Now came a long pause filled with scratchy electronic presence but no words. Then a quiet voice that must have been Paul Haig's said, "I'm leaving too."

A stir now, with murmurings that were indistinct except for one clear "Oh no" and a loud "Oh my Lord Jesus!"

Then a brief silence, followed by Crockwell's "I can hardly believe my ears—that you would even consider disappointing

the group by doing such a thing, Paul. Or disappointing your mother."

"He's not just leaving," Bierly said. "Paul is leaving with me. Paul and I have been dating each other for some time now. We love each other deeply and we are going to have a life together. It's—it's great what we have—security and peacefulness. The one really good thing about this group is, it brought Paul and me together. We became friends and then lovers—well, to be honest, we became secret fuck buddies, and then friends, and then lovers. And now we're going to be—life partners, and neither of us have ever been happier in our lives, or ever imagined that we could be this happy and fulfilled."

"There is no peace and love in a lake of fire!" someone boomed—the one who had yelled "Oh my Lord Jesus!" before— but the others quickly shushed him up.

Then, after a little silence, Crockwell said coldly, "Paul, can this be true? That you too subscribe to the illusion that Larry has embraced so emotionally without being cognizant of the consequences?"

"No—no, I think Larry's right," Haig said. "I'm just—gay. I always was and I always will be, and there's nothing wrong with that. The one thing I do know is, I love Larry. When we're together, I just feel—like Larry said—peaceful."

"Peaceful?"

"Well—yeah."

"But how long does this feeling of peace last, Paul? One minute? Five minutes? Do you feel peaceful when you and Larry walk down the street together? When you're with your mother, or when you think of her?"

"No, but that's because—"

"It's because of people like you, Crockwell!" This was Bierly again. "You and your bullshit that you spread around that there's something wrong with gay people. What's sick is you making us sit in those rooms looking at pussy and zapping us when we look at dicks—that is sick. All you ever did for me was make me sick of looking at pussy. I never cared about women's bodies one way

or another until I came here, and now I can't stand the thought of them."

"Why do you think that is, Larry?" This was Crockwell, trying to sound oh-so-cool, but with tremors creeping in. "When you, ah, think about, ah, a woman's genitalia, what comes to mind?"

"I think of you, Crockwell, and I think of those dungeons down the hall—those electrocution chambers that are like something you read about that Saddam Hussein does to people in Iraq. And I'll bet the same thing is true for everybody in this room, isn't it? The only time you ever think about heterosexual sex is when you come here and get strapped into Crockwell’s electric chair. Admit it—isn't it true?"

"No, no, that is definitely not true!" This was a voice I'd heard once before, briefly exclaiming indignantly over Bierly's assertion that nobody knew why anybody turned out gay. With the inflections of what can only be termed a real screamer, this group member again exclaimed, "Because of Dr. Crockwell's procedures, I have finally gotten in touch with my normal sexuality, and I resent your implications in regards to my manhood, Larry! You can just—speak for yourself!"

"Dean, you should be ashamed of yourself," Bierly said. "I mean—suing your own mother and father because they made you gay? I never said anything before, because I never thought you'd go through with it. But that has to be the dumbest, greediest, meanest thing I ever heard of somebody doing to their parents. And Crockwell, you never discouraged him. You—"

"I am not suing them for the cash!" Dean screamed. "It's to set an example for others, and you know it!"

"Larry," Crockwell said, "there's something about Dean's anger with his mother and father that you feel quite strongly about. Would you like to talk about that?"

"No, I'd like to talk about you, Crockwell, you evasive, manipulative piece of ignorant shit! You always throw it back on each of us, but it's you who's everybody's problem. How'd you like a dose of your own medicine? What comes to mind? How do you feel about me challenging you? What if I dragged you down

the hall and strapped you in one of those chairs and zapped you every time you looked at—whatever the fuck turns you on? How do you feel about that, Crockwell? Tell us about your mommy and daddy. What did they do to produce such a cold-blooded, sadistic piece of crap? Huh? Huh?"

"Now, Larry, you are being disruptive." Crockwell was asserting himself as the voice of authority, but it was coming out croaky. "Now, we do have rules to follow as to disruptiveness— rules we all agreed to follow."

"If that's the way Larry feels, I think he should just leave!" This was Mary Mary Quite Contrary again. "The rest of us are here because we want to be here, and to help each other act like real men are supposed to."

"Dean, a real man stands up for himself and stands up for what's right. A real man doesn't turn his life over to some—some Nazi lunatic."

"You are telling me what's a real man, Larry? Now I'm sure I've heard—it—all."

"Those are strong words you're using, Larry," Crockwell said. "You seem to have some awfully strong feelings about me and my role in the group. Perhaps it would be helpful if you examined those feelings."

"Or perhaps it would be helpful if I put your lights out, just put you out of business, Crockwell! A year from now—or even a month from now—everybody in this room with half a brain would thank me."

"I just think maybe Larry ought to leave if he's going to talk like that." This was the one called Gene again. "One of the main reasons we're here is to not let our behavior be ruled by our emotions. If you can't control your emotions, Larry, then maybe you better go. What you're saying sure does get in the way of the things we're trying to accomplish here."

"Gene, what are you trying to accomplish? I remember you said when the group began that you wanted to stop considering yourself a freak. But turning yourself into a gay married liar or a eunuch—isn't that the worst kind of freak of all? Because it's not

really you. What every one of you are doing here is trying to make yourself live a lie. You're all paying Crockwell to turn you into liars. Is that what you want to be? A bunch of lying assholes?"

This caused a largely indecipherable uproar, but it was Crockwell's voice that rose above the others and went on when the hubbub subsided. "That is quite enough, Larry. That is enough vulgarity, and name-calling, and—and—disruption. There are rules here—rules!—and you are breaking the rules. I want you to stop it."

"Fuck you, Crockwell. Fuck you and fuck all your fucking control-freak rules. Paul and I are out of here, and if the rest of you poor fucks want to stay here and let this—this Saddam Hussein torture you—well, I feel sorry for you. I just feel sorry."

"Paul, your mother is going to be so disappointed in you— so very, very disappointed. To reject her, to turn your back on her—"

"Will you please just shut up about my mother!" Haig snapped.

Bierly said, "The only thing that interests you about Phyllis Haig, Crockwell, is that she paid Paul's fees on time."