A THREAT TO DECENCY AND NATIONAL SECURITY

This story is set during the Lavender Scare, a real historical event in which thousands of LGBTQ+ individuals were investigated, fired, and blacklisted from U.S. government jobs as “security risks.” This piece is based on extensive historical research to ensure accuracy in language, government policies, and cultural attitudes.

The quote from the 1950 Senate report, “Employment of Homosexuals and Other Sex Perverts in Government,” is taken directly from historical documents and has not been altered or fabricated.

While the characters are fictional, the paranoia, surveillance, and injustice they face are deeply rooted in historical fact.

This story contains:

• Government surveillance & paranoia
• Forced outing & blacklisting
• Institutional discrimination
• Period-accurate homophobic slurs (for authenticity, not endorsement)
• References to suicide
• Mentions of police entrapment & implied police raids.
• Psychological distress & anxiety attacks
• A brief moment of self-destructive behavior
• Heavy smoking & cigarette use
• Implied impending arrest
• Themes of powerlessness under systemic oppression

While this story does not depict graphic violence, explicit self-harm, or on-page suicide, its themes center on state-sanctioned persecution and its devastating impact.

Richard Hart let out a long, strained breath, his glasses pressed awkwardly to his forehead as a slow hand dragged down his face. His eyes burned. His body ached—desperate for the lull of sleep.

The imprint of the desk was still there against his cheek, the wood cool, firm. His hair, once combed sharp to policy standards, was dulled now, flattened where he’d given in and rested briefly—despite all attempts to maintain professionalism. Not enough to ease any real exhaustion. Just enough to taunt him with what lay beyond his grasp.

In part to blame was the pitifully empty cigarette case beside him, its metallic interior catching the light, glinting, mocking. The lighter sat untouched nearby, useless without something to burn, to ruin in the name of pleasure. To ruin in the name of order—of control.

The Civil Service Commission, in a way, was no different from a lighter. And New York—its ever-replenishing cigarette case, Suitability Reports flooding in every day, ready to be processed. Ready to be burned.

For three years, Hart had served as a Personnel Security Investigator for the CSC. Three years since President Eisenhower signed Executive Order 10450. Six years since the Senate released the Employment of Homosexuals and Other Sex Perverts in Government report—a report that, two years later, led to the creation of the executive order.

“There is no place in the United States Government for persons who violate the laws or the accepted standards of morality,” it stated in conclusion, “or who otherwise bring disrepute to the Federal service by infamous or scandalous personal conduct… It is the opinion of this subcommittee that those who engage in acts of homosexuality and other perverted sex activities are unsuitable for employment in the Federal Government. This conclusion is based upon the fact that persons who indulge in such degraded activity are committing not only illegal and immoral acts, but they also constitute security risks in positions of public trust.”

The order had made it official: homosexuals, and any who strayed outside the boundaries of sexual morality—outside what was deemed socially acceptable—were a security risk. Unfit for federal employment.

Before the CSC turned its focus to rooting out security risks, its purpose had been to eliminate government corruption through merit-based hiring. It was a good honest, stable job. It kept up appearances—especially for a man without a family, without a wife or children.

Working in government meant fewer questions. It wasn’t as suspicious when a man wasn’t courting a woman. He was busy. Dedicated to his career.

Though now, the position felt more like a trap than a refuge. He had seen how the FBI worked—he had been assigned to their files. Resigning would have drawn attention and land him in the same files he was now in charge of reviewing.

A stack of Suitability Reports arrived every morning, each one containing a name, a career, a quiet, bureaucratic death sentence. And often enough, a few days later, that same name would turn up in the papers—another suicide.

The process was always the same. Allegations of “moral indecency.” An anonymous complaint. A security memo from the FBI. A photograph, taken from across the street.

Hart was broken out of his tired haze by the sound of a heavy file hitting his desk. Vincent Mercer stood over him, smirking, a high-quality cigar clamped between his teeth, burning brightly—likely picked up as a perk of the job.

