Month: July 2013

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Vulnerable Gay Me by Phillip Hoyle

     A minister I had met just that day asked me, “Should we kiss now or later?”

     “Now’s fine,” I flippantly responded wondering if he was kidding. He wasn’t.

      He pushed me against the wall, pressed his body against mine, kissed me full on the lips, stuck his tongue in my mouth. He seemed to be boiling over with passion while I had been expecting a laugh or a nice, gentle kiss. Perhaps he sensed I would end up getting more than I had agreed to and wanted to make his claim. I wasn’t asking for anything from him, but I did get quite a lot. 

     That morning three of us, including a regional minister, a pastoral minister, and I, an associate minister, traveled together. I was excited about the trip to a city several hours south of where we lived. Since we travelers wanted to get to know one another better, we all rode in the front seat. (Obviously the events occurred before bucket seats became standard.) Being the youngest, I sat in the middle with my feet on the hump. A few miles down the road the muscles of my lower back started to tighten. There just wasn’t enough room for both feet to be comfortable so I placed my right foot in the well next to the pastoral minister’s feet. My leg rested against his. I was able to relax and was pleased that he didn’t pull away. So I rested my leg there much of the way to the town where we were to lead religious education workshops the next day. I was slated to room with this same man. 

     We checked into the hotel and had a short break before dinner at a nearby restaurant where we would join other workshop leaders. As we waited, the minister and I talked freely about his work as pastor and my as an associate. From our conversations on the way down, I knew of this pastor’s singular work in communications and education and of a literature program in the congregation he now led. I clarified some questions about his programming and also got a feel for his personality. As we talked, he complimented me on my personality and intelligence and said how much he thought of the minister I worked with. A few minutes before leaving the room to meet the other leaders, he asked if we should kiss. After we kissed, he indicated he had liked my leg next to his and took it to be an invitation for us to do more together. I knew our touch could be interpreted in that way and realized that I may have actually hoped to be accepted thus, but still I felt shocked by his passion. I may have said something corny like, “Thank you.” At least, I should have.

     I didn’t like the live music in the restaurant. It was too loud and not one of my favorite styles. After dinner we took a walk along the riverfront but due to the cool air soon returned to our room. There we opened up to one another even more, much more than kissing. There was massage and, eventually, sex. He took the lead but the next morning told me he had never shared sex with another man who was so active. I guess he thought I should simply play a role of passive bottom for him, but I was too creative, too excited by the things we were doing together. I was the most top-like bottom he had met. He told me, somewhat prematurely I thought, that he was pretty sure he could fall in love with me. 

     Now I knew about love. I knew quite a lot about sex. I knew even more about myself. And now I’m describing my vulnerability—a sexual vulnerability—a readiness to open myself to a man I didn’t even know but who I saw others trusted. Why was I so ready to kiss him with passion? Why was I so ready to have full-out sex? I was up against a new kind of gay experience like that in books I had read, one that was ready to have sex with almost any available man. Here I was opening up to a discrete, married man who was horny as a goat and who saw me as a delectable younger fruit ready for the picking. But that last perception was to occur to me only later. Here was a man who proposed we kiss. I was ready. I was aware that the kiss could lead to more.

     I had long experienced the tension between being vulnerable and defended in the sexual arena. The year before I had fallen in love with a male friend but had pledged myself not to go sexual with him. After all, he was a newly-wed. At about that same time my wife in frustration said, “I just wish you’d get your sex somewhere else.” Those conditions set me up for what happened, but I’m not looking to blame anyone. There were more contributors, for example, I had not had male-to-male sex since age fifteen. And, of course, that evening I was away from home with a stranger who desired me. I was needy and not shocked by my condition. I was also lucky. This late 70s sex without protection with a man who had lived and worked in large cities did not leave me with an STD. 

     I was vulnerable not only to the sex that night; I was also ready to have an affair. I had heard his words of maybe-love and a couple of weeks later, when I called him, I realized that he must be running scared, even experiencing guilt feelings. That didn’t suit me. I didn’t want the guilt feelings of another to spoil our relationship as it surely would have. My formidable defenses arose. I never called back. 

     Several years later when I saw the pastoral minister at a regional conference, he said, “Let’s go fuck.” 

     I responded, “I don’t have time.” 

     He countered with a smile and a chuckle, “I thought you’d say that.”

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.”


