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choice, I suspect, more bottom than top), knew intuitively how to turn me on, and seemed immensely pleased by whatever I did to him. It gave me the impression that the way we had sex was exactly what he had always wanted to do. He came abundantly just a few seconds before I climaxed. If he faked his own enjoyment, he was a very great actor!
    In view of his brilliant bedroom performance I was willing to overlook his social ineptness. I asked him whether he would like to see me again but he was so uncommunicative that I gave up on him.
    A few months later, I was at the Liberty baths. It was one of those nights when all the planets were aligned in the wrong positions. I was shunned and despised by everyone. Whomever I tried to approach fled in horror. Then I saw Jed.
    He remembered me, and greeted me in a friendly manner. Naturally, I asked Jed whether he would come to my cubicle. "Maybe later," he said. "Or, maybe not. I am not having fun. I have been here for a long time. I might just leave."
    I knew that on that particular night I would not score at the steam bath. I could hardly afford the expense of the admission to the bathhouse plus Jed's fee, but I justified it by telling myself that it would be good for my mental health. I asked Jed, "Why don't we leave together and go to my place? We'll work out the finances later."
    "OK, if you want to," he said without much enthusiasm.
    When we reached my home Jed asked, "Do you have any drugs?"
    "No."
    "Not even some pot?"
    "No, Jed. I don't do drugs at all."
    He seemed disappointed. However, now that he knew my sexual likes and dislikes, he surpassed his previous performance. I was sure that he had had some fun previously at the bath because he was completely spent after he climaxed. "You tired me out," he complained.
    He saw a large package on the living room floor. "What's this?" he asked.
    I had bought a folding door for the kitchen a few days earlier. "I'm looking for a handyman to install this door."
    "I am a handyman."
    "You are? This is what you do for a living?"
    "No, I am a singer. But I know how to fix stuff."
    "Where do you sing?"
    "I do gigs here and there."
    "Have you had any training?"
    "Oh, I had a scholarship as a child at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music."
    I had doubts about Jed's singing or mechanical abilities. He still seemed "slow" to me, at least out of bed. On the other hand, I wanted to get to know him better.
    We agreed on a fee for his work and he promised to come by on Saturday, at 9 a.m. sharp, to install the door. He arrived at about eleven in the morning. To my surprise, he carried a toolbox.
    Rapidly, without any fuss, he installed the door. I was impressed.
    "How about us meeting on Monday night?" I asked.
    "What for?"
    "For sex."
    "I don't like to make appointments. I'll give you my telephone number. Call me sometime."
    It took two weeks for me to get hold of Jed. On two consecutive days, I spoke to two roommates who promised to give Jed my messages. On the third day, a mysterious woman answered and assured me that no Jed lived at that number. Then the telephone was "temporarily disconnected," probably for not paying the bill. When I finally reached Jed we made an appointment for that evening. He would meet me at Castro and 18th Street, at the bus stop, at 7 p.m. "sharp."
    Those were the good days in San Francisco. Nowadays, you get a $250 ticket for just thinking about parking in a bus zone. Then, one could get away with it. Still, I felt uncomfortable waiting for Jed well over twenty minutes right in the bus zone. When I scolded him for being late, he dismissed my reproof by saying, "I had to get a bite to eat. I have not eaten all day long. I showed up, didn't I?"
    At home he asked me once again for drugs. Again, I told him that I did not do drugs. It took quite a few meetings before Jed believed that I did not do any drugs. Once, probably to test me, he brought some cocaine and offered to share it with me. "No, Jed, I really don't do