Month: April 2013

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Nudity: A Story Noir by Ricky

In the Naked
City, there are many stories; this is mine.

     This particular topic caused me some difficulty in finding memory points from which to start. One of the problems facing me on this issue is that whatever I write might be quite revealing. So when one strips down the topic to its underlying components, there remains nothing hidden from public or private contemplation of the sum total of the subject so disclothed.

     Fortunately, some things cannot be bared in this life. The detailed workings of human thoughts are not displayed for all to see but, the results of those thoughts can be a strong indicator of what those thoughts were. Thus, allowing any witnesses to the activities viewed to speculate on the thoughts that prompted the actions; essentially the actions become a window in which thoughts are laid bare. Hence, we can easily detect (or at least infer) naked: greed, fear, display, lust, hatred, desire, power, and jealousy in others. Ironically, our language usage does not allow the terms naked: joy, happiness, intelligence, strength, or love and beauty (except in the context of pornography). The concept of nudity is generally associated with societal negativism and so the social majority perceives or associates nudity with something undesirable, dirty, nasty, and perverse.

     It would not be fair or accurate to blame organized religions for the negative view of nudity considering the hundreds of years of art featuring nude statues of men, boys, women, and girls that exist (or existed) in many religious and public parks and buildings. In addition, the palaces of monarchs and museums contain many paintings, statues, and carvings that are not only art, but also interpreted by some of our era as being erotic, highly erotic, or even pornographic. So it is not the fault of organized religions of this attitude towards the pubic display of the human body, but the fault of the individuals who rose to positions of power within those organizations who promoted their idea of morality and decency contrary to centuries of acceptance. 

     People change the concepts and attitudes in societies, not the organization itself. Organizations and governments cannot do anything of themselves. The people in leadership and bureaucratic positions within those entities cause acts of liberation or oppression—people thinking something and then causing their thoughts to become doctrine or law which then result in actions of change. In other words, people cause the problems not organizations; just like, “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.”

     In my babyhood, it was somewhat customary for a baby to have a bare-skin rug photograph taken. Mine is in my baby-book. In today’s paranoia, anyone possessing or taking such pictures could easily be charged with child pornography depending upon the intelligence (or lack thereof) of the district attorney.

     So, enough fluff; here is my revealing account—take notes for there will be a test at the end.

     From birth to age 1, I was fairly presentable at all times, however, once I learned to dress (or more accurately undress) myself, I enjoyed baring my soul and body around the house and even outside sometimes, if mom wasn’t watching me close enough. Obviously being in my birthday suit at bath time was a given and strangely enough, quite enjoyable. But, being bare for the frequent application of pain to my backside (for disciplinary purposes) was definitely not enjoyable, (I was a slow learner of obedience).

     After a fateful spanking when I was 4 or 5, my parents could not easily get me to remove my clothing for any reason as I was so afraid of another such spanking. Ironically, I had no reservations about trying to see others in a state of undress. I did not begin to “grow out of” that fearful frame of mind until I entered puberty at age 9 ½.

     Right after turning 10 my father took me to visit his brother and my cousins in Washington State. My uncle had a steam bath in his back yard and one evening one of his adult friends, my father, my two cousins, and I took one. It was my first time being naked (not nude) in front of a group of males. I was shy because of the adults (and that spanking) and mostly kept myself covered up. The adults didn’t bother to cover and neither did my younger cousins (who mostly pranced around) — I was so self-repressed, but I did do a lot of peeking.

     It wasn’t until I turned 11 that my next very significant disclothing event occurred with full intent and purpose. That was the summer I learned how nudity affected the process of reproduction (while being naked with my instructor) after which a neighborhood girl and I decided to try it. Fortunately for us (or unfortunately depending upon your moral code or at least point of view) she said that my slight penetration was painful, so being a “gentleman” (howbeit a nasty one) I quit trying.

     From that time on until I was 21, all my naked comings and goings were with my peers (except when at 16 my father added himself to my group of playmates. He was only involved with me and not my other friends.) In high school gym, the mandatory gang shower after class resulted in many naked boys successfully avoiding embarrassing erections while showering, all the while sneaking peeks at each other’s nude equipment. At the time, I was the only boy in my gym class (all four years) who was not circumcised, so I was constantly catching careless boys looking at me. At 21 years, two female peers introduced me into the “Joy of Totally Naked Sex Club”, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but still missed male with male oral action. When I got married at age 25, there followed many years (27years and 9 months) of much nudity.

     After my wife passed away, I discovered a place a little NW of Boulder where men could be naked out in the woods without harassment. I also went several times to a hot springs once owned by a nudist club south of Colorado Springs originally named “The Well” but now known as Dakota Hot Springs.

     This is my story from the Naked City and I certify that it is the truth, the whole nude truth, and nothing but the naked truth.

© 11 April 2011


About the Author


Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

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

When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

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

Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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One Monday Afternoon by Ray S

Yes, it is Monday afternoon, but not your ordinary Monday afternoon.

