Month: December 2012

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Never Never Land by Donny Kaye

          In a time before reality TV and neighborhood video stores; long before Netflix was even a conception because there was no “NET” other than in women’s stockings and the fisherman’s contraption for pulling the resistant fish from its waters, and at a time when we still referred to theatres as just that, I saw Peter Pan. I was probably seven or eight years of age when we rode the bus down Broadway to the Paramount Theatre on 16th Street, to see Walt Disney’s newly-released production of Peter Pan. It was most likely then that I was most able to identify with the thought of Never Never Land, a place best known for eternal childhood and immortality. It seems that in the years that followed I moved farther and farther from the ability to exist in a simpler realm where life was childlike and pretty easy. At that point the world had not totally had its way with me in terms of experiencing society’s harsh need to have me be something other than what and who I am.

          As a seven year old, I was unfamiliar with the story of Peter Pan by J. Barrie and immediately loved the characterizations by W. Disney, especially Peter Pan and The Lost Boys. They were magical and yet the experience of the fairy, Tinker Bell, has remained a favorite in my life. Some time ago when I was considering my first tattoo, Tinker Bell actually showed as a possibility, realizing the fairy has always been of special existence in my mind.

          I must admit that I have never desired reading the unabridged work of J. Barrie. In fact, reading Peter Pan has not advanced to my Bucket List however; I am being inspired somewhat just doing background work on the web, in prep for this story. The stories of Never Land are far more complex than the animated cartoon produced by Disney in 1953. Just as intriguing as Barrie’s original creation, are the interpretations of his work. His characters have become the inspiration for psychological theories regarding men, such as the “Peter Pan Syndrome”, and homoerotic discussions of his characters abound on the web.

          What I do know is that there was a time when my life was a lot simpler. The complexities of my family and those of influence over me had not had their way with me yet. As time went on, I quietly assumed others expectations of me as I denied my own desires and to some extent, my own dreams. Never Land was indeed NEVER Land.

          NEVER Land became an experience in my life which was solely fantasy. It existed in animated characters living in magical scenes complete with original musical scores and at times, experienced in 3-D.

          I remember a condominium time share presentation in Orlando, Florida in which after we had been seated in a handsomely decorated and cozy library-study setting, complete with drinks in hand, the book cases on either side of the fireplace began slowly moving. As the book cases and fireplace gave way to a video presentation that would be screened on the newly exposed wall, Tinker Bell actually flew in through the doorway on the opposite side of the room, sprinkling her fairy dust across the room and onto the newly revealed video screen as an arial shot of Disney World and Epcot Center filled the magically expanding space. That seemed as close as I might get at that point in my life to the experiences of Never Land that were waiting for me in my personal journey towards wholeness. If only it would have been as simple as purchasing a time-share in Disney’s newest resort community!

          I don’t know if Never Never Land equates with St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul or Dante’s reference to “awakening in the woods to find yourself wholly lost,” but certainly there was somewhat of a nightmarish quality to Captain Hook’s eventually falling from the gang plank in to the water and the awaiting open mouth of the crocodile.

          Some place near the “stars of the milky way” and “always at the time of sunrise”, there is a “turn just after the second star” that takes a person on a path beyond the experience of Never Never Land. Beyond reference to escapism, childishness and immortality is the experience of unity and wholeness that comes as unresolved emotional baggage is discarded and as a result, unconditional joyfulness is experienced.

          Our nightmares, as well as our dreams all exist within us. We are the creators. We can take inspiration from a fairy tale, such as Peter Pan and fall into the experience of our own surrender and opening to our own desire which provides us our own kind of beauty and richness.

          On the other side of Never Never Land, we can emerge transformed, lighter and brighter, braver and more confident for having moved through the experience of the darkness, the nightmare, or the experience of being wholly lost.

          In my reflections on Never Never Land it seems that there is continual movement between different realms of being. As infants we come to this experience called humanity and are moved between Never Never Land; Always Always Land and eventually, transformation into an experience of our own beauty and richness as spiritual beings having a human experience.

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

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With Oxana on Waterloo Bridge by Gillian

In the early 1990s, right after the words glasnost and perestroika entered our vocabularies, I spent some weeks in Russia as a USAID volunteer.
I worked for a company located right in the middle of Leningrad, shortly to return to its pre-communist identity of St. Petersburg, on the edge of the Nyeva river. I had a tiny attic room in an apartment belonging to Vadim and Ludmila Desyatkov, and the wonderful Ludmila had provided me with a season pass to The Hermitage museum.
          So every lunchtime, while my male Russian cohorts tossed back a few vodkas in the nearest bar, I walked, or let the old rattling tram take me to the orgy of magnificent creations that is the Hermitage.
On my third day of discovery I walked through one of the innumerable doors into one of innumerable little rooms and found myself alone with Waterloo Bridge. Effect of Fog. By Claude Monet. Oil on canvas, 1903.

