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Its never this cold in the winter. Most individuals would scoff at my complaining of the weather. To my chagrin, they were truthful in my melodrama. The Northern Alabama air was always welcoming: the summer days were hot and humid and the nights were sauntering and just right for vodka sours on the front porch; The autumns were beautifully colorful and natural with the occasional light drizzle which washed the dust off the road and allowed the trees to store water for the hard transition; The vernal equinox was bountiful in new life and bright-- the perfect weather for afternoon strolls. But this winter is frigid.

The entire sleepy small town shuts down if there is even a threat of scant ice paving the road. The schools closed for a week if there were an actually accumulation of the unknown great white death that could plague the land, which is just the case. Most people have the right mind to be at home in bed and snuggled with warm and soft fleece watching movies or petting their lovers. Which is exactly Where and what I should have been doing, if I were in the right mind.

But, No. I am out here. standing in an outstandingly blinding white sheet of one-and-three-quarters inch snow. looking for him. shivering... He's so lucky he is cold-blooded.

Maybe I should start detailing the events that led up to my being in the cold. Please, allow me to rewind it.

The Bible Belt, as my home is known, is known for devout, fundementalist, christian -- is there a nice word to say "Bible Thumpers?" I don't mean to sound harsh, but a good portion of the denizens of my small southern town actually beleive the Earth we inhabit is some 6000 years old. In other words, science never happened here. Everyone goes to church with leather bibles on Wednesday night and Sunday Morning just as Jesus did. They don't drink-- at least not when there are more than one of "their kind" around. They support the family-- which is another way to say they hate gays or at least find them icky, irreproachable, and unnatural. The oldest and wisest knew a man, who was friends with a man who happened to be in the exact same church as a man who had played piano for the reverend's favorite uncle's second cousin who not only happened to be a five-star preacher, teacher, and biblical scholar, but also got on T.V. for closing the only strip-club slash sinner den in the Oxford, Mississipi area. If you weren't one of "them" who attended "their" churches and prayed to "their" "one true god-with-a-capital-g," you never would be seen as one of "them."

And I never wanted to be; however, for the sake of the family, appearances had to be kept up.

I am possibly the worst straight-actor in Limestone County, Alabama. My friends tell me it is important to "butch it up" in front of the "good christians" who fill the city with patronage. I brush and comb my fox fur daily. I perfer perfumes to colognes. Everything in my home has its place-- I don't want to bore you with the mundane details. In summation, everything about me and my lifestyle was out of sync with the tobbacco spittin' masculinity that flooded the Tennessee Valley. I was a technicolor horsefly in milk.

I dressed comfortably, especially in late October when I met him-- but we'll get there.

I perfered my favorite worn in jeans that I had had for years. I heard from a pretty reliable source that you should only wash jeans "sparingly" so save the denim from excessive wear and never, ever, ever, use soap. Naturally I ignored that hollywood bitch on the T.V. and put them in the washing machine after each wear. which was practically every day. I wore comfortable T-shirts and hoodies to match my comfortable jeans. Life is about comfort, right?

The boys of Le Veiux Carre did not agree. Located twenty-two and one-quarter mile down highway seventy-two there did exist what the christians-- at least those lucky enough to know of its existence-- called "that one faggot bar what all the faggots go to" a gay bar in the city. To my surprise, there was quite a showing of people. of course there were countless other bars to attend for those not of the fey nature; but, for us, this was a place where we could really be who we were. And for the gays in a fourty-mile-wide radius surrounding it, it was the only place. It was a mecca.

And here is where my story should actually begin to the throbbing music of boys who like to wear dresses, queens, fags, and those who love them ring deep into the night.

And where I met him.