This is the appointed day and time that all of Ornithology Under the Sun had been ominously anticipating with great foreboding and some thinly veiled anger. Questions abounded, rancor and suspicion prevailed under a facade of collegiality.

As the procession ascended to the locked and sealed grand steel door of the upper room, which would be their aviary for an untold length of time, or at the least, until it became critical to replace the newspaper on the floor.

The space was tastefully designed to be semi-grand, suitable for such occasions as this one today. The forest green walls were quite high meeting a spectacle or frescoed ceiling blackened by a depiction of the final scene from Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” There was even an ever so realistic representation in the northeast corner of Tippy Hedron in state of shock and awe.

One by one the cardinals approached the conference table and took their assumed perches. There was much chirping, screeching, and clatter until the entrance of Super Card occurred. As he ordered silence he recognized Herr Cardinal on his left. He brought up the matter that all of these birds hadn’t had enough time to get familiar with each other and how that could color the selection of the new Supreme White Cardinal, you know, the one with the largest top knot and blackest feet–as if all of them hadn’t been preening for this moment ever since “Its Supremest” had resigned and flown the coop, so to say.

Then there was a lengthy discussion about modernizing the office allowing genderization of the highest perch to others, the brightest colored cardinals. This matter reached fever pitch when the U.K. Cardinal brought it to the groups’ attention of what a besmirchment the Scot Cardinal had made of his office. And should the possibility of other-than-male cardinals fly to the exalted throne, we wouldn’t have to concern ourselves with big cardinals fooling around with fledgling red birds.

The astounding thought that a non-male Cardinal could get elected sent the birdy-conclave into total standstill. Then Super Card reminded the males that they were no longer in the majority inasmuch as some of them were somewhat diversified in their mating habits and that this college already included five or six discriminating non male cardinals. End of subject!

A knock, or should I say, a secret peck on the Great Steel Door announced the semi-cardinals arrival to install the traditional birds’ nest under a newly drilled ceiling hole. Upon the election of the new S.W.C. (Supreme White Cardinal) the ancient custom designating the completion of its selection was signaled by “one if by land and two if by sea.” Oops! Wrong story. The signal actually is “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” A special Black Forest Cuckoo flew in for the procedure.

As the hour of decision drew nigh, anguish was rampant among the cardinals. The newspaper on the floor was almost indiscernible. Something had to happen and suddenly it did.

The black bird-obscured ceiling fresco split open to reveal a large white wing guiding a beautiful white pink-eyed dove into the room. It fluttered and glided above the cardinals’ top knots, from one to another. Then as plain as the beak on your face it lighted on the shoulder, or to be anatomically correct, the right wing of the one cardinal in the room with the greatest degree of understanding when it came to matters of cardinal-gender and wisdom.

Here was the new and revolutionary S.W.C. (Supreme White Cardinal) that would lead all of birddom into an enlightened era of “Birds of a Feather All Flock Together.”

© 10 March 2013

About the Author














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Tinker Bell by Phillip Hoyle

     Come with me to the past, not the far distant past of ancient winged gods, not that old era of medieval European romances with its cherubs, not even the Victorian age with its fancy furniture and tiny winged creatures. Come with me to my own past, to a time of enchantment, to a realm of magic and mystery. Journey with me to meet a fairy, one who traveled about in his white Toyota he affectionately called Tinker Bell. Follow us to the restaurants, pool halls, bars, apartments, homes, and mountain tops where my fairy with earthy humor and habit lived. Hear my fairy tale if you can spare the time.


     He was short, pudgy, and round-faced; his black hair thinning, his black eyes pushed a little too close together, and his black cowboy boots neatly polished; his smile broad, his voice medium-high pitched, and his wit quick; his rhythm perfect, his movements efficient, and his hopes tricky. He had no wings, he couldn’t fly, and his fairy wand wasn’t very long. Still it worked magic; I mean he worked magic on me.

     I saw him first at the restaurant where my wife worked, where they both waited tables. I sat in her section. She introduced me to several employees. She introduced me to Ronnie, my fairy. We went dancing, my wife, my fairy, several other employees, and I, out for an evening of two-stepping after their shift was over. It happened several times. My wife kept both of us guys busy. When one of us tired, the other one took over to help her achieve a spinning fix to supplement the Diet Cokes she drank. I had my one beer or two beers or rarely three beers. Ronnie had his. We danced under a neon moon, beneath howling coyotes, in the subtle light of ads for Budweiser, Miller, Tecate, and Coors. I learned never to waltz after one beer; I couldn’t keep my balance with the turns. I also learned I could still do the two-step, the Schottische, and the Cotton Eyed Joe even after two beers, not that I could do any of them very well. And there were the more challenging line dances. We laughed and danced and laughed at ourselves. We three occasionally ate breakfast after the bars closed. We loved being together.

     One afternoon at the restaurant I overheard Ronnie say, “I love to shop.” I later called to ask if it was true. “Yes, it’s my favorite activity,” he assured.


     “Clothes?” I clarified.

