your Bob's here … don't cry, darling."
"I love you so much, Bob … so much." Gaylord's hands drew Blake closer. "I don't know why I did this … I don't, really."
"It's my fault." Blake drew him closer. "I'm a fool."
"I'm the fool … it isn't your fault."
"Come on, Gay … let's go to the car. You're shaking like a leaf."
"Please forgive me."
"There's nothing for me to forgive … but you know I do if you say so."
Blake got up heavily and drew Gaylord up, stood with his arms around the shaking boy. He was held by the thing that he could not name. It had held him from the first meeting in the gymnasium; the sense of mystery and emotion and desire in this boy. I do love him, he thought. You clumsy fool, you do love him. "Are you all right now?" he asked.
"I'm all right … awfully tired and weak," Gaylord confessed. "I'm so sorry." And after a moment, he said, "I'm all right now." He did feel better with the arms around him. His hands came up slowly and clenched themselves upon Blake's soaked shoulders. "Oh … Bob," he sobbed and lay his head on the heaving chest.
They stood there and stared blindly into each other's face, their separate breathing coming quick and jerky. Above, the flashes of lightning and the distant thunder shook about them in the glistening night.
"Let's go to the car, Gay," Blake repeated. "You're cold. You're shaking like a leaf."
Before Gaylord moved, he said, "Will you please forgive me?"
Blake kissed him. "You know I'd forgive you anything … come on … let's go to the car."
"All right," Gaylord panted breathlessly.
The black outline of the woods dropped behind them and with ​it the gutted ruts of the road. Gaylord realized with little amazement that they were already at the car. Why they had just walked such a short distance, and only a moment ago the road had seemed so long … so full of miles of rough rocks and dirty holes.
They stopped at the car and Blake embraced him again … "I'm sorry … Gay … I'm sorry I'm such a bull-headed bastard."
"You're not bull-headed …" He reached up for the kiss … "No … you're not … you're everything to me …"
Inside the car, Blake said, "Come on, Gay, take those wet clothes off." He grabbed a blanket from the back seat. "Here, wrap yourself in this."
The dark air was cool … almost frosty. Gaylord felt it breathe along his wet body. The sweet scent of brilliantine and bronze loam came up into his nostrils like something new and undiscovered. Somehow, he was not surprised when Blake unbuttoned his clothes and wrapped the blanket around his naked body. Blake's hands then went around the blanket making it even warmer. They held him tightly, roughly.
"But what about you, Bob? You're soaked too. Why don't you take off your clothes and get in here too?"
"I'm all right … you get warm." Blake's big hand began to soothe Gaylord. He looked at him and grinned. "Don't think it would be safe, do you …?"
"I don't care … come on."
"I'd better not … I'm all right … feel better?"
Gaylord said he did and nestled close. His sobs were low and the quivering had almost stopped. He felt warm there inside the sticky wool, the wool so close to Blake's own wet side. Dark eyes looked down at him from under dripping hair that crossed his forehead. Gaylord tenderly smoothed it back with his hand. There was nothing that could diminish the kindness of those eyes, nothing that could take the gentleness from them. And then Blake grinned and Gaylord grinned back at him.
Blake said in a whisper, "I didn't know you were such a little hell-cat." He rubbed his nose against the other's.
"I didn't either."
"Feel better now."
​"I'm fine," Gaylord answered softly, scuffling his legs closer together in the blanket. "I'm worried about you."
"Don't worry about me. I'm okay." His mouth came down upon Gaylord's again in a protective manner. "I'd better get you home and put you to bed."
"I'd better put my clothes on then," said Gaylord, unwrapping the blanket.
"Oh … no." Blake pulled the blanket together again. "You wear that home. You can run in with it on. No one will see you. Those wet clothes will give you a helluva cold if you put them back on."
"Suppose mother and dad are up? What could I tell them?"
"It wouldn't be any different than going in with your wet clothes."
"I don't guess it would."
"Do you think they'll be up?"
"They might be."
"Well …" Blake thought hard. "Well … we could say . . "What?"
"… we could say we had a flat."
"Guess we could."
Gaylord straightened up and began to put his disheveled hair into place. His clothes, he thought ruefully, were going to look a sight after wallowing in the road, and my hair, it must look awful. I must look awful …
"Don't forget now … we had a flat."
Gaylord heard the sound of the motor start and the car moved, then the hand returned around his shoulders and drew him close. Linked thus, they drove down the soaked road leisurely, and in silence. They met no one and there was no sound but the ring of the motor, the swashing of water and the falling rain. As they crossed the bridge, Blake broke the silence.
