Her story was that I just wasn’t the right type to bring out the submissive in her, and maybe that was true, but that’s not what I heard. What I h...ard was a challenge to my manhood and masculinity, a threat to my very idea of who I was. I wasn’t man enough, wasn’t male enough. The very love I’d shown her had made me feminine and weak, cloying and indecisive. I couldn’t live with myself, couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I loathed myself. My very work—my plays, my stories and poems—seemed. She cut up the bird and I began to rub the tanning moss into the pelt and shook my head at the men drinking from a bottle.They had not even cleaned the other lion pelt. It was growing dark when I finished and we ate. We put the lion pelt and our new friends into the tent and cleaned up before we got in. I looked at Mr Dupree and the men still on the branch before I lifted the tent. It went up and out until I stopped it where I thought we would be safe.I closed the door and turned to see Misty. More

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