Here is an excerpt for my story, Racing Raindrops.
The sudden rain shower caught Tony by surprise. He looked for options to wait it out before continuing his journey to the grocery store, relieved to spot a bar just across the street. Making a sudden detour, Tony avoided falling over a stroller filled with a sleeping toddler. He apologized to the outraged mother and headed for the door, her angry shouts following his progress. It was dark and warm inside Mac's Bar, a welcome relief from the heavy raindrops.
Shaking his head to clear the water from his face, Tony froze on the doorstep, nerves coiling in the pit of his stomach, as he suddenly realized what kind of bar it was. He could find another bar. This wasn't the only establishment along the street. Or he could grow a set and take the final step, a rite of passage to acknowledge that he wasn't as arrow straight as he told the world. If he stepped over the threshold, there would be no going back.
It was just a frigging gay bar, for fuck's sake. The world wasn't going to shake just because Tony DiMarco took a drink in a fag bar.
Maybe not the whole world, but his little part of Manhattan would be shaken to its very core. There was a good chance his momma and poppa would never talk to him again. Anthony DiMarco III, son of fourth generation Italian storekeepers, the first DiMarco to go to college, an internee every summer for their local senator, a rising star in local politics—there was no way they were going to accept he was a faggot.
"My boy's gonna go all the way to the top!" his poppa boasted to anyone who’d listen. He was so proud of his oldest son.
Poppa wouldn't be so proud of Little Tony now, would he? Old Tony hated all queers and was proud to boast that the only time some fag came onto him, the fanuk lost all his front teeth. Tony shivered. There was good reason not to tell his Poppa that Little Tony liked the boys.