around Christmas when he became too cynical to be good company. He seemed to be wearing blinders, as if he couldn't see the everpresent decorations or the shoppers or hear the carols. A direct question would bring his predictable response, "That's kid stuff. Christmas is just another day to me." When I asked what he did for the day, he replied impatiently, "I get up and have breakfast. like any day. Read paper. See a movie. Hamburger. Another movie. Coffee and pie. Go to bed. Next day back to work. What's the fuss? Just another day."

Christmas was rough on Gerry Winborn and Lewis Widkin. They were at Rice Institute in Houston, handsome kids, devoted to one another. Lewis, the younger, seemed to need Gerry's mantle of protection. Lewis' widowed father, who had time only for his mistresses, always sent $50 for Christmas, and that was that. The Winborns always had one of those big family affairs home in Henderson, Texas. Gerry's parents had met Lewis once and refused to invite him-his name was not to be mentioned even. So for Gerry, the joyous gathering was an ordeal of forced smiles and ever-near embarrassment. Back at school, Lewis had a good enough dinner at a restaurant and maybe saw a film. Their relationship was a bit strained for a few weeks after . . . .

Andy Klassens led a quiet life. A skilled lab technician, he lived alone in a midtown Manhattan apartment tastefully decorated in a style bordering on the better Victorian. His books and records, both on the heavy side, occupied his time. Neither attractive nor aggressive, Andy's rare trips to a quiet gay bar on 54th seldom brought home much more than a hangover. Yet, no one would have described him as one of those who "live lives of quiet desperation." There had been a few warm friendships, which eased off amicably, and he seemed satisfied -for most of the year.

But when the Santas and toys appeared in the store windows, and OH LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM was heard everywhere, Andy grew visibly upsetmore and more irritable as the papers counted off the shopping-days-til-Xmas. A fat small tree, with no decorations at all, would find a place in his rooms. Greeting cards he got by the score, but few if any packages. He dutifully sent cards to friends and acquaintances and to members of his family, though nothing ever came back from any of them. He told me once about the sudden and final break when his father, a bank official in Bridgeport, found out he was homosexual. He was told to leave the house that evening-and to get his name changed He had neither seen nor heard from them since.

As Christmas approached. Andy's bitter mood deepened, his trips to bars more frequent, his companions less reputeable, climaxed by a long, sloppy, lost weekend, and a two day hangover. By December 28th (except when he once spent a week in jail on drunk-and-disorderly) he was usually back to work, back to "normal." Friends seldom asked him about his holidays.

I saw him once during the hangover phase. His despondency was worse than the hangover. "This whole gay life." he complained, "is like a lost weekend. No future. You see people all around you-loving, contented homes. But what is this? Dregs. All these damn books of mine, what good? What am I looking for in them? What am I looking for in the bars? Sham. Sickness. It isn't the real thing. Mother-father-child in the manger—that's what we're all really hunting, even if we don't know it. Gay, we call ourselves. Fake. Counterfeit. And we know it. We keep on. Why? Tell me that. You and all these books. Tell me that."

Did he always feel that way, beneath his composure? He had gay friends who were happy, and he knew he got counterfeit because he couldn't face a legitimate

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