Waterloo Bridge. Effect of Fog. By Claude Monet.
Oil on canvas, 1903
I had never been so completely transported by any work of art in my life.
         I had seen prints of this painting, and I had seen enough other originals by that time to know that no print ever comes close, but for some reason this one left me speechless.
         I gazed in wonder. The lavender fog swirled around me. I felt its fuzzy coolness envelop me.
I moved forward.
I was jolted from by reverie by a shockingly loud sound behind me.
Almost unable to tear my focus from the painting, I slowly turned.
In the corner a tiny little old lady sat on what looked like an old kitchen chair. She was rapping on the ancient wooden floor with an ancient wooden cane and staring admonishingly at me from shining coal black eyes. The term giving someone the evil eye leapt into my mind.
Both my hands shot up in the air of their own free will, surrendering and simultaneously demonstrating that they had no intention of touching the painting. I felt much more fear of her than could ever have been instilled in me by one of our uniformed, armed guards.
What smattering of Russian I possessed fled from my brain. I reverted to that best of universal languages and smiled. She scowled. Those bleak black eyes continued to bore right into me.
I left.
Of course I couldn’t stay away.
And anyway, ferocious little old women abound in Russian museums. There is at least one stationed in every room, where they perch on rickety old stools and chairs, their hands never still as they slave diligently at their tatting, knitting, embroidery. There never seem to be any men, but then most Russian males wisely drink themselves to death at a considerably younger age.
I returned the next day, and those that followed, better prepared. Every day I flashed my very best smile and offered a cheery dobroye utro, which was received with the same stern glare but I remained free of cane-rapping as I drank in my new obsession from every angle, soon forgetting anyone else was there.
This was a small room, perhaps twelve feet square, and what I now thought of as my painting, hung in splendid isolation as the only work in the room. Often the little room, my room, was empty of other visitors. It was January, the weather was miserable and it was well before the start of the tourist season, in all senses, as tourism had not really reached Russia at that time.
A couple of weeks later I had made almost daily visits to my painting and had graduated to not only a Russian good morning but also goodbye and thank you in what I’m sure was a deplorable Russian accent. All I ever got in return was that evil eye.
Dasvidaniya, I said one more time, turning regretfully to leave.
Spaciba.
The wrinkled brown face broke into a wide smile.
Our relationship zoomed off into fast forward. Only three weeks of smiles went by before we graduated to light touches, a hand on an arm, and eventually an offer for me to admire her handiwork. It was some kind of doily and I was a little unclear what it would be when it grew up but I admired her embroidery skills and there was nothing fake about my oohs and aahs of praise.
Now there was no stopping her. Only a few days later she stood, placed her embroidery carefully on the vacated seat, took one of my hands in hers, held it to her old sagging breast and said, ‘Oxana Kalashnikova.’
‘Gillian Edwards,’ I solemnly replied.
Each day from then on, she rose when I entered the room, placed her embroidery neatly on the seat, took both my hands in hers and stated almost reverently,
‘Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’
‘Oxana Kashlikova,’ I replied.
These mutual assertions were followed by a nod of the head, almost a bow, in what seemed to me a strangely Japanese ceremony.
I never saw anyone else in Russia doing this, I think it was a little ritual Oxana herself devised.
And, yes, her name was actually Kashlikova, not Kalashnikova but I always preferred to think of her as the second. I know ova means daughter of, and the thought of some ancestor of hers slaving in his workshop to invent the infamous Kalishikov AK-47 greatly appealed to me.
With Ludmila’s help I began delivering small gifts to Oxana. Nothing extravagant, and mainly food in some form as Ludmila insisted that was what she would really value. After Communism collapsed, the Russian people lost the safety nets previously provided by the system and with inflation running around a thousand percent many people were desperately poor. Most of the store shelves were empty, and what food there was few could afford.
She opened the rough paper bag holding my first gift, peeked inside, and when she turned those hard black eyes to me they were filled with tears. She thanked me profusely in a stream of Russian which had no need of translation, then neatly folded over the top of the bag, placed it in her apron pocket, and resumed her work. Of course I hadn’t expected her to eat it there, the very thought of the look she would bestow on another caught eating in the museum made my blood run cold, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she would actually eat it herself, at all, or if it would be shared out meticulously among several family members or maybe slipped to a favorite grandchild.
After three months it was time to leave. With the help of my pocket calendar, which happily contained a tiny map of the U.S., and various childlike flying gestures, I conveyed to Oxana that Friday would be my last visit to my painting, and on Saturday I would fly back home.
It was with truly heavy heart that I entered my room for the last time. Three months is long enough to spend alone in a foreign country where you understand little of the language and in some ways even less of the culture. I was ready to leave, but I wanted to take my painting with me. The prospect of never seeing it again was like losing a loved one or a body part.
And, yes, the thought of never seeing Oxana again filled me with sadness. Where else would I find someone to greet me every morning with clasped hands, a little bow, and that reverent utterance,
‘Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’
I handed her my last paper bag, and without a peek she stuffed it into her voluminous pocket.  I was relieved she had not looked as I had tried to hide the last of my rubles and a $20 bill, a pearl beyond price at that time in Russia, under the stack of ponchiki, a kind of anorexic donut.
Silently she handed me a similar paper bag.
Snacks for the plane? I wondered a little hysterically.
Then I noticed that for the first time ever, she was without her embroidery.
Enough of the protocol.
I threw my arms around her, we both wept a little, and I walked out of the little room with its solitary wonderful painting watched over by its solitary wonderful guardian.
I have never managed to find a real use for that gift that means so much to me.
         But every time I look at it I see my painting, in my room, watched over by my babushka.
And her final words echo in my memory.
‘Gooood-bye, dasvidaniya,  Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’

After I read this story to the group, Ray S. painted his own version of Waterloo Bridge for me. I treasure it. Thanks for the painting and permission to show it here.