“Got another batch of security risks for you, Dick. Vice squad cleaned out a bar last night. Didn’t take much to get names—one of ‘em sang like a canary soon as they saw the cage. ‘Course, it never does take much.”

Hart adjusted his glasses and pulled the file closer. Likely no less than a hundred names. “Appreciate it, Mercer.”

“You look like hell. What, run outta smokes?”

Mercer plucked Hart’s empty cigarette case off the desk, its contents—or rather, lack of—exposed. He turned it over in his hand with amusement before snapping it shut and tossing it back down. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a fresh pack—Chesterfields. He gave it a quick tap against his palm, slid one out, then set it on the desk. Just out of Hart’s reach.

“There. Can’t have you running on fumes.”

Usually, Hart ignored Mercer’s little displays, his smug generosity. But damn, he needed one—regardless of the price of taking it. As soon as Hart pulled it to his lips, Mercer was already there, flicking his lighter open with a smooth motion.

“Careful you don’t nod off and choke on it.” Mercer exhaled his own smoke before continuing, “And savor it—this ain’t the cheap stuff you usually puff on. This is luxury. Meant to be enjoyed, not just used up.”

He gave his cigar a lazy tap, letting the ash scatter onto the desk. “You got an ashtray, or do I just use your coffee mug?”

“Yeah, here.” Hart pushed the tray toward him without a second glance, his focus on the file in front of him. On the task of marking each name, each life, to be blacklisted. He took a long, deliberate inhale, holding it in his lungs until his chest ached—until it hurt. He exhaled slowly, reaching into his drawer to pull out the stamp and ink. The motion familiar, practiced, unthinking.

“There it is—” Mercer said with a smile, flicking his ashes into the tray. “Good, huh? You know, it’s the same brand Dean Martin smokes. Real good stuff.”

He gave his cigar a final flick, sending the last of the ash tumbling into the tray. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Should be easy. Place was lousy with evidence—the whole damn bar was a pansy parade. Vice had to break up two Nancy boys going at it.” With that, Mercer pushed himself off the desk and walked away.

“Right.” Hart sighed to himself, flipping open the first report. By the time the files ended up on his desk there wasn’t much else he could do, the investigations were already ongoing or decided. His task? Ensuring the paper work went through the correct channels to become finalized.

WHITAKER, THOMAS J. UNSUITABLE FOR FEDERAL EMPLOYMENT.

MASON, EDWARD C. RESIGNED – INELIGIBLE FOR REHIRE.

BARKER, HENRY P. UNSUITABLE FOR FEDERAL EMPLOYMENT.

GRAVES, ALLEN R. 

Hart’s breath caught, his hands stilled—stamp hovering just above the page, just shy of touching. He glanced down, realizing how far he’d broken character.

If Mercer were still nearby, the hesitation alone would have given him away. Fortunately, no one else was paying him much mind—too absorbed in their own work, their own files.

Allen Graves. That wasn’t just a name. Not something that could be stamped and forgotten over a drink. No—if Allen’s name had landed in a file, it wouldn’t be long before Hart’s followed.

FILE NO. 172-64-009

DATE: September 12, 1956

CASE TYPE: Suitability Review – Security Risk

SUBJECT: GRAVES, ALLEN R.

POSITION: Personnel Officer – Department of Commerce

EMPLOYMENT STATUS: Under Investigation – Pending Review

SUMMARY OF FINDINGS:

Subject named during interrogation of W. Howell, taken into custody by Vice Squad on September 10, 1956, in connection with an investigation into moral indecency at The Sterling Bar.

On September 11, 1956, Officer Norman made an unsuccessful attempt to engage subject in conversation with the intent of confirming inclinations toward moral indecency. Subject did not respond to verbal advances and excused himself from the interaction.

INVESTIGATION STATUS:

Further witness interviews pending.

Additional surveillance requested.

They had rushed, made a mistake—forwarded the file for review before it was complete. That meant there was still hope, however slim. A rare opportunity, one that couldn’t be wasted.

Hart marked the file Further Inquiry Required – Insufficient Evidence and slid it beneath the stack. A simple act, but one that could buy valuable time. Hart knew the process better than most—knew what stalled a file, what got it delayed, sometimes even lost if Lady Luck was smiling down on you.

