ABSTRACT
It was a cold, gray winter in San Francisco. The year was 1980 and I was spending Christmas house-sitting at a friend’s apartment in the city. Wrapped in a quilt, I was copyediting manuscripts for the Journal of Rural Community Psychology while waiting for the spring semester of graduate school to begin. Granted, this was not an exciting way for a young gay man to spend the holidays, but this was where fate seemed to have dropped me and I accepted it without protest. As for my friend Greg, the urbane man in whose apartment I was now staying, he was two thousand miles away on the sun-splashed beaches of Acapulco enjoying a sex holiday. Such were the disparities between our lives.