"Are you all right, Gay."
"Fine … only …"
"Only what?"
"I'm so ashamed of the way I acted …"
"Ashamed? I'm not … You know, honey …" Blake grinned, rubbing his cheek, "you've got a wallop I didn't know you had."
​"So have you." Gaylord grinned back and ran his own hand over his cheek.
"Now I'm ashamed," Blake frowned and the dark handsome face stared broodingly down at him. "Forgive me?"
"I forgive you."
The dark outline of the trees cast deep shadows over the narrow road. The rain splattered quick and sharp on the windshield; the wipers, scratching crosswise across the glass, made a moaning sound going to and fro, trying to free the speckled crystal of the many stars that tried to rest on it.
Gaylord sat at Blake's side and his hand gently caressed the leg that moved. Up and down … up and down … giving life to the humming motor. A dirty splash of red muddy water arose before them. Gaylord jumped but the glass protected him. The wipers worked madly wiping the dirty windshield, clearing the view before him. Again there was a splash of melted rust. Again the thin blades of rubber scratched hurriedly. His eyes followed the lake-like road. The bumps, holes, like the narrow bumpy street he had seen somewhere … somewhere … where? Where? Where had he seen all this before. In memory he closed his eyes, heard a cab screaming to a stop, saw a man staggering … a horn, bumps … rough … sure; that was it … the two drunks and a cab. That too had frightened him and made him catch his breath.
"Bob?" he said softly.
"Yeah?"
"What did you do in New Orleans," Gaylord asked in a whisper.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Uh huh."
"I met a dame."
"What kind?"
"A drunken whore."
"Was she pretty?"
"So … so."
"Did she have carrot hair?"
"Have what?"
"Was her hair sort of orange color?"
​"I don't remember … I only know I couldn't get away from her quick enough," Blake uttered in disgust.
"Why?"
"Guess I wasn't her type. She … er made fun of me."
"Of you?"
"Yes, of me. It's easy to make fun of someone," Blake said in an echo.
"I'd never make fun of you, Bob. I'd rather die first."
His fingers dug into the wet trousers, down into the drawn flesh. He remembered the many times he had been hurt, hurt by the remarks that had been said in fun. Blake had been hurt too; he understood how it felt, how it made you want to go hide, hide from the ones that said them to you. Anyone could say things. Anyone … among people you were always in danger. It passed when you were alone or among trees … Yes, among trees you were safe, but around people you weren't.
"I know you wouldn't make fun of me without you telling me so, Gay. But there are some that get a big kick out of saying things that hurt a fellow."
"I don't know what anyone would say about you."
"Oh … it wasn't really anything … Seems kinda silly now … guess my ego was cut short."
"Want to tell me about it?"
"If you want to listen."
"I'd love to listen."
"I met this gal in a bar," Blake began, recalling the action very vividly. He saw the girl again … small … cute … carrot hair. "I was drinking at the bar and I felt her leg rub against mine. I didn't mind. She was young and looked like she was out for a good time. Well, I bought her a couple of drinks. We got loaded. Then she asked me if I was as big and strong as I looked and I told her she'd have to find out. Then she handed me some more of that line of hers about me being her type and that she'd just love my big, wide chest over her …"
"So you went home with her?"
"Yes, I went home with her. You should have seen her apartment. Damn what a dirty hole she lived in … But I didn't care ​too much … I was so loaded I didn't care what kind of a dive she lived in. She stripped and got on the bed … laid there naked and watched me … her old tits were sticking straight up … she did have a cute shape … when I pulled off my shorts she started giggling … I didn't know what she was laughing about until I got on her." Large drops of sweat formed on Blake's forehead. He was hot inside his wet clothes … Inside he was furious … a flaming hate arose within him and glowed in his eyes …
Gaylord saw the look but remained silent. He felt the sudden jerks in his legs and trembled … Finally he said, "Don't tell me any more Bob … I don't want to hear any more."
"I want to tell you," Blake answered petulantly. "You wanted to hear it so I'm going to tell you … and you're the only one I've ever told this to …"
"All right, if you want to tell me."
"I got on her and asked her to spread her legs. She laughed again and told me to stick that little thing of mine up her nose, that it would probably fit there better. Then she laughed that damn laugh again. I slapped her right on the mouth … got up and dressed and left. She was still laughing when I slammed the door … cussing like a sailor too … I walked out of there sober as a judge …"
Gaylord raised and kissed him. "She must have been drunk … to say a thing like that … you're not little … " He stopped, grinned and blushed.
