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
