Before I knew what a fag was, I knew I didn’t want to be one.  I was very clear about that.  I made sure everyone knew that I was no fag. 

Eight years old at a new school, and it was the hot word of autumn.  Every time I screwed up or said something stupid:  “What are you, a fag?”  No way!  In the showers after basketball, “Stay away from Wilson – he’s a fag!”  I want you to know, I kept my distance from Wilson, for weeks. 

I still hadn’t figured out what a fag was, but you couldn’t be too careful in those days. 

Gradually, bit by bit, I was informed by the wisdom of the savvier kids.   They had parts of the puzzle to share, in authoritative tones.  I pieced it together.  A fag was someone who wanted to put his you-know-what in your you-know-where. (!)  I was having none of that.

I was quite wary of fags for a number of years, because they could sneak up on you in the subway, or at the orthodontist’s, and I didn’t know what they looked like. 

I’m older now, and I know more about fags.