About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.
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Over the River and Through the Woods by Gillian

As I start this, all I can guarantee is that Grandmother and her
house will not enter into it, nor come to that will Mother except in the sense
of Mother Russia, a phrase used by many older Russians, though perhaps not so
much the younger generation.
The Beginning
In the early 1990s, right after words like glasnost and perestroika
entered our vocabularies, I spent some weeks in Russia as a USAID volunteer.
I worked for a company located right in the middle of Leningrad,
shortly to return to its pre-communist identity of St. Petersburg, on the edge
of the Nyeva river.
I was there towards the end of the year, and for a city located at
roughly the same latitude as Anchorage, Alaska, that’s not the greatest timing.
The Players
Towards the end of my weeks there, the Big Boss, Afanasiy, decided
that we should take a quick overnight trip to their supplier in Helsinki,
Finland. We meant me, Afanasiy and
his second in command Nikoail, and the security manager Vladimir.
          The instant
Communism disintegrated, the Mafia and miscellaneous other villains filled in
every nook and cranny of the power vacuum. The ex-Soviet bloc was a dangerous
place and all businesses had so-called Security Guards at every door, all armed
with vicious-looking weapons held ever at the ready.
They were all ex-KGB and they all terrified me.
Nikolai, a delightful young man with humorous crinkly eyes,
sometimes referred sardonically to Vladimir as Vlad, but only behind his back.
I wished he had never done so because it had caused me to make a mental
connection with a certain unlovely historical persona.
Oooh what fun! Endless hours in a car with Vlad the Impaler.
This should have been a boring journey. The whole trip is over flat,
watery country with lots of trees to obscure any view there might be.
But I had already learned that little in Russia is ever boring.
I didn’t know half of it!
The
Transportation
The company was struggling to get off the ground and didn’t yet
rise to things like Company Cars. The next evening we gathered, after work,
around Afanasiy’s old … what? I’m not sure what it was though I am sure about
the “old.” Any logo denoting its make had long since disappeared from a car
body of Swiss cheese.
          That thing was
more holes than metal, and what metal remained was dented and rusted.
I thought it was a Lada, or perhaps a Skoda, both very common in
Leningrad at the time, but on our way Nikolai began telling Trabant jokes so
maybe that was it.
Why should a Trabant have a
trunk heater?
So your hands don’t freeze
when you’re pushing it.
What
happens if you apply rust remover to a Trabant?
It
disappears.
How many people do you need to produce a Trabant?
Two. One to fold and one to glue.
I, to my great relief, sat in the back with Nikolai while Afanasiy
drove and Vladimir, quite literally, rode shotgun, or probably more correctly,
rode AK 47.
I was unhappy, however, to find that I had a clear vision of the
road below through a large hole between my feet and another one beside my knee.
I have to say they gave me the best spot, though, as Nikol essentially had to
prop his knees against the seat in front to stop his feet falling out of the
car all together.
It was miserably cold, with wind-blown sleet buffeting the car and
dirty slush splashing constantly onto our legs.
The Ticket
          We had barely
reached the outskirts of the city when sirens wailed behind us and Afanasiy
pulled over, plunging us into a deep ditch beside the road. He struggled out
into the slush, and even in the dim light outside I saw a wad of money changing
hands.
And we were on our way.
It seems that there are standard sort of “exit bribes” to get out
of the city, a bit like a toll road you might say. You know you’ll be accused
of speeding and you know just how much it takes to make this imagined
infraction disappear.
Standard practice, not even surreptitiously performed.
The Highway
I might have tried to sleep, but the constant scream of an abused
engine added to the fact that I was in a very short time frozen solid with my
legs encased in an oozing mess of grimy icy slush, made success seem unlikely.
I was disinclined to relax too much anyway, as my horrified
landlady had informed me that this was the most dangerous highway in Russia,
and I imagine it has some pretty steep competition as all Russian drivers treat
their vehicles like bumper cars at the fair.
But, alas, it was not just the combined realities of dreadful
Russian drivers and dreadful Russian weather and dreadful Russian roads, and a
two-lane highway serving an endless stream of trucks ancient and modern between
the nearest point in the East and a newly accessible West.
No, it was the crime rate. I have since read that at that time,
this was the most notorious stretch of highway in the world for murders and hijackings.
So we roared through the night, I would like to say, it has a nice
ring to it, but rather we strained and groaned and choked our way along the
Gulf of Finland, crossing endless little rivers and streams barely moving for the
ice, and heading deeper into deep dark coniferous forests.
The Booze
The three of them were on their third bottle of vodka; one
driving, one becoming maudlin beside me, and one carelessly fingering the
trigger of an assault rifle. And was the safety catch on, or did they even have such things, I wondered, and wished
I hadn’t.
This at least was no surprise to me as they regularly broke open
the first one each day at work around eight in the morning and continued
steadily thereafter.
Nikolai talked of his time as a conscript in the Soviet Army. He
had been among the first troops on the ground after the Chernobyl disaster. No
one had told them anything; they had no protective clothing.
