He huddled into himself on a bench, face in his crossed arms. What if Diane knew about his activities last night, yesterday afternoon? How he’d been a boy, gotten sucked off as a boy, cum as a boy, walked through the heart of gay San Francisco as the simultaneous subject and object of the male gaze—nothing she could share; he was unrecognizable as her lover. Paul couldn’t understand desire that could be turned off, a circuit breaker routed through particular body forms. He’d imagined Diane as a boy, and loved her.