Of course, taking such measures would put him under investigation within two weeks—but that didn’t matter if they found him in less after following Graves’ report.There were still two long hours until his shift ended. Two long hours of waiting in uncertainty and anxiety.

Hart busied himself with the other reports, giving his still-shaking hands something to do until, finally—without a moment to spare—he packed up his things, grabbed his fedora from the coat rack—along with his coat—and headed outside.

It was raining. Pouring. The streets shimmered under the glow of streetlights, reflections bending and warping in the puddles that collected along the sidewalk. Cars rushed past, their tires sending up sprays of water, headlights flashing too bright against the wet pavement.

Had it been raining when I left the office? Yes. No. Doesn’t matter.

Stand straight, walk forward.

People passed by—umbrellas tilted against the downpour, hats pulled low, faces indistinct beneath the shifting light. Shadows stretched under streetlights, stretching, shifting, twisting.

Just people. Just strangers. Watching? No. They weren’t watching. That man under the awning—he looked too long. He didn’t. I’m imagining it. No. I saw it. The woman crossing the street—she turned back. No, she looked past me. Is there someone else behind me? Is that who they’re looking at? Are they watching? Turn around. No—don’t. Yes. You can’t.

Stand straight, walk forward.

His hands couldn’t stop shaking. He curled his fingers into fists, shoved them deep into his coat pockets.

Not too fast. Don’t draw attention. Just the cold. That’s what they’ll think. Let them think that. The rain—my gloves, soaked through—no, no, it’s not the cold, it’s not the rain, it’s—

Stand straight, walk forward.

His heart slammed against his ribs, pounded against his throat, his ears, his skull.

Could they hear it? No. Don’t be ridiculous. But what if they could? What if someone—No. No. No.

Stand straight, walk forward.

His breath hitched, forcing it steady—to blend in.

Too steady. Not natural. Too shallow. Too slow. Breathe normal—what’s normal? Normal, normal—was it always this loud? Always this hard to—?

Stand straight, walk forward.

Shoes slapped against the pavement. Water splashed at his ankles. The city moved around him—steady, unbothered, normal.

Too loud. Was it? Walk slower. No, too slow. Too fast? Normal? Act normal—act normal, damn it.

Stand straight, walk forward.

His reflection flickered in a shop window—pale, stiff, unnatural.

Too rigid. Shoulders tense. Relax—no. Not too much. Not too sudden. Just enough—

He loosened his posture, not realizing how tightly he had forced his hands into fists.

Stand straight, walk forward.

Cigarette smoke curled through the air. Someone laughed—a sharp, jagged sound from across the street. Hart flinched, breath catching, too tight, too sharp.

Just smoke. Just laughter. Just the city. Just—

His hand pressed to his chest, fingers stiff against damp fabric.

Could they hear my heartbeat? No, don’t be ridiculous. But what if—what if they could? Why is it so loud? Why can’t I breathe? Am I breathing? Yes—yes, I’m breathing. No—I’m not—take a breath, damn it. Was it in first or out—?

Stand straight, walk forward.

The streetlamp flickered. The city pressed in—cars passing too fast, voices too sharp, headlights sweeping across the pavement like searchlights.

Stand straight, walk forward.

The diner was ahead. The neon sign buzzed against the rain, casting a red glow against the sidewalk.

Hart swallowed, throat dry despite the dampness in the air.

If you slip now—if someone notices—you’ll end up just like the rest of them. You did that. You made them feel this way. The reason they killed themselves. You took their life. It wasn’t suicide, it was you. You deserve this—you deserve this.



Don’t read the name. Stamp the paper. Don’t think. Stamp the paper.

Finally, he reached for the door. His hand shook as he reached for the handle.

Did I try to grab it too early? Did I reach for it too far?



Don’t read the name. Stamp the paper.

Stand straight, walk forward.