He shrugged in the darkness.
“I will die soon, I think.”
“But not here,” he added with his typical cheer.
“We have Vladimir! Vladimir means immortal.” He chuckled.
“We will not die here!”
I was mighty happy to hear it.
After the fourth vodka bottle made its rounds, Nikolai and
Afanasiy began to sing.
The Russian media had only recently been open to post WW11 Western
entertainment and they seemed to be in a kind of fast-forward mode through it.
          They were at
that time in the 60’s which was fine with me, I’m kind of stuck there too!
          We reveled in
Beatles hits, and sang happily, if soggilly, through the forests.
The Toilet
I had been contemplating the indignity of screaming toalet, pohshzahloostah, after all I was
in Russia and had lost all hope of dignity, when Afanasyi shouted above various
car/road/weather noises,
“Taolet, dah?”
To be met by a chorus of agreement.
Oh thank you God, I thought. Even on this benighted highway there apparently was
some kind of truck stop of the kind I had been expecting to see, but had not,
every few minutes since we had left the city.
The car swerved suddenly to the edge of the road into a foot of
dirty snow, and came to a halt.
My exaltation collapsed.
The three men scrambled from the car and politely turned their
backs to me, which caused them to be highlighted by the endless stream of passing
headlights.
          Zipping himself
up, Afanasyi faced the car and, with a courtly bow and a gesture towards the
trees, yelled,
“Djillian, dah?”
“Dah!” I agreed glumly, and crept from the car.
“What the Hell?” I thought.
“So there’s a foot of snow in the trees. I can’t feel my feet
anyway so, so what?”
          I tumbled
thankfully behind a reasonably sturdy tree trunk and ignored the snow, and the
wind, and the endless flow of passing headlights.
Sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!
Taking additional advantage of the stop, I got my overnight bag
from the trunk and put it over the hole in the floor, rested my feet on it and
managed a much more comfortable and considerably drier ride as we progressed.
The Customs
Checks
Next time I woke we were slowing again.
Looking out once more into the blackness, I saw a clearing in the
trees.
A no man’s land from all
those Cold War movies. Really! We’ve all seen them!
Miles of forests and darkness and suddenly  –  that
clearing, all scrub and snow;
          and Soviet agents!
We pulled over to a dark hut with dim lights showing.
This was the first of several, I lost count of them, border
crossings, most just a little shack with a metal arm across the road where a
silent uniform took your passport, looked suspiciously at it and you, grunted,
and returned it.
But at this one the car was searched and
examined in detail. This took a cold miserable hour. We had to empty the car of
every unattached item but the luggage itself was not examined; this apparently
was to be the responsibility of another guard post.
Eventually we went on our way.
Only to pull over a few hundred yards
ahead. Another dreary corrugated metal shed.
The luggage was dispatched onto a rickety
metal table.
We were instructed to empty all pockets.
The Money
My pathetic little pile of banknotes was
counted rapidly with little interest, though the amount was entered solemnly
onto a form I was required to sign.
Russian rubles – 2341.
U.S. dollars – 47
My overnight case was treated with disdain
and barely searched.
Then they opened up the hard-sided case
brought in by Afanasyi and I stopped breathing.
Money.
It was full of money.
Cash, in the form of bundles of U.S.
hundred- and thousand-dollar bills.
Just like in some bank-robbery movie.
The three guards held sub-machine guns and
assault rifles swinging lazily in our direction, the triggers lightly caressed
by fingers controlled, or not, by doubtlessly vodka-sodden brains.
Vladimir clutched his, aimed vaguely in
their direction, in similar fashion.
It was unclear to me whether I was going
to pass out or throw up or both.
In fact I just stood frozen to the spot.
We were dead.
I knew it.
Recalling my landlady’s dire warnings I
knew it.
If I wasn’t immediately mown down by one
or all of the four armed men in the hut, I would be shot on sight by the Mafia
thugs I just knew were about to burst through the door.
Calmly, two of the guards stacked the
mounds of bills on the table and counted.
Each guard openly, casually, pocketed one
bundle.
Another ‘toll” along the road.
Afanasyi signed the form.
U.S. dollars – 1,277,362.
The suitcase was refilled, tossed
carelessly back in the trunk, and we continued into Finland. The only thing we
lost, a great relief to me, was Vladimir’s rifle, which he left at the guard
hut where he would retrieve it on the return journey. He could not take it
across the border.
The Ending
When I regained the power of speech I had
lots of questions.
They shrugged in that typical Russian
manner.
Of course they had to have cash to do
business.
Nobody trusted Russians, or Russia, or its
money.
So cash was king but rubles were
worthless, it had to be German deutschmarks, U.S. dollars, or British pounds.
The Mafia? The gangs? The crimes on this
most dangerous road?
Dah, dah! You never knew. You took your chances.
More shrugged shoulders.
Maybe next week, next month, next year.
Who knew?
I lost contact with them all years ago,
but I choose to believe that they have survived.
I see there is now a high-speed train that
gets you from St. Petersburg to Helsinki in just over two hours, and that
includes what are apparently still lengthy checks at the border.
Do I wish such a train had been available
when I was there, and that we had ridden it that night instead of spending
eight hours of physical and mental anguish on the most dangerous highway in the
world?
No way! After all, who wants to listen to
a story about a two-hour train ride through which I sleep, and nothing worth
recounting ever happens?

