Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,73

doll."

"I try to be," he said, simpering, and they both laughed. The ferry backed into the slip with a jolt, and the weekenders scrambled for their cargoes of liquor, food and clever hats. From now until they got on the 7:00 p.m. ferry Sunday, they would be carefree vacationers. At least they would try to think of themselves that way. They would do their best to make merry and each other. And each of them would feel – or at least he'd pretend he felt that way – that he was really living. Heterosexuals, thought Willoughby, you had to feel sorry for them.

Gillian said she would look up him and Hank later on, and joined a, group of friends waiting on the dock for her. Willoughby waited for Hank. When he saw him, Willoughby felt as if he were choking. There was a stab of pain in his very heart. Hank was with a young man – a slim, dark-haired young man in his early twenties. The young man was obviously gay, and he was looking adoringly at Hank.

Willoughby fought for control of himself. He tried to strike a casual note. "Hi there," he said.

"Hello, Willoughby." Hank's voice was cold, impersonal. He could have been talking to a stranger. Then he turned to the young man. "See you later, Vince," he said. The note of anticipation was obvious in his voice, and Willoughby knew they had already made an arrangement to meet that night.

"You bet, Hank," the young man answered. He grinned impudently at Willoughby.

A few minutes later, Willoughby and Hank were arguing in their room. "See you later, Vince," Willoughby mimicked.

"Don't kid me," Hank said. "You only wish you saw him first."

"You bitch!" said Willoughby.

"You ought to know," Hank said. "When it comes to bitches, you wrote the book."

"And to think I loved you," said Willoughby.

Hank laughed derisively. "Oh come off it, Willoughby. You don't know what love is."

"Do you think Vince or whatever his name is knows?"

"You know something, Willoughby? You're getting to be an absolute bore."

"l suppose you're meeting him some place."

"As a matter of fact, we're going to take a beach buggy to Cherry Grove."

"You bitch!" Willoughby screamed. "You dirty bitch!" He threw a shoe at Hank's departing figure. Then he fell sobbing on the bed. How could Hank do a thing like that? He was giving Hank the best years of his life. The bitch! Willoughby thought his heart would break. By sixish time, Willoughby was feeling considerably better. He couldn't believe that Hank would remain angry at him. After all, that Vince was just a boy. And he was cheap and flashy; you might sleep with him but you wouldn't want to live with him. Besides, Hank had been faithful to Willoughby for a long time. Perhaps a little fling would be good for him. And Willoughby had his own secret. He had once cheated on Hank. There was a hairdresser whom he had met at a gay bar in the city. It had been just a single incident and it had really meant nothing. He had never told Hank about it.

Also, the sixish had set up Willoughby. It had been ages since he had been to a party on Fire Island. Davis Park was a pretty straight community, but then you never knew whom you might meet. Maybe he just might have an adventure of his own. More and more people were going gay these days. Maybe some day they would outnumber the straights. Then heterosexuality would be the deviation.

Willoughby checked his make-up, and put on sandals, tight blue slacks and a pink sweater. He filled a peanut butter jar, provided by his hosts, with martinis, and he was ready. Sixish, he thought, here I come! He wondered what Hank was doing. Oh tush, he thought, the hell with Hank. Willoughby looked in the mirror and ran a comb through his hair. He stood there preening for a moment. He wasn't over the hill yet, he thought. He wiggled his behind and walked out into the sea-rustled evening.

Gillian Blake was at the second place he tried; a weathered pine cottage with a crowd milling on the porch. There were noise and bustle and the informal flux and color that went with the seaside. Most of the guests were groupers – the word for people sharing summer rentals – and they all seemed to be straight. That was perfectly all right with Willoughby because most of the men seemed singularly unattractive – at least