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She smiled ironically as she looked at herself in the mirror wondering why she should even care about her appearance. Most of her clients could care less as long as she took off her clothes and spread her legs.It wasn’t long before there was a knock at the door. She adjusted the bra, thong and sheer peignoir and answered the door.The man standing on the stoop was rather unremarkable, average in height, waistline no longer boyish, nose a bit broad and sandy hair beginning to recede. But when their eyes met both gasped slightly, he from instant recognition and her from awareness that she should know this person, yet a name and the context of knowing him were elusive.“Maria? Maria Canales?” he asked, his eyes lighting up and a smile appearing in immediate reaction.No one had called Maria by her maiden name in years which helped her put the face and voice in some context, but the name would simply not come.“I ... I’m sorry. I feel like I should know you but...”“Roger. Roger Compton,” he. He had just turned 13, and it was 1959.Sex. He didn't want any part of it, but still he kept getting these strange urges. It got worse as he got older, and hair began sprouting on his face and chest.He was afraid of girls. They were strange and mysterious creatures who wanted to entice him to do these sickening things. Kissing, and touching, and all that other stuff. But he needed something. He just didn't know what."Is that what queers do? They actually stick it into -- "He overheard the boys talking about it, and he couldn't help wondering if he was queer. Because he didn't like girls, and all... It didn't much matter. Bernie had been thinking it over for years. Years of enduring the taunts of classmates. Years of being dragged to priests and counselors and psychologists by his parents. Years of misunderstanding and torment.I am what I make of myself, he had finally decided. I'm entitled to my own measure of happiness, and if I have to be queer to get it, then that's just the way.
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