About the Author

I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
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Christmas Details to Remember by Jon Krey

Details: What?
          I won’t get into what that word means because
I’m never sure. However I’ll give an example as I may have seen… it??? At least
I think I’ve seen it. Enough Thorazine helps clear the mind.
          A couple of
nights ago when it all began, it was getting ever more chilly with an early
winter approaching, my friend and I decided to take our “high tea”
inundated with some good ol’ pot and other pharmaceutical “party favorites.”
          On that evening
we lit the seriously tilted candles above my fireplace with difficulty, put on
some appropriate Christmas music and sat down. At least I think we sat down
though I’m not sure.
          Anyway I think
time passed though I’m not sure about that either. We talked incessantly about
the nature of trees, gay dogs and cats, clocks, the Eiffel Tower, room
carpeting, smoke and flowers encased in glass enclosures. Talking about glass
led to other related topics including windows, windshields, wind instruments or
just plain wind. I began feeling an increasingly hot breeze someplace on my
body from some source. Shortly we began to notice the room temperature
apparently rising though I’m sure I’d turned the thermostat down. The candle
light also seemed brighter in the darkening evening. The wafting odor of
wonderful burning Christmas Wax incense pervaded everything as an increasingly
warm feeling crept over our bodies. I was certain our physical passion was
producing the extra warmth. The fireplace was just fine, seemingly ablaze… with
beautiful golden light which grew in intensity. How beautiful that seemed on
such a cold evening outside. The strong odor of pine smoke joining the
Christmas Wax incense. The temperature of our passion rose to such an extent it
caused us to discard our clothes which in turn incited further sexual arousal… greatly.
Momentarily I was pissed that the maintenance crew had failed to fix the
thermostat only allowing our passion to heat us up, or… whatever. We became
deeply fascinated with each others body, the ensuing sweat had become so
intense we decided to move to the balcony where our love making immediately
became interrupted by the serene and melodic sound of sirens below. People
across the street began pointing at us (which added to our heightening
arousal). Their delightful shouting made us feel like real porn stars. I
wondered if we might have been a little too exhibitionist, or, not enough?
Meanwhile the smell of candle wax and accompanied smoke, fog or whatever it was
had raised to such a level that we decided to lower our rope ladder and leave,
having forgotten about the hallway door, elevator and stairwell. Additionally,
all the joyous celebratory shouting was getting on our nerves interrupting our
pulsating rhythm. We tried to overlook all the falderal as just other people
overcome with zealousness at a private building party. In our sexual excitement
we laid down on the grass writhing in ecstasy as the area became covered with
snowy flakes that smelled like burning wood. We both found that ridiculous but
began noticing several very large gray featureless Christmas garlands now
encircling us from several sides. They were wet too. The whole thing was
ridiculous.  For some reason no one was
paying much attention to us anymore either. They kept staring up at the enormous
brilliantly lit Christmas tree and it’s much heavier than usual smoky Christmas
Wax incense. Additional strains of lovely musical siren sounds were accompanied
by increasing screams of delight from observers and more seasonal gleeful
shouting and frivolity. Additionally all the excitement of the huge Christmas
tree light and the Christmas Wax incense had become too much for other
occupants and many were running out of the building. The more elderly were
either crawling or violently shoving their walkers out of the front door while
others pushed their own beds outside. Some were assisted by several studs from
the leather community dressed in cute dark blue and yellow clothes that looked
like uniforms… hahaha. All this for a Christmas show.
          We crawled
further away from the gigantic Christmas tree and all the shouting and strange
siren like singing. Suddenly I noticed I’d forgotten to bring my door keys!!!
But I don’t suppose it mattered too much because the heat from the tree had
become unbearable anyway. Boy did someone in the building know how to throw a
party. Now the handsome leather men insisted we crawl into some kind of party
RV, nude, dildos and all. Fun was on the way!!! 
The short ride to another party bar or bath house had people we didn’t
know who surrounded us staring but not engaging in any affectionate embraces as
we were. I couldn’t stop thinking I needed to get back home and find my damned
keys. It was becoming a real hassle with all these leather guys preventing us
from leaving the party. The bouncer was BIG and held us in!! Hell he even took
our dildos away!
          Whatever!
Eventually after much ado and sexual boredom we snuck away and began the trek
home clothed in some kind of orange numbered shirts and matching pants. Guess
they were some new kink outfits since they didn’t fit well.
          Where was our
building? We couldn’t see since the incense smoke was still super thick in
front of us.
          Altogether, what
a wild holiday evening but a real pisser since I’d forgotten my keys. Besides,
who were these leather guys who kept insisting we go back to the up-tight
party. I didn’t recognize any of them and not one made any physical overtures
though they did engage us in some fun BDSM stuff with leather restrains and
handcuffs. Honestly, some people can be so rude and aloof even when playing.
They didn’t even bother exchanging names or phone numbers but insisted we give
them ours. 
          Whatever! At
least we now share a much smaller apartment with a hunky uniformed valet at a
lovely metal front door equipped with a small viewing window separating us from
uninvited guests. I wondered if it might be too forward to ask for a gilded
chandelier to be put in place of the single naked bulb.
          I guess the moral
of this story is never get loaded and forget where you left your keys. Anyway
it doesn’t matter now ’cause with this smaller home we have all the goodies we
need; new friends, lots of exercise, sex, daily meals, a roof over our heads,
no taxes, all fresh clean clothes plus other amenities AND we get it all for
free!!! I don’t think we’ve ever been happier.

          So Merry Christmas
and have a Happy New Year.

About the Author

“I’m just a guy from Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they’re an illusion.”

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An Old Fashioned Christmas (A Satire) by Betsy

          How could
Christmas NOT be my favorite holiday.  It
was for me as a child an idyllic time. 
          Preparations for
the festivities started early in the morning of the day before Christmas.
Father would ask who wanted to go and help cut down the Christmas tree.  Of course, being a dyke, I never missed this
trip. Father always let me carry the axe. 
We had many trees to choose from–hundreds.  A lifetime supply of Christmas trees in the
woods next to our house. 
          Father would drag
the tree into the house and set it up. 
There it would stand by the fireplace patiently waiting to be
decorated.  Tree decorating always took
place after dinner on Christmas Eve. 
After helping Mother in the kitchen we would gather around the tree
singing carols whilst hanging mostly handmade baubles, snowflake cut outs,
strings of pop corn and cranberries.  
          Then, of course,
the stockings would be hung by the chimney. 
We always took great care in doing this. 
My siblings and I were completely exhausted by this time of the day.
          Oh, I forgot to mention the ice skating. We
always skated on our pond in the afternoon of this exciting day.  It helped to pass the time as the
anticipation of all the Christmas activities was very intense.  Mother said we needed to work off our energy.
          After the
stockings were hung it was off to bed. 
After all, we were told, Santa would not make a stop here unless the
children were asleep.
          Christmas morning
was the best time of all.  We could go
downstairs and empty our stockings any time we wanted.  We could not open any presents until after
the family breakfast and when Father said it was time.  Then he would hand out the gifts
one-at-a-time.
          Before we knew it
it was time to get ready to go to Grandmother’s for Christmas dinner. It was such
a fun-filled day, and we didn’t even have time to play with our new toys and it
was still a fun-filled day.
          Father would go
to the barn, hitch the horse to the sleigh, and park it in front of the
house.  That signaled that it was time to
bundle up, pile into the sleigh, and head to Grandmother’s house. It seems that
there was always on Christmas morning new-fallen snow
sparkling in the sunlight brightly decorating the trees as we flew through the
woods on our way to Grandmother’s house. 
The horse knew the way, of course. 
So even Father could join in the singing most of the way.  So it was over the next hill and through a
dale and we were there.  Grandmother
always had the plumpest of turkeys ready for us for Christmas dinner.  Oh, and Grandmother made the best sticky
pudding for dessert.  We all overate and
began feeling quite sick realizing Christmas would soon be over. The party was
coming to an end. 
          It’s an odd thing
too.  Every year was the same.  Father never could drive the sleigh
home.  I think it has something to do
with his many trips to the barn or the bathroom or somewhere where he would be
alone for quite a few minutes.  He said
he had to take his medicine.  By the time
we got to Grandmother’s he had to take quite a lot.  But that was okay because when he came back
he would feel much better and be really happy–until after dinner at
Grandmother’s and he was so tired he couldn’t even wake up, so Mother would
have to drive the sleigh home.
          So it went for
many years.  How could Christmas NOT be
my favorite holiday?  Does this sound
like a fantastic Christmas?  This is a
fantasy Christmas.  May yours be just as
merry as mine!

