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My clandestine lovers swayed between abandon and restraint. Indoor lack of inhibition (with music, liquor, and darkened rooms) would be followed by forced modesty on the street, a subtle exchange of signs and mutual understandings. Only on Ashford Avenue and the backstreets of Condado Lagoon did the most daring hold love by the hand. Their love took place in the shadows, but less so over time, because for twenty-odd years they have been marching down my streets in protest and in celebration of their colors. Mine is their rainbow flag, and my domains, one of their bastions.
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