     “Especially clothes.”

     “Then I need you next Wednesday afternoon.” A friend had sent me several hundred dollars to spend on clothes so I wouldn’t embarrass my daughter at her high school graduation. I dreaded shopping sprees, forays that always left me depressed and with few clothes. I couldn’t imagine spending that much money in one day. They’d have to dial 911 and haul me off to lock up in University Hospital.

     On Wednesday he picked me up in his car Tinker Bell, and we began to shop. Ronnie was a shopping wiz.

     “What’s your favorite color?”

     “Grey,” I responded.

     “No, that’s not good. It washes out on you; not enough color given the silver in your hair.” Not waiting for my protests or ideas, Ronnie quickly walked down a rack of shirts. He pulled out the bright colored ones: turquoise, deep purple, red. “Go ask for a dressing room,” he instructed all the while piling his arms higher with selections for my new non-embarrassing wardrobe.

     I tried on many shirts and several pants. To my amazement, everything fit except for one pair of trousers. Perhaps they were mismarked. I was amazed, impressed.

     “I need a sports coat.”

     We went to another store and finally found a silk jacket he approved.

     “I want a belt I saw down in Old Town at the Pendleton Shop.” We drove there but they didn’t have it in my size. Ronnie tried on a black cowboy hat. It looked neat. He looked adorable, handsome, even luscious to me. “I’ll get it for you.”

     “No you won’t; it costs too much.”

     “That’s okay.”

     “No, but I will let you buy me some swimming trunks and a tee shirt.”

     We left without a hat but made our way to another store. We both got swim trunks.

     In weeks to come, I ran around with this fairy in his magical car as he wooed me. He’d call to see if I wanted to go play pool. “Sure,” I’d say. He took me to big pool halls where the lights shone brightly. We would share a pitcher of beer and play terribly to one another’s delight. He always took me to very straight establishments. I wondered what folk thought of us. Our friendship grew on these outings. We talked about interesting details of our lives.

     One day he called. “We need to go to the park for a picnic.” So he picked me up. We stopped by a grocery store for bread, cheese, a bottle of wine, and a copy of World News, that tabloid that always features ETs and UFOs. I’d always scoffed at tabloids, but that day in spring, sheltered from the sun by newly leafed trees, I found it utterly delightful. Oh well, alcohol mixes well with sunshine and silliness.

     I recall so clearly the night I was driving my fairy north on Wyoming Blvd. I reached over and rested my hand on his rotund belly. We talked and laughed. Soon we started having sex together. He made me pledge there would be no feelings. While I had already declared I loved him, I had said so in a non-sexualized context. I readily agreed to keep a damper on the feelings. Doing so was a relief for me in that it removed the threat of a complicated, destructive relationship that could ruin my marriage and career. Still, it’s really not nice to have an affair with a friend of one’s spouse.

     As my tutelary spirit, he was a thoroughgoing latex queen, surely the result of having a brother who was HIV positive. We must have had the safest sex any couple of guys had, yet still it was hot, demanding, giving, creative, passionate, and satisfying. In some ways he was a demanding bitch; he was also the funniest man I’d ever known so well. Taking off his shirt he said, “I’m Indian up here, but from the waist on down, I’m just a damn Mexican.” His torso with its smooth bronze skin and dark little nipples sported hardly a hair, but south of his belly button border, he had rather dense black hair. I liked it all.

     He taught me well. His instruction was direct, thorough, and thoughtful; he interpreted his actions, taught his philosophy, and provided adequate safety. He flavored it all with his fine humor. And he was interested in my whole life. I was a good student. I astounded him with the magic of my own directness. I’d never been so clear about my sexual needs. I urged, commanded, improvised, and pleased. Our relationship seemed pure magic as I discovered the gay sex I’d long read about. I was utterly delighted, felt like I was flying, on and on.

     He asserted that any man will do anything in sex as long as it doesn’t cost him financially or socially. His life goal was to show this truth to as many straight men as he could. “All men are pigs,” he gleefully oinked as he sought his next relationship.

     Did the affair free my imagination? I suspect so. Here’s why: My fairy liked my wife. He liked to play with me. He offered me many new experiences. He seemed insatiable. He messed with me; I with him. We developed an honesty of desire with one another. We laughed our way through it all. He was a metaphor as well as a real experience!

     So what better fairy for a tale? Boy-like, feminine, free, and facile, he flew me into a world of stardust and dreams. Together we sailed on ragwort stems and soared on the backs of birds. Often we flew on one another’s backs. Then we cooled down and moved on with our lives, still liking one another well but eventually losing touch. But the magic and mystery in the utterly open presentation of ourselves to one another have rarely been matched in any relationship I have found.

