I confided and did strange things during sex–might that incredible emotion have been only a queer impostor? It still lingered as a burn in my breast... but perhaps I had imagined it into being. I had never outright told a man I wanted him or that I loved him. I teased, I glanced, I provoked, and I let myself be taken, but never gave anything back. I liked to pretend I was being forced, because then I expressed nothing of my own desires. I only took a man’s desire, played with it, and threw it. I know all of the places. You want a man—European man or Indian man? You English or American?”“American,” I said. “Just the hotel, thank you.” He’d cut right to the chase. From the hotel reference, or was he able to assess me from the look of me and the look I’d given him when I picked him out from the rest of those leaning on the taxi? Was he gay too? Was it a man I wanted? No, certainly not a man, having come this far and been primed by Chet. I could get a man in New York—I had gotten men in. More

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