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there was the race through the Kama Sutra, working out all the possible acrobatics. 'Look, you get into a full Plow posture, and I'll support myself on the windowsill, and enter you from above and behind, and oh?! oh! OH!!' and etc. And when we had finished with all that we were left with the boredom which attaches to the stick when all the ice cream has been licked off. Then, no matter what rationalisations came to the fore, it was simply time to get it on with someone else, fresh energy, new variations. I had come a long way away from simple values.
    My consciousness seemed to have become the product of the story. To me, life was a book, was a film. I lived in the physical centres and the mind. The only emotion I didn't find vulgar was cosmic sadness, ultimate poignancy. And I have had the full spectrum of advice, from the intimate friends to therapists to gurus, and they said things like, 'You're schizoid,' or 'You've lost touch with the Other,' or 'You're afraid of your feelings.' Yet, what of it? Can I be other than I am? Not all birth defects are physical. To be crippled in the emotions is as real as to be crippled in the limbs. One does not say to a man with a paralysed leg, 'Why don't you run?' Then why does one ask of a man with a heart hardened through too much
    sensitivity shattered, 'Why do you weep?'
    Francis came downstairs.
    'And you're even colder than I aim,' I said.
    'Bertha's sleeping late. What shall we do?' he said.
    We set out to walk to Cherry Grove together, three miles down the long strand of white sand and stunning blue sky with clouds, and the constant swish of wind and tumbling waves. The Grove was the cultural centre of the Island where the homosexuals had claimed a township of their own.
    'Can you imagine what it would be like if all the homosexuals were given a state, say, Wyoming, and could set up whatever kind of society they wanted?' I said.
    Francis smiled to himself, setting up the projector in his own mind. 'The first overwhelming mood would be one of exhilaration,' he began.
    'Right, the seeming freedom from all sexual restraints, the new sense of purpose, the rapture of discovering a sanctioned identity.'
    He nodded. 'It would probably come together under some charismatic leader, a gay Lenin. MetaFag. The queer Moses.'
    We came to the first house which marks the beginning of the Grove after the long stretch of government preserve known as the Sunken Forest. The vibrations changed drastically, instantly. The people lying on the blankets in this area were not pretending, as did the denizens of the straight sections of the beach, that nothing was happening except what could pass muster on the family TV show. Here, the sense of presence was palpable. Everyone was aware of being there, and how he was there, and how he saw others being there, and how they received him. A constant flutter of extremely subtle communications in the most sophisticated body language went on ail the time. The air was charged with attentiveness. My skin bristled. I looked over at Francis.
    His face was set in a mask of unperception, as though this were merely a place to look at, not to relate to. I wondered whether he was actually straight. His drawings denied it, as did occasional oblique comments. I assessed him physically, and found to my surprise, no intimation of sex. I couldn't penetrate my own condition to sufficient depth to know to what degree I was suppressing desire. Given our extraordinary closeness, fucking ought to have been the natural conclusion, yet we hardly ever even touched. Perhaps it was a tacit understanding on both our parts that the absolute lack of sexual involvement is what allowed our friendship to continue.
    'The entire sociology would be arranged differently,' he continued. 'There would be almost no provision necessary for children, and the nature of education would change radically. Time would tend to disappear.'
    'I wonder whether the sexes would be integrated?'
    'There would be no