Surely if some passerby saw me even casually glance in, they’d figure out I was gay. I’d walk through that smell almost every day while still in the closet, holding a steadfast, soldierly resolve to stare straight ahead. A mixture of cologne and BO, it’d waft out of the open doors of the cavernous establishment down the street from where I lived, like man cake emanating from a queer bakery. Even before I ever went inside a gay bar, I was aware of the smell.