     One evening Ronnie and I flew to the top of Sandia Mountain. We looked at the array of city lights that increased as the sunset faded; the turquoise and purple tones of the mesa and mountains lost their brilliance and eventually turned black. We talked and laughed as usual. Then Tinker Bell carried us down the mountain onto the high plain at its eastern foot. We pulled off onto a side road for sex play. Ronnie amazed me; I amazed him. Our affair developed. He kidded me about my age promising to push me off a cliff at the top of the mountain when I began losing my mind. I suggested he’d get arrested for it; better that he should wait until winter and leave me up there to freeze. He could claim I simply wandered off and he couldn’t find me in the dark. Our intimacy may have grown too intense for Ronnie. I accepted his need to distance himself from me. He had warned me that if I got enough man-to-man sex, I’d want a lot more of it. I agreed that such was true and wasn’t upset about the prospect. He cooled it. I found another interested party. But Ronnie still was the magical and mystical one, a combination of nutty and practical, of entertaining and instructing, of passionate and cool. Fairies appear and disappear. So it was with Ronnie. He didn’t completely disappear. He still lives in New Mexico, and I still fantasize his being involved in my eventual exit. I hope I’ll have enough memory to find my way down there when my mental grasp starts to slip. My imagination of the scene suggests being carried once again to the top of the mountain by Tinker Bell, kissed by my fairy, embraced in his latex grasp, and gently left behind to my own fate some winter night. It would seem a kind and gentle way to say goodbye; and one could say he and I already did that. Should we ever meet again, I’ll insist that he take the gift of a cowboy hat to wear at my sendoff and to remember me by.


Denver, 2010


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.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com


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Depravity by Pat Gourley

Depravity is defined as moral corruption or as a morally corrupt act. Christian theology calls depravity the innate corruption of human nature and ties it directly to original sin. Original sin has roots in the Genesis story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It is quite a twisted little story involving a snake, a piece of fruit, an injunction not to touch God’s favorite apple tree and a wily woman as the ultimate temptress of a man apparently incapable of making his own decisions. Women get the comeuppance in the end for leading Adam into sin by having to be subservient in all matters to men and also get to experience childbirth as a very painful event.

In doing just a bit of research on this fairy tale of original sin I did learn that the Quran lays the blame for falling into the devil’s snare equally on both Adam and Eve and does not pin the blame on the female partner of the cohort. My sense of this is that the whole Christian version was cooked up by a bunch of old men trying quite successfully to keep woman in their place. A thinly veiled attempt if you will to put words into the mouth of god and thereby justify their power over women. I view the various interpretations of the Genesis story claiming it as allegory for human frailty in generally pretty much bullshit. I see it as a thinly disguised hetero male power play.

Something near and dear to the hearts of many LGBT peoples through the centuries that has been consistently labeled as depravity is sodomy. Sodomy including both oral and anal sex was still on the books as a felony in a significant handful of States here in the U.S. until June 26th, 2003. It was on that date the Supreme Court struck down the remaining sodomy laws on the books with their ruling in Lawrence vs. Texas. In many states this did involve oral or anal sex even between discordant, i.e. male and female, partners as well as between partners of the same sex. Oh and of course several states tossed in fellatio and anal sex with barnyard animals as a felony also.

In thinking about the strong historical connections between depravity, sodomy and homosexuals I am tempted to ask what is it that they were are actually afraid of? I suppose there could have been some argument made at one time that if everyone discovered how much fun it was to fuck your own kind that the human race might have sputtered out of existence. With seven billion souls running around the planet these days that argument certainly no longer holds any water. In fact very compelling arguments for the future survival of the human race can be made for sharply curtailing the reproductive imperative.

I am going to go out on a limb here and perhaps just make up some shit about why we came to be labeled as depraved. It’s hard to believe that the joys of oral sexual stimulation or the delight of prostate massage in its various forms between two women or two men was at the root of centuries of destructive vitriol and near universal condemnation. What is the real reason for “the love that dare not speak its name” being viewed as such a threat?

Did perhaps the hetero-male monopoly see the real threat to their hegemony in the form of men willing to abdicate traditional masculine roles and truly love one another? Maybe it never really was the sex but the threat to the status quo. Now there is something really depraved as they see it in abdicating male privilege.

Harry Hay spoke often of what he called our subject-to-subject inheritance. As I interpret this it is the ability of one human being to relate to another as subject-to-subject as opposed to how things usually work subject-to-object. As gay people we have an intrinsic leg up on being able to relate in this fashion. Man-to-man or woman-to-woman carries with it the potential for a more egalitarian relationship than say man and woman or husband and wife. Even more so I would say that brother and sister.

Will Roscoe has described our Queerness as a “profound ongoing motivation.” We usually become aware of this motivation in isolation with no cultural or societal reinforcement for the genuine beauty of it. So then that initial discovery that I am not alone can often result in an amazingly equal bonding on a very deep emotional and physical level.

This subject-to-subject inheritance is often not fully actualized understandably because we are acculturated into the dominant and all pervasive heterosexual worldview. That view is a male/female dichotomy where the power is clearly in favor of the male. Young boys are taught very early on to always beware of women bearing apples. Once these women learn their subservient role though, we are encouraged to help ourselves to the apple.