Read more at Phillip’s blog  artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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A Visit to the Doctor/Nurse by Pat Gourley

“The responsibility of the nurse is not to make people well, or to prevent their getting sick, but to assist people to recognize the power that is within them to move to higher levels of consciousness.”

Margaret A. Newman, Health as Expanding Consciousness, 1994.
There are fresh flowers daily, AIDS Grove in Golden Gate Park
Photo by Author

I would have thought that after forty years in health care and thirty-five of them as an R.N. I could write on this in my sleep. That proved not to be the case.

Looking back on my own considerable number of visits to a nurse or doctor and the many thousands of interactions I have had where I was the nurse I do think the most satisfying and hopefully successful interactions were those that could be characterized as a partnership.
The realization, that I suppose was forced on me through my own HIV infection and then being in a caring capacity for many dying from AIDS, was that we, the medical establishment, were essentially helpless to make it all better. Our role seemed to be postponing and ameliorating the inevitable. This could obviously get very depressing in a hurry and I was occasionally asked over my 20 years of direct HIV care why I hadn’t “burned out.” I guess I never had a very good answer for that but looking back then and now I think I never felt that way, certainly not for very long.

Even in an AIDS clinic I was able to find joy in my work. On my best days I think it can be summed up with another quote from Newman: “The joy of nursing lies in being fully present with the clients in the disorganization and uncertainty of their lives – an unconditional acceptance of the unpredictable, paradoxical nature of life.” In other words always be aware that shit happens to everyone sooner or later. My own personal description of confronting this reality goes something like this. “Hey, we are all in this together and its always going to be messy, whether we are talking about the secret sauce from that Big Mac dripping down our chins or the drainage coming out of our private parts.”

A totally anecdotal observation on my part, and one certainly not applicable to all, is that hospice and oncology nurses tend to hang in there for a long time whereas ICU and ER folks tend to come and go much more quickly. Maybe that is why you see so many young ones in the urgent care settings and a lot more grey hair on those hanging your chemo. Perhaps this is due to a relationship in one setting predicated on a lot of adrenalin and the “I am here to save you” mentality while the other being more of a partnership that involves mutual problem solving around the issue for the day. Or perhaps it just takes a few decades to learn the art of compassionate communication?

I certainly am not suggesting that if you go to an ER with crushing chest pain that you should first insist on a mutual dialogue to outline a plan of care before they reach for the nitroglycerin. Give the providers all the pertinent information they ask for and then let them do their thing and hopefully they won’t have to reach for the paddles.

A key realization I came to some decades back, and I relate it to a combination of ICU nursing and the books of a physician named Larry Dossey, was that you really cannot as a provider and also as a patient view illness as bad or a failure. Margaret Newman, the nursing theorist quoted above, also planted the seeds for this in my nursing school years. I think it was Dossey who brought to my attention that health and illness are really two sides of the same coin; you cannot have the realization of one without the other.

It is, I think, when either or both the provider and the patient, perhaps even just subliminally, have the idea that someone has fucked-up that the real trouble starts. This leads to judgment and defensiveness and not an honest sharing of all the gory details that are often a part of everyone’s life. I am not implying that we don’t often make impertinent choices that have consequences, but that should not compromise the reality of the here and now and certainly does not need to define how we and our nurse or doctor will address the problem on the table at that moment. Those of us repetitive sinners can take some, rather sick I suppose, solace from the fact that a whole bunch of bad stuff happens even to those who are always doing it the “right way.”

What I think Newman was referring to as “moving to higher levels of consciousness” is realizing that we do not need to make so many impertinent choices.

As a patient if you have a truly nonjudgmental provider, not always easy to find, there is absolutely nothing you can tell them that will shock or if it does it will be only a transient reaction that is soon put into appropriate perspective. All the cards need to be on the table or an effective plan for addressing the issue at hand is often needlessly delayed. When honesty is involved many fewer mistakes get made in deciding on any intervention.

An example of this I heard once was, “I think I got this hepatitis from a bad lime in my drink at the Triangle,” when much more helpful information would have been, “Do you think maybe I got this from licking butt at the baths a couple weeks ago?” I have countless examples of this sort of magical thinking handed to me perhaps in an attempt to either not shock me or make me not think less of the person. Happily over the years of building trust with many of my clients we were able to dispense with the bullshit and cut to the chase, almost always facilitating a better outcome.