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Ghosts of Holidays Past by Ricky

     I expect that anyone alive today over the age of two will have at least one memory of a holiday. Those of us who are fond of saying that “we were not born yesterday,” will have many ghostly memories of holidays past; some good and perhaps some not so good. So it is with me.

     One of my happiest holidays from “days of yore” is the Christmas of 1954, while my family was living in our new house in Redondo Beach, California. My parents were still married then. (I know it was a happy holiday because I have seen the photographs of that Christmas. Photos often are more accurate than ancient memories or at least can trigger the return of memories with their associated feelings of happiness.) 1954 was the year I received as gifts: a used, but fully functional, Lionel electric train set; a Davy Crockett wristwatch: and a “Jungle Jim” toy rifle.

 

My Favorite Watch of All Time

     In the photographs I can be seen wielding the rifle over my head (one handed) while wearing a big smile and striped pajamas. Another photo shows me wearing the watch, sitting on the floor getting dizzy while watching my train go around in circles on the few available tracks. I was blowing the whistle and occasionally placing smoke pellets into the “smoke stack.”

     The next most memorable Christmas occurred in 1966. I had graduated from high school in June and started college at Sacramento State College. I would drive home every weekend. (This was the year I learned there was a better life without constant snow on the ground in the winter.) I purchased my family’s gifts at Sears in Sacramento. I haven’t remembered what I got my mother but I bought my half-brother and sister (twins) among other things a “Green Ghost” game. (Did you notice how I cleverly worked a real “ghost” into the title and story?) The Green Ghost game has a glow-in-the-dark board resting on legs to raise it above the tabletop and is played in the dark (hence the glow-in-the-dark part).

It was fun to play.

     I do not know if my siblings enjoyed the game being only 8-years old at the time, but the novelty combination of darkness, glowing game board, secret passages, and the word “ghost” certainly attracted me, which is why I thought they would enjoy it. However, the memorable event for this particular Christmas is the saga of the present I bought for my stepfather, Paul.

     In all of my adolescent and teenage years, I could never think of a decent gift to give him. Ties and socks just did not feel right. In 1966, I found what I knew was the perfect gift for Paul to wear while working outside in the winter (he delivered propane to businesses and homes). After much searching and indecision, I bought for him a pair of red, quilted, long underwear bottoms (the very last pair and in just his size with no matching top available). After waiting in line for 30-minutes to access the gift wrap department and submit my gift to the wrappers (not to be confused with “rappers” who had not yet been invented), I waited another 45-minutes to pick up the now wrapped gift. I noticed they wrapped the underwear in what looked like a shoebox, when I thought it would be in a flatter shirt type box. Soooooo, I naively and happily cradled the package and drove home for Christmas vacation.

     Christmas Eve arrived in due course and the presents were distributed slowly to waiting family members. The twins were anxious to open the big box labeled for them and in which they soon discovered the Green Ghost game. Paul was opening my gift to him while I was opening one for me. I remained confident that he was really going to enjoy his gift. Alas, it was not to be as I planned. (Do you remember the Murphy’s Law which states, “If something can go wrong, it will, and at the worst possible time.”) While paying no attention to Paul, I was busily unwrapping my gift, when I heard him say, “Well thank you, Rick?” with a noticeable questioning inflection. I put a smile on my face and turned around to accept his gratitude and expression of love. My smile turned into a puzzled and confused look, which actually mirrored the look on Paul’s face. For there he was holding out for all to see a pair of pink lady’s slippers. We were all slightly amused as I explained what obviously had happened at the Sears gift wrapping department, but then we all broke out in laughter when I said, “What do you suppose somebody’s mother thought when her loving husband or adoring children gave her a pair of bright red men’s long underwear bottoms.”

     Christmas of 1972 was an important holiday. I lived in relative poverty as a deputy sheriff in Tucson (Arizona, just in case there is another Tucson somewhere). My soon to be fiancé, Deborah, surprised me with a Christmas visit. I have a photo of us sitting around the kitchen table in my apartment with a scrawny, pitiful-looking, 9-inch “tree” with crude decorations on it, and Deborah is wearing a Santa hat. The atmosphere or environment of that Christmas was not fancy, but it held much love and togetherness.

     I have learned that many times in life, it is not the bright, shiny, and noisy moments (or memories) which carry the most important messages, but more often than not, it is the plain and precious moments that convey the most love and affection and deserve to be remembered.

© 22 December 2010


About the Author


Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles, California. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years old, he went to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When united with his mother and new stepfather, he lived at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After two tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com.

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The Gift by Phillip Hoyle

     There are at least two ways to open a gift—at least there are two ways I know. The first one is my preference.