We as little budding gay folk, though, view others not as potential threats or competition but rather as desired equals. Now you may say that many queer relationships are anything but subject-to-subject but often unfortunately contain many elements of objectification. This is at least in part the result of internalized hetero-imitation. Our intrinsic nature or un-actualized inheritance though is to love one another as the same.

We are labeled as depraved as a means of controlling, isolating and extinguishing us. Keeping under wraps if you will our real threat to the status quo and that has little if anything to do with where we put our penises, tongues, fingers or objects of art. The threat is of course that if we are allowed to actualize our subject-to-subject inheritance we will really upset the apple cart.

Dec. 2011

About the Author

I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I am currently on an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Goofy Tales by Michael King

It seems that many tales including goofy ones start with “Once upon a Time” Continuing “In a Land Far Away” Then “There Lived a —–“
In my goofy tale I’d like the characters to have detailed and explicit X rated interactions. Of course that’s not the goofy part. The goofy part is when the superhuman abilities and equipment leaves my personal imaginary participation feeling inadequate. And yes, I can be that insecure. Fortunately, I can accept being more average when I feel accepted by others.

Now, since my once upon a time fantasy is my experience on a regular basis, all the goofy parts of the tale that I am living are the fantasies that I never expected to come true. The goofy part is that two or more grown men can giggle, snicker and laugh uproariously over the introduction of silliness, childish humor and gross descriptive imaginary scenarios.

Now, why am I not telling about the details of these goofy tales? Simple, they could not be printed due to the sensuousness and XXX ratings that can finally be enjoyed without embarrassment or apology, but none-the-less censorable content.

Yet to occur is: “And They Lived Happily Ever After.” I’m still living in the wonderful, but really quite goofy present. It’s so nice to be retired, have no real obligations or commitments to preclude my being outrageous, silly, maybe a little funny and a lot eccentric.

I guess that if I were less subjective I’d look somewhere outside of my personal experience for the goofy tales, however I find that my own life is so exciting and spontaneous I don’t need to look elsewhere, I only need to appear to others as reasonably sane. That in itself is pretty goofy.

Writing a story about goofy tales is also pretty goofy. I’m glad I allow my imagination to explore all the juicy unmentionable and provocative details that I only dare to share with my closest friends and my companion until some porn magazine offers to pay me handsomely for disclosing how goofy a seventy-three year old sex symbol can really be.

1/3/13




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, 5 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.

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Getting Caught by Merlyn

When I was a teenager, I got caught three times in one year having sex in the back seat of my car with two different girls in three different cities.

The first time I had parked in a farmer’s field around midnight. My girlfriend and I were in the back seat going at it when the car was suddenly full of light; someone was pounding on the windows shining his flashlight on us yelling, “Open up. Police.” The cop made us sit there in the back seat naked while he checked out our IDs while his partner was shining his flashlight on us. In this day and age the girl probably would have gone to jail, I was only 16 and she was in her 20s. They let us go with a warning not to trespass on posted land again.

The second time my new girlfriend and I were driving to a different parking spot when we got pulled over for sitting to close together. He checked my ID then told us if we needed to be that close together to find a parking spot. We drove to my favorite parking spot and we were going at it when the lights yelling and pounding started again.

This time they had us put our clothes then told me to find another city to park in, then let us go. We were both 17.

About a month later the same girlfriend and I were parked in a lover’s lane getting it on when a bunch of cop cars pulled in to the far side of the parking lot with their lights and sirens going. We finished doing what we were doing, got dressed climbed over the seat. Cleaned the steam off the car windows and started the motor, I was putting the car in gear when I saw a cop running towards us yelling at me to shut the motor off. Two other cops pulled a kid out from under my car. After they took him away the cop told me that they had raided a beer party and saw the guy run away but did not know where he was until I started the car. I wonder how many times the guy has told people the story about hiding under a car that was bouncing up and down while the cops were looking for him.

2/4/13

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.

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Thinking of the Kennedys on St. Patrick’s Day by Louis

     It must have been in
the late 1990’s, when I was working as a caseworker for the NYC Human Resources
Administration, I was sent to Headquarters at 330 Church Street in way downtown
New York, that is to say Manhattan. Back then I could easily see the Twin
Towers of the World Trade Center.  I had
a Citibank checking account, and there was an ATM about 2 blocks around the
corner from where I would go about 3 times a week to get lunch money. One
afternoon I went, and I noticed an extremely handsome Irish-looking fellow. It
took a few seconds, but I realized that the other young man was John F.
Kennedy, Jr. Like any “peasant,” JFK Jr. went to the ATM and did his routine to
withdraw what I presume was a small sum of money to get through his day.
     Occasionally, he was
accompanied by a tall pretty woman who dressed like a hippy. Back then all I
had to do was watch the news and I learned that she was Carolyn née Bessette
Kennedy. As the months passed, I saw both of them frequently. I learned why
they were using that particular ATM. It was located in SoHo which at that time
was undergoing gentrification, and John and Carolyn had purchased an expensive
condo in one of the tall apartment buildings nearby. The two of them were
actually my “neighbors” for the duration of my assignment downtown. I never got
up the nerve to say “hello” or “hi there,” but occasionally I would roll my
eyes at another person waiting to use the ATM to indicate there was someone
famous in front of us.
     Eventually, my assignment
ended, and I no longer got to ogle the handsome Kennedy couple. Then about a
year later I heard he and Carolyn had died in an airplane crash, actually, July
16, 1999, Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard. The news of this
accident really saddened me.
     Some speak of the
“curse of the Kennedys.” It could be a curse, I guess, or is something going
on behind the scenes that the public is not aware of?
3/17/13