"I'm not big," Blake grinned.
"I love you, Bob … I love you for what you are … because you're Bob … that's why."
"Silly isn't it for something like that to be in your craw for years … I never forgot that."
"I'm glad you told me … confession is good sometimes."
"Then I went to another bar and started getting good and drunk. A real pretty boy, he looked something like you, Gay, only smaller, asked me for a match. I knew what he wanted by the way he said it."
"You mean you've known about …"
"Sure … honey … When I was fourteen some old man went down on me."
"Oh, Bob; that's awful."
​"No it wasn't," Blake grinned … "I've always looked older than I am. Well, to get back to this kid at the bar. He asked me if I wanted to go home with him. You know what I did?"
"No."
"I took his hand like this," he grabbed Gaylord's hand, "and laid it like this. I said, ‘Feel, feel good and hard … it's not big … and you guys like big ones … do you still want me to go home with you?'" Blake uttered a chuckle … "Ok … you want me to stop the car?"
"Why?"
"Feel anything rising?"
Gaylord jerked his hand away … "I wasn't even …"
"I'm only kidding … keep your hand there … feels good."
"I'd better not. What happened … did you go home with him?"
"Yeah. You should have seen the expression in his eyes … I'll never forget it. He said, ‘I don't care if you don't have anything in your pants … I'm just lonesome …' Gay, he was lonesome … He really meant it."
"Did you go home with him?"
"Yes … I went with him. He had the nicest place … I stayed all night with him … Darn, he was a swell fellow."
"What happened?"
"Same thing that happened to you and Paul."
"Oh …"
"Love was never mentioned though … he brought me coffee in bed the next morning … I got a big kick out of it … I think of him real often and wonder what ever happened to him. Don't know what ever happened to him. We wrote to each other but then I stopped."
"What was his name?"
"Gene … er."
For a moment Gaylord's heart was in his throat. Was Blake going to say Gene Limbeaux? That short little fat man that had given the party?
"Gene … Baxter. I almost forgot his last name … He lived on Royal." He looked at Gaylord, asked, "What's wrong?"
"I thought you were going to say Gene Limbeaux."
"Who's that?"
​"He's the one who gave the party I told you about."
"Is that the Gene that … what's his name …"
"Paul?"
"Yeah … that Paul mentioned in his letter?"
"Uh huh."
"Funny … When I read that letter I thought it might be Gene Baxter."
"Wouldn't that have been something."
"Sure would have been."
"I'm glad it wasn't," whispered Gaylord.
"Why?" asked Blake.
"I'm afraid I'd be jealous."
Blake giggled … "Oh, for Christ's sake …"
"It's good to hear you laugh, Bob … laugh some more." Gaylord grinned and began tickling Blake.
"Hey, stop that. You want me to run off this damn road?"
"I don't care. I'm dressed for anything," he laughed and spread open the blanket … "See."
"Whataya trying to do … get me excited?"
"Think I could?"
"I think you could," Blake grinned and pulled at the patch of curly hair around the other's groin.
"Ouch."
"You'd better cover up or you'll catch cold."
"I won't catch a cold."
"Gay …"
"Huh?"
"Will you tell me something …"
"Anything … what?"
"What about this guy, Paul?"
"What about him?"
"Do you like him …"
"Yes, he's awfully nice. I told you he reminded me of you and you're tops to me … you know that."
Blake raised his arm. "You want me to bust ya one again," he grinned.
"Yes."
​Blake's hand came down on the cheek with a gentle caress … "There …" he said. "I don't want anyone to hold you like this except me …"
"No one has, Bob."
"No one?"
"No one."
"Not even Glenn?"
The name came upon him with a swift blow that shocked him. Staggered him more than the slap he had received earlier. He had never thought of Glenn Rogers as a lover, or had he? Two large dimples flashed before his eyes. Two lips saying: "Wish I could go to New Orleans with you."
How did he feel toward this vision? Why was he always wishing he could see him naked? Why did he have that funny feeling around his heart when he was with him? Did Blake know about these emotions? How could he have discovered them? What could he suspect? Conceive? He couldn't know anything that the two had done. How could he? There wasn't anything to know. Not yet … there wasn't … Now why did he think that …
Suddenly he grabbed for Blake, held him fast and said … "No, Bob," he whispered, "not even Glenn."