     If the gift is handed to me by the giver, I politely and genuinely thank him or her expressing my pleasure at being remembered. Of course, if the gift giving  should take place on Christmas in a room full of hyperactive children serving as Santa’s understudy elf assistants, I read the tag and shout out my thank you across the room to the giver. And of course, I shout in the most pleasantly nice way possible.

     Then I inspect the wrapping appreciative of the design, the color combination, and the care taken in preparing the package in such a way as to increase my anticipation at what such a beautifully prepared box may reveal.

     Sometimes I try to guess what may be hidden inside considering the size of the package, its weight, trying to remember if any clues were given previously or if something I suggested I’d enjoy matches what is now in my hand. If no one is watching, I may gently shake it to listen for a clue, or sniff at it (I can always detect the presence of chocolate). Finally, I begin to open the present. I feel the texture of the wrapping, untie the ribbons, remove and set aside the bows; I carefully remove the tape and try to slip off the paper without tearing or even wrinkling it. I fold it and set it aside with the ribbons or other ornaments. I comment on how beautifully wrapped I find the gift. Then with all senses alert, I open the box to find the surprise so generously proffered. I feel the gift’s texture, study its shape, smell its fragrance, hold it up to the light, and smile my pleasure. “It’s beautiful,” I exclaim if that response seems appropriate. And I lay the gift to my side, still touching or tasting it, murmuring my thanks. Oh, I am usually such a cultured gift opener.
     
     But on occasion, I have a more impassioned and impatient approach. Then I tear at the paper, rip it open, cast it aside so eager to see what it is hiding. I break the ribbons, claw at the tape, wad up the wrap, throw it away. I pick up my new gift with enthusiasm. I sometimes scream out my pleasure. On occasion, I may get up to dance my excitement. Should that ever happen to you, my gift, just put your clothes back on and join me in my rumba.

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

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Wisdom by Will Stanton

          Among the GLBT
community, young guys especially have a reputation, justified or unjustified,
of being fickle, flitting from one trick to another, supposedly looking for
love but, in actuality, looking for sex. 
What supposedly counts is all physical, that is, good looks, good body,
and being well endowed.  Whatever each
person thinks he is looking for in the other person or, for that matter, in
himself, most likely will not be found through such pursuits.  If, to some degree, this phenomenon is true,
then this can be one aspect of gay identity that might prove to be a hindrance
in finding what most human beings actually are looking for and need: love.
          Real love, true
love, may not come along so often; and one must keep all his senses alert to
its possible existence.  If not, then a
cherished opportunity may be lost forever. 
Of course, to accept and benefit from true love means having developed a
certain degree of maturity and a valid set of values.  One-night stands probably are not the right
priority for achieving love.  If a
long-term, loving relationship is desirable, then one must try to see all the
attributes of people above and beyond the mere physical.
          I am going to
tell you a story.  It’s a story about
somebody else, but I never have told it before. 
Also, I’ll not mention the person’s name in respect for his
privacy. 
          After I lost my
partner from lung cancer, I became profoundly sad and depressed.  I always had been too isolated because of my
shy nature and also from my having worked alone in a home office.  Reaching out to other people was hard for me.
          I looked for a
quiet place where I could go to get out of the house.  I discovered, what was then called,
“Garbo’s,” a little, downstairs restaurant off of Downing.  Off the main dining room was a smaller room,
little used, and that is where I chose to sit for dinner all by myself.  On return visits, and with encouragement from
the proprietor, I found courage eventually to migrate to the other room where,
upon occasion, I found people to talk to.
          It was then that
I began to see from time to time an elegant looking gentleman who also usually
sat by himself but also, at times, had one particular friend, of perhaps about
forty, join him.  I observed that this man
was the only patron who always was dressed impeccably in a suit.  One evening when his friend joined him, I
overheard a dinner conversation that covered many topics that are of interest
to me, mostly in the realm of the arts. 
I was invited to join the two and gladly accepted. 
          It turns out that
the younger man was polite and pleasant enough, and he also shared some of my
same interests, although he evidently had less experience and knowledge about
the topics than either his older friend or I. 
More so, there seemed to be a certain spark lacking in his conversation
as though he might not have a real passion for any of the subjects being
discussed.  Or perhaps, lacking spark
just was his nature.  While still noting
that fact and almost to my embarrassment because I did not wish to offend the
younger man, the older man and I engaged in enthusiastic conversation,
realizing that we both had the same degree of enthusiasm and passion.
          I saw the
gentleman there for dinner only a few more times, once or twice with his
friend, and occasionally alone, during which time I joined him.  It was at our very last encounter that he
told me a most personal story, a story that has moved me deeply ever since.
          That evening, as
we walked out the door, he stopped and said, “I want to tell you
something.  I have to tell you that you
are the person I have hoped for many years to find, and I wish that I had met
you before I had met my current friend. 
You finally are the person I have been seeking, the person who has all
the qualities of personality and mind that I cherish.  I would prefer to choose you as my special
friend – – – but I can not.  I can not
because that would betray the friend that I already have, and that is something
that I just can not do.”
          At this point, he
literally burst into tears and, with great effort, standing there in the
evening light, he told me his story. 
When he was very young and very beautiful, he was an up-and-coming
ballet dancer in New York City.  He was
successful and very popular.  Many people
flirted with him, but the person who wooed him successfully was a stabile,
mature, well-mannered man who demonstrated through his speech and actions that
he had the dancer’s best interests at heart, that his interest in him was not
selfish or self-centered.  Everything
possible was done for him, helping with his career, introducing him to the
right people, providing him with a real home, and freely giving the gift of
genuine love and support.  My storyteller
explained that he understood that his partner truly cared for him but that his
own immaturity and lack of full appreciation of that love eventually resulted
in emotional tragedy.
          He continued to
tell me that, one day, he spotted another very young ballet dancer who was
quite beautiful and charming.  He
immediately became smitten with him and began flirting.  One thing led to another, and eventually they
decided to become a pair.  He told his
loving partner what had transpired and, albeit with some pangs of guilt, bid
him farewell. His former partner did not protest, did not argue, did not
accuse, but instead quietly resigned himself to his fate, although the hurt
look in his eyes never was forgotten.
          Of course, the
new flirtation did not last long, nor, as the years went by, did any of the subsequent
ones.  So eventually, my storyteller
mostly was alone. 
          Some years later,
he received news of his late partner’s passing. 
The reason that he was informed of the death was because the entire
estate had been bequeathed to him.  His
late partner had named him as his sole heir, and he never changed his
will.   For the rest of his life, he had
remained faithful to his true love despite his having been abandoned.  It was upon hearing this news that the full
impact hit him as to the love that he once had and had lost, the depth of love
and loyalty he once enjoyed but thoughtlessly had tossed aside for endless
pursuits of far less value.  And then,
still in tears, he said, “And that is why I’ll never betray anyone again.”
          I did my best to
comfort him and to show him understanding and empathy.  Once my words seemed to have had the needed
effect, he expressed his appreciation and finally bid me farewell.  Head down, he slowly walked to his car and
departed.  He never came back to the
restaurant.  I never saw him again.  His story, however, has stayed with me and
haunted me ever since.
© 3 Dec. 2012