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Depravity by Gillian

God I hate that word. I think because it is so often linked, by
those who condemn us, with homosexuality.
I know its origin is theological and all about Original Sin and
dates back to St Augustine, but that has little to do with its general usage
today.
(That same St Augustine, by the way, who is widely quoted as
having said, ‘God give me chastity and continence, but not yet’.)
The most-used definition seems to be moral corruption.
Now I don’t really mind the term moral/immoral, despite it’s
judgment there’s something soft and round and benign about it.
Corruption, according to Wikipedia, is, in terms of morality,
spiritual or moral impurity or deviation from an ideal.
Well, O.K., I don’t buy any of it with reference to homosexuality,
but it doesn’t have that heavy, hard-edged hatred to it that depravity has.
Synonyms offered for depravity range from baseness, contamination,
debauchery and  degeneracy all the way to
sinfulness, wickedness and downright evil.
Well excuse me, but that
just aint me.
The antonyms are things like good, honor, justice, morality and
virtue.
Call me delusional but I know that in my queerness I have my fair
share of all those qualities.
Perhaps, I thought, when I began pondering this topic, perhaps I
exaggerate in my own head the frequent connection of the word depravity with
homosexuality.
So I asked the expert.
I asked Mr. Google because Mr. Google knows everything.
Homosexual depravity got 2,220,000 results.
It’s not in my head.
A delightful Massachusetts group called Massresistance writes
about a high school play performed this Thanksgiving.  They title the article Depraved Homosexual
Musical and describe it this way.
The family deals with the husband’s
flagrant sexual relationship with another man, as well as their lesbian
neighbors, along with a heavy doses of profanity and general depravity.
Yup, sounds
pretty sinful to me.
Incidentally
the play apparently has a song which I’d love to hear, called
Don’t Make Noise But Daddy’s Kissing Boys.
The Christian
Action Network describes Gay Day at Disneyworld as an orgy of depravity.
‘We can’t
begin to describe the things we saw’.
Which begs an
obvious question, then, why were you
there??
I have to
thank this group for choosing a topic at which I originally cringed.
In thinking
about it I have seen its absurdity, or I should say the absurdity of those
little, mean, shriveled-up people who abuse the word the way they do.
They should
stick with St. Augustine who also, supposedly, said,
‘Love, and do
what you like.’
December 2011

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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Mayan Pottery by Colin Dale

What can you tell us about Mayan pottery?

Well . . . as a politician might say . . . I’m glad you asked me that question. Before I answer it, though . . . as a politician might say . . . let me say a few words about the question.

The question is a ruse. A feint. A curveball. If I thought for a moment I had to tackle it verbatim–to actually say something about Mayan pottery–I’d be at a total loss. A question like What can you tell me about Mayan pottery? is not meant to send us running to the library. Or to Google. It doesn’t expect we know much at all about the Mayans, let alone about their pottery. I’m reasonably sure the Mayans had pottery, but to come up with a story for today, I didn’t check. For that matter, they may have had Tupperware, but I didn’t check that either.

Yesterday afternoon (right after the Broncos beat the Ravens) I sat down at my laptop but was completely idea-less. All I felt reasonably sure of was . . .

Ruse. Feint. Curveball. That’s what this topic Mayan pottery is. It’s a prompt, that’s all, Mayan pottery, a prompt to get me thinking–to get me thinking creatively. I’m not a Mesoamerican anthropologist, not even an armchair one, so I might as well, I figured, go off on some fun romp with this topic Mayan pottery.

So, after supper last night, Sunday, I started playing around with anagrams. Pretty quickly I discovered that the two words Mayan pottery do not lend themselves to a mother lode of good anagrams. Twelve letters. Six consonants: m, n, p, t (twice), and r. Four vowels: a (twice), o, and e. And y (twice)–a sometimes vowel trapped inside the body of consonant.

Using the twelve letters that make up Mayan pottery, I started recombining them this way and that, hoping I’d find at least one good anagram–and, in doing so, find an idea for today’s story. Before too long I came up with A Petty Romany, so, I thought, I could make up a story about the lack of generosity among gypsies, about how small-minded gypsies can be. But, without being able to do a lot of research–something, at 9 pm last night, I didn’t have time for–I couldn’t possibly today tell you today much about gypsies, about how stingy or small-minded they are.