If we as both patients and providers could approach each encounter as an endeavor at caring for the soul everyone would be much better off. I’d close with another quote this one from Thomas Moore and his 1992 book Care of the Soul:

“Care of the soul… isn’t about curing, fixing, changing, adjusting or making healthy…. It doesn’t look to the future for an ideal, trouble free existence. Rather, it remains patiently in the present, close to life as it presents itself day by day….”

Gourley 6/23/2013

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 have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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To Be Held by Betsy

When I was an infant, the scientists–physicians and psychologists–who knew everything there was to know about mothering, all proclaimed that holding your baby too much was not a good thing. The consequences of this seemingly natural human behavior was, in fact, risky. Babies could grow up expecting to be held all the time. They would become dependent on being held, they would become “spoiled.” Also at the time cow’s milk or cow-milk-based formula created by humans and promoted by the forces of capitalism, was better for a human baby than human milk which was, after all, only poor mother nature’s formula for what is best for a newborn.

Years later when I became a mother the same thinking was prevalent–except for the milk ideas. There had sprung up in recent years a group of rebel mothers called Le Leche League. The group promoted breast feeding among new moms. They had a book which described the benefits of not only the milk, but also the process of delivering the milk, not the least of which was to hold your baby close while feeding him. They held the notion that there is a reason the female human body is configured as it is. That properly and naturally feeding your baby required holding him close.

I actually heard many mothers at the time say “The problem is that if you breast feed your baby, you will become completely tied down to him/her.” When I told my doctor husband this, he had the perfect answer. “Well, a mother SHOULD be tied down to her baby. That is how a baby survives and thrives.”

My oldest child did not have the benefits of breast milk for very long. The pediatrician instructed me, a very insecure novice mom, to begin supplementing the breast milk with formula after two months or so. Why? Well, baby needs more milk and it was believed baby could not get enough milk from its mother alone. I soon learned that once you start the process of bottle feeding, baby learns really fast. It’s much easier for her to suck milk from a bottle than from a breast. It flows much, much faster out of a bottle and, well, they don’t have to work so hard to get it. Then, of course, they don’t want the breast milk, demand for the rich liquid plummets, and the milk-making machine quickly becomes non-productive.

I later learned that breast milk is the best, there is plenty of it as supply usually meets with demand, and it works perfectly for about one year, longer if one wishes, and if the feeding is supplemented with a source of iron.

Actually, in a society driven by corporate profits the truth is the main problem with breast feeding in that the milk is free, so long as the mother is properly nourished and hydrated. No one is buying anything. No one benefits monetarily from that method of feeding, no one except baby and mother. No corporate profit is to be made. Baby and mother alone benefit.

It seems that to be held IS important–not just for babies but for children and adults as well. Being held promotes healing, comfort, security, well being of all kinds. It is hard to imagine how it ever came to be regarded as detrimental. Yet the notion continues in some minds.

One of the first complete sentences my oldest child ever uttered was, “I want to behold.”

Of course when we first heard this we asked, “behold–behold what? A star in the East.

What do you mean, “I want to behold? Oohh! You need comforting and reassurance. You want to be held.” we said, realizing that our brilliant three year old was not familiar with the passive form of the verb to hold.

Holding in a loving way and being held is loving behavior. What adult does not want to hold a kitten or puppy immediately when he or she see it. I think holding each other as an expression of love is something we learn or at least become comfortable with early in life. I think we could use more of it in this troubled world of ours. I’m all for it.

Denver 2013

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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Cleaning as Metaphor by Nicholas

The winter was long and dark with many days overcast with clouds that looked like they’d been beaten up and bruised. Little snow came to cover the frozen dust. Some days the only good news was that there was no bad news.

But then fresh green sprouts began pushing their way through the winter muck. Small yellow and purple blossoms appeared. Spring happens no matter what. And with spring comes cleaning—cleaning house, cleaning the yard, cleaning up my life. 

I like to clean. There’s something about cleaning and being clean that says to me “fresh start,” “things are under control,” “I actually can do something about something.” Dust bunnies be gone, I am in charge. House cleaning is a metaphor for getting life in order and I like order. I can’t say when the next dash to the Emergency Room will be but, damn it, I can keep the bathroom clean. House cleaning is really about power.

I also like cleaning house because I have a fondness for stupid little busy work, i.e., chores. Chores take up time, distract one from whatever you need distracting from, and give one the illusion of meaningful activity, of