Sitting contentedly, waiting in their usual booth, was Graves. He didn’t look up from the menu in his hands, but a small smile curled at his lips—just enough to signal he had seen Hart out of the corner of his eye. He always did have a harder time hiding his face.

Hart moved to sit across from Graves. He had been the one to choose this booth—the one farther back, away from the eyes beyond the window. The one with the broken lamp in the corner, left unfixed, keeping it darker, more secluded from the rest of the diner.

Not the most attractive spot.

Allen smiled fully now, reaching under the table to take Hart’s hand, his other still holding the menu.

“There you are,” he said, fingers warm against Hart’s. “Thought maybe you’d taken a powder.”

“Got a pack on you?”

“Oh— sure. Need a light?”

Graves slid a cigarette into Hart’s hand and nudged the lighter toward him. Hart didn’t hesitate. He brought it to his lips, the lighter trembling slightly in his grasp before he set it back down. He took a deep drag, let the smoke settle in his lungs before exhaling slow.

“You’re shakin’ like a leaf. Something I oughta know?”

Hart took another drag, breathing deep, the smoke thick in his throat. “They’re lookin’ into you. Report landed on my desk this morning. Unfinished. I pushed it back. Someone gave up your name.”

Graves paused, staring at the table. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, the only sounds the quiet hum of conversation around them.

“Guess that’s it then.”

Hart shook his head, pulling the cigarette from his lips and gesturing toward one of the waitresses serving coffee. “You know the girls here, don’t you?”

Graves blinked, confused. “Shannon? Sure. She’s nice enough. Fella in the corner booth’s been makin’ cow eyes at her all night.”

Hart pulled his hand from Graves’ grasp, setting it back above the table.

“I want you to take her out tonight. A couple of nights. They’ll keep digging. But right now, all they’ve got is speculation.”

Graves exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “So that’s it? Play house for a couple nights, and they’ll just forget about me?”

Hart didn’t look at him. “They won’t forget.” He tapped ash into the tray, watching the embers fall. “But they’ll move on if they don’t find proof.”

Graves let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I’m not doin’ it.”

Hart’s eyes flicked up. Steady. Cold. “You’d damn us both if you didn’t.”

Graves smiled—not real, not like he usually did. More out of shock, disbelief.

Hart sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean it like that—I don’t want—we have to—”

Graves shook his head. “Dick… I don’t wanna hide anymore.” His voice was quiet, steady. “They’re gonna find us. I know you want to, but you can’t stop it. So what’s the sense in sufferin’ ‘til the end of it? The happiest I’ve seen men like us? It’s when they’re caught. Think about—once they’ve got you, that’s it. No more hidin’. No more worryin’. They kiss. They hold each other. They say they love—” He stops himself, giving a deep breath before continuing, “I want that.”

Hart swallowed, throat tight.

Graves gave him a small smile, genuine. “You stalled it. That’s more than most get. Now we get to choose how we go.”

“I don’t want to go.” Hart’s voice was thin, unsteady. “We can—we can still survive, Allen.”



But even as the words left his mouth, he didn’t believe them.

They sat in silence, letting it settle between them.

“Let’s go for a walk.” Graves was already up, halfway to the door, already expecting Hart to follow.

They walked for a while, side by side, until they reached a park bench overlooking a carefully maintained garden. Graves took Hart’s hands in his—not under a table this time. Not hidden.

“You scared?”

Graves chuckled. “Terrified.”

Hart swallowed. “I love you.”

Graves squeezed his hands. “I love you too.”

They kissed, holding each other close—the closest they’d ever been in front of public eyes.

“Wish we coulda held on like this longer.”

“Me too…” Graves exhaled, leaning his forehead against Hart’s. “You know, you’re a lousy kisser.”

Hart huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t get much practice sneakin’ it.”

Graves smirked. “Well… try again.”

The distant wail of a siren echoed through the streets, getting closer now.

Hart didn’t move. Graves didn’t either. Because this moment? It was perfect. Something that could never be taken away.

“You got any regrets?”

Graves sighed, fingers tightening around Hart’s. “Yeah… pretending.”

Hart closed his eyes. “Me too.”