So, I looked for another anagram. Trying more rearrangements of the twelve letters of Mayan pottery, I came up with Many Are Potty. I thought, well, rather than saying something politically incorrect about gypsies, I could write something about to how addlebrained most of humanity is. If you’re going to be politically incorrect, you might as well spread the insult around.

Now, you might be thinking–as I was last night–finding the word potty inside of Mayan pottery, couldn’t I come up with an anagram that suggests the other definition of the word potty? Believe me, I tried, for a good half hour, but I came up empty handed. It did cross my mind–even though it wasn’t going to help me with a story–that back in the days before flush toilets, Mayan pottery and Mayan potty may have been synonymous. I could imagine a Mayan guest getting up from the dinner table and saying, “Excuse me, but I need to use your pottery.”

By then it was after 10 o’clock and still I had nothing. I was ready to give up on anagrams, but just as I was about to close my laptop and go off to read a good book, I spotted one last anagram–one that seemed almost too perfect for us: a pretty man. My first thought was: a pretty man, this is too good not to use. But Mayan pottery: twelve letters. A Pretty Man: ten letters. I had two unused letters: a vowel: o, and that questioning letter (sometimes a consonant, sometimes a vowel): y. Only two possible arrangements: y-o: yo. A pretty man, yo. Or o-y: oy. Oy, A Pretty Man. No good. I went to bed.

This morning–only a few hours ago–as I was again sitting at my laptop, I got a phone call from a friend who happens to be a poet and she suggested I look at rhymes for inspiration. I said thanks, but as soon as I was back at my laptop I tried thinking of a rhyme for Mayan pottery. Nothing good popped to mind yelling, Me! Use me! But I had told my friend I’d give rhyme a try and so I went to my rhyming dictionary. There were some close rhymes to pottery, but nothing was perfect. Of course, it was now nearing 9 a.m. and I knew if I had any hope of having a story by 1:30, I had to give up on perfection.

Strawberry? Mayan strawberry? Did I want to write about Mayan strawberries? But as I turned the pages of the rhyming dictionary, I quickly discovered that strawberry, along with a few other three syllable berries, was about it for close rhymes. I began to look at some not close or slant rhymes, but to be honest, nothing said Here’s the makings of a story. The best I’d been able to squeeze from the rhyming dictionary were Mayan capillary, Mayan stationery, Mayan dromedary.

So, I junked rhymes. Knowing the morning was wasting, I went back to my first thought: the topic Mayan pottery is just a prompt. I had license to go nuts with it. I didn’t need to find something inside of the prompt, like an anagram or a rhyme. Or tougher still: real Mayan pottery. I could go outside of it. In one online group I’m in, we give each other daily prompts–just as we do with our weekly topics–writing warm-up prompts, often off-the-wall suggestions, weird phrases, nonsense words, journaling caffeine–mind-candy to tempt us out of the comfort zone. A few of these recently have been:

Last Tuesday: The history of whispers.

Last Wednesday: We kept it in the basement.

And just this past Saturday: Peeling an orange.

Coming up tomorrow: What washed up on shore.

I had used this go-nuts license to go outside of the actual words only last Monday with our topic details. Last Monday morning I had been just as lost for an idea, when I found the single word details in a poem by a largely unknown Greek poet–who just happened to be gay–and built a story on that.

But this was today. And it was now mid-morning. I had two, maybe three hours to get something on paper. Yet I was still stuck. Anagrams weren’t going to work. There wasn’t time to research gypsy small-mindedness. Rhyme was no good. Did Mayans even have dromedaries? I began to write just how lost I was feeling–which is what I’ve got here in front of me, what I’m reading. When I typed Did Mayans even have dromedaries? it was, by my stove clock, 9:51. I did a word-count: 1,151 words. That’s a normal length story for me. I realized, at 9:53, that in writing about not being able to come up with an idea for a story, I’d come with one–not only come up with one, I’d written it!
I’d succeeded in talking about something–by not talking about it.

Just like a politician.

And that’s where I began, with the politician and the question: What can you tell us about Mayan pottery? Well . . . as the politician would say . . . I see the red light is flashing, which means I’ve no time to answer. But if you’ll go to my website, you’ll find my 54-point plan on how we need to deal with Mayan pottery.

About the Author

Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.

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One Monday Afternoon by Carlos

     The great spiritual leader Paramabhansa Yogananda wrote, “Every day and minute and hour is a window through which you may see eternity.” The message is quite profound: you have to know yourself in order to see eternity, to come into the kingdom. Although it would have been very convenient if I could have embraced my God-given gift of being a gay man by sequestering myself from the world, I required the guidance of a mentor to goad me into the eternity of my self-awareness. In an act of synchronicity one Monday morning, my mentor made his appearance, providing the inspiration that was to coalesce within my life. He became my Prometheus as I prepared to pummel off a promontory and soar through uncharted currents on my journey toward self-empowerment.

