The bright blue Harley touring bike roared down the street, around the corner, and into the alley behind Glen’s Place causing the men out front to turn and watch. Its rider was tired, sweaty, and muddy and planned to stop at Glen’s for a cold beer then swing by a fast food drive-thru on his way home to take a shower and be in bed by 10 o’clock. He had no inkling that the next 30 minutes would bring about an event that would change, not only his plans for that evening, but for the rest of his life. Anyone watching as he got off the bike and stowed his helmet and jacket in the compartment on the bike would never have taken Dave Johnson for a gay man. He didn’t have any of the stereotypical characteristics commonly associated with gay men; the limp-wrist, the lisping voice, the mincing walk. He was in his mid-30s, about 5’11” and slightly bow-legged from years of riding a motorcycle.