I said sweetly, “I’m going to break off your arm and beat you to death with it.” Smokey brought his hand up to smack me. “I am real y going to enjoy slapping the smart out of you, boy.” He pul ed me toward him. I was always a little guy. Blond, cute, boyish. The kind of kid who couldn’t put up a fight if you paid him to. A few years ago, I was in a near-empty subway except for some guys who decided I was a little gay-looking for their tastes. Two hours later, I was in the hospital with no wal et, multiple bruises, and a cracked rib. I don’t remember anything that happened between the time those guys started walking toward me on the E train and when I woke up in my hospital bed. But I do remember how I felt when I woke up. I remember the pain and the humiliation and the decision I made never to be a victim again. Little as I was, I needed an edge. I was already strong and limber from years of gymnastics, but that wasn’t enough to protect me. So, I took some self-defense courses at the Gay and Lesbian Community Center.
