The pall of smoke hung heavy over Cafe des Feys, the little upholstered sewer of a cabaret that was the center of night life for the gay community in the Montmarte district of Paris. Not all of the smoke was from pure tobacco. Some of it had the bitter, acrid odor and the sickly sweet smell that silently announced that some of the ‘boys’ were popping joints (cigarette type… at the moment) and others were inhaling the fumes of pure hash. Steve didn’t need any of that stuff. That was strictly seduction stuff for the uninitiated to the homosexual society and for those who used it for a mental or moral crutch because they hadn’t fully and gracefully made the transition.

“Hi, Steve, we’ve been waiting for you. Now the party can really get into full swing.” A familiar voice called out to him across the thick air of the large basement room with its decor of posters of matadors and bullfighters in overly tight pants and male wrestlers covering the shabby cement walls. Steve couldn’t see the face but had no difficulty in identifying the voice as that of Sebastian, one of the boys from his theatrical group at school.

“Hope I’m not late,” he called back pleasantly. “Have I missed any of the action?”

“Not on your life, sweetie, everybody has been holding themselves in check awaiting the arrival of our guest of honor. Now that you’re here, the festivities can begin. We have pooled all of our limited assets to give you a real send-off party.” Sebastian announced in the overly loud voice that was his trademark.

“Yes, and just wait until you see the surprise going-away present that Freddie and Mark picked up for you!” a vaguely familiar shrill voice informed him from somewhere in the gloom. “Hey, somebody bring Steve a drink.”

Slowly Steve’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light of the candles on the tables, shaded by little red shades and dripping wax, like an endless stream of semen, onto the red and white checkered tablecloths. The French are probably the only people in the world who put little lampshades over flaming candles. When he first came here, almost a year ago it had frightened him as a potential fire hazard. By now it seemed quite normal.

This past year in Paris, studying theater under a scholarship he had won at Hinsdale High, back in Chicago, had been the happiest of his life. For the first time in his life he felt free, out from under the omnipresent scrutiny and domination of his square, middle-class parents in suburban Chicago… strictly Squaresville, USA. Here, not only the language, but the whole social atmosphere was foreign to anything he had ever known in his nineteen years of life. Within a week after his arrival to start his one-year scholarship, he had made more friends than he had ever had back at dear old Hinsdale High. He had been warmly welcomed into the gay community that seemed to dominate the male student body at L’Ecole du Theatre. Here, in the City of Light no one gave them more than a passing glance, and they were openly accepted into the general social scene with no reservations and no questions asked. Someday, he hoped, it might be that way all over the world… even back in the stockyard capital on the south banks of Lake Michigan.

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