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Going Pink by Merlyn

One
evening last fall Michael and I were on a mission. Michael needed a pink purse
to go with his pink dress that he wanted to wear to a drag show.
We
had already been in about 10 stores and he thought everything we looked at
would clash with his pink dress.
We
walked into a women’s store on the 16th Street Mall, and Michael asked this
young girl if she had a small pink purse. She looked everywhere and could not
find one that Michael liked.
Michael
and she talked about the outfit he was going to wear and her eyes lit up. “I
have a pink purse that I love, but it is covered with fuchsia panty lace! Would
you like to see it?” Michael nodded yes. She had it high on a shelf in back of
the counter over the register. I think she had hidden it so she could buy it
for herself when it was time to mark the price down. Michael took one glace at
it, and I knew he wanted it until he saw the price of $40.00.
I
never thought I would be standing next to a man in a women’s clothing store
while he was talking to a young girl about how, if he wore long fuchsia gloves,
the fuchsia panty lace purse would look great with any pink dress.
All
the time they are talking Michael was fondling the lace and playing with the
purse. I was sure he would break down and buy it until he handed it back to her
and said he could not spend $40.00 for something he would only use one time.
I
told her I would buy it for him and gave her my card.
When
we got home Michael said he could not let me pay $40 and tried to give me the
money. We settled on splitting the $40.00.
That’s
the story of how I got to be part owner of a pink panty lace purse. 

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now
living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit
area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the
United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole
life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for
the unusual and enjoying life each day. 

Posted on

Going Pink by Michael King

Oh, the glow of a sunset’s reflection on the snow. The blush of being caught with your pants down, the frills of a little girl dressed up in pink. Boys don’t wear pink is sort of an old rule. There was the pink triangle and the gas chambers for gays of the 40s in Germany. Yet in the 50s it was OK to wear the pink and gray shirt and occasionally see a pink and gray car drive by. But it seems that pink was mostly related to expensive stucco hotels, the color for little girls and bigger girls too, prom dresses, weddings, etc., and for gay men. Though I haven’t seen many gay men dressed in pink, the walk-in cooler in the flower shop was pink because the fairy co-owner expressed his gay status in that way. It was an unmistakable statement. So upon my new identity I fantasized my statements.  Red is more my color, but I want at least a touch of all clear, clean colors in my surroundings.

When it was a fact that the “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” was officially rescinded, I wanted to make a statement. As a veteran, I wanted to fulfill one of my fantasies. Quite by an unplanned circumstance I saw a pink wig at a thrift store. Immediately I knew what I wanted to do with it. Thus began a shopping spree to find all the rest of my fantasy. Both of my lovers were very supportive. Since one was working and had family responsibilities most of the search for my debut attire was with Merlyn, who soon became comfortable going into the ladies’ stores, watching my try on items, or the vintage shops, the lingerie departments and costume shops. I looked all over for glasses and then created a wire and jeweled extension to the frame of a pair of reading glasses that I accented with pink nail polish. The rhinestone earrings came from an antique mall.
Then came the big day; or night really. Escorted by my two lovers, both dressed in black, Queen Ann Tique, a name given to me by John Kelly, arrived at Charlie’s for the repeal celebration.
 I had been interviewed by Channel 4 when the vote passed and was introduced as a gay activist. From that point on my new mission has been to flaunt my gayness and now the grand entrance and celebration. Having been born a king, at 71 I was now a queen, a queen in pink.
By Christmas, I was able to add to the pink thing. I had another fantasy. In deciding to decorate for the holidays, I dragged out the decorations from storage and discovered that since it had been years since they had been used, the tree was missing. I must have gotten rid of it when I last moved, so, now to find that perfect tree. Merlyn and I were in an antique store that we frequent when we were greeted by one of the dealers with open arms stating, “Whatever you want we have.” My response was that I wanted a pink feather Christmas tree. Her eyes got large, her mouth opened and the shocked look on her face preceded the statement, “How did you know? We just got one in two hours ago!”
Again we got to go shopping for decorations. We found  a pair of fucia glittered deer, a clashing big pink bow, balls and garland and topped it off with what we thought gay guys should put on top of their pink feather Christmas tree; a fairy of course.
My next pink thing hasn’t been thought of yet, but I do have the rest of eternity to be pretty in pink or whatever.

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 4 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities–“Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”– I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.