Dont call me a faggot, not unless you are a friend...

Stepping out of the cold, I'm caught by his glance. Knowledge and experience take me to the place he fears to tread. He sees the signs behind my steel blues that tell him what he already knows.

And though he may furrow his brow, his eyes are a contradiction, and the ring on his finger merely a token of his hypocrisy.

"I have been there before," I glare back. "I have tasted your sticky sweet as it slid off of your belly, quickly cooling in the evening chill."

He can look away, pretend he doesn`t know, but does he fool? Not I, nor he, and certainly not the rest of the family.

As I bathe in his disgust, I am overcome with pity -- I know what he refuses to.