     When I was but a child, maybe 8, my uncle grabbed me by the testicles and drew out a pocket knife threatening to castrate me. After all, I wasn’t an overly masculine child, and that offended his sensibilities. I preferred the quietness of solitude, and I believed and I knew that if I were quiet enough, I could understand the chanting of the cicadas as they raised their incantations like Gregorian chants up to the sun. I knew that if I lay down upon the earth, I could feel the sunflower seeds shaking off winter’s darkness as spring rains caressed them out of slumber. Later, when I was a naive but sexually germinating boy in high school, I landed my first job as a dishwasher at a greasy spoon in my hometown in west Texas. Clearly, others already suspected what I was so fearful to recognize, that I was destined to venture after the passion that at that point in my life had no name. On the first day of the job, the cook and I were alone, cleaning up the back kitchen. He approached with what at the time was a sinfully wondrous sight, his massive dick upraised and pulsing in his hand, pointed in my direction, clearly inviting me to touch, to savor, to worship. With some hesitation, I touched it and loved it…that is until my Catholic guilt compelled me to run out like Little Miss Muffett distracted from her dripping curds her creamy whey upon discovering the forbidden and potentially dangerous spider within reach. I walked to a nearby church, prostrated myself before a statue of a crucified Christ festooned in a scanty white loin cloth, daring not to entertain ill thoughts, and I asked for redemption, for penance, for a sign. In spite of the absurdity of the situation, He did not descend from that cross in rage nor did bolts of lightening strike me dead as I had half expected. He simply peered into my soul with his all-knowing unconditionally loving glass eyes, and in that moment of incomprehensible insight and compassion, I still felt stained]. If only I had known then what I know now…that God always answers my prayers with a yes, a not yet, or an I-have-something-better-in-mind-for-you. After all, my redemption was still out of reach.

    On a spring Monday afternoon in late March, just before Easter, I left the hallowed halls of my classes at the University of Texas thinking about poetry and philosophy, logic and art. The air was thick with the aroma of sweet chaparral and sagebrush; the sky was a rapturous vault of blue. I walked oblivious to my bus stop when he caught my eye, a chiseled, blue-eyed, stud-of-a-man wearing a loose-fitting jumpsuit, conveniently unzipped down to his chest as well as a twirled mustache that only made his beguiling smile that much more delicious. He winked at me behind his black sunglasses and signaled me with his head to follow. Being aroused by possibilities of the unknown, I gave chase. I don’t know if I was shaking in trepidation of eternal banishment, imagining my neighbors’ wrath or whether I shook in anticipation of finally giving in to my temptations…probably both. I was determined that the intoxicating melody played out by the musician’s panpipes would envelop me, and that I would discover the joy of forbidden fruit even if it resulted in a fiery descent into pandemonium. I walked dutifully beside my satyr, enticed by the sensory and sensual testosterone emanating from our pores. We found a quiet place and chatted briefly, being circumspect lest we compromise too much. Our brief conversation enveloped in euphemisms culminated with my agreement to broach my inner sanctum. On that Monday afternoon my infatuations found new heights; we limited our passions to shy touching and ever-so-gentle brushing of the lips rather than torrid love-making since I was so obviously inexperienced; however, I knew deep within the core of my being that this man would in time pull me out of the quagmire of my fears. Over the next few weeks, our quiet interludes metamorphosed into a passion no longer cloaked in the aura of strawberry candles glowing from ruby-red globes or passionate crescendos from Tchaikovsky’s tragic, but romantic orchestrations. He became my mentor, my safety net, the one man who embodied all men. That afternoon was the beginning of a new life for me, and I understood the mysterious spirit that compels the barren-looking tree to bud with intoxicating liqueur every spring, thus enticing the bee to the sacred calyx of its blooms on their synchronized quest toward eternity. I started to awaken out of my blissful ignorance, and more importantly, I started to look at my accusers, daring them to threaten to castrate me again. In spite of the fact that I preferred to practice my violin rather than play war games with olive-hued plastic soldiers, I learned I was a man that March afternoon. I learned that what we call chance, may, in fact, be the logic of God. No one, not my uncle, not the fathers of the Church, and not the sanctimonious bullies within any arena or playground would ever again scapegoat me for their own failures. I recognized on that Monday afternoon that if I intuitively longed to touch a man’s engorged penis or enraptured heart and feel their strength, it was my destiny, my legacy.

     God, that mischievous trickster, smiled upon me for no longer denying the gift He had bestowed upon me. And on that Monday afternoon, I recognized why only I had understood the chant of the cicadas or been moved to tears by the gyrating dance of sunflower seeds beneath my feet. And from that day forward, I re-birthed myself enfolded in a sublime awareness that I would always look with anticipation for the next adventure, for the next ride, prepared to turn my world around.

© 3/1/2013

About the Author

Cervantes
wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to
this proposition, I often falter.  I am a
man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have
also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor,
a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite
charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask
Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to
Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the
Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic
romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious
cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of
my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under
coconut palms on tropical sands.  I
believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s
mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends,
people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread
together and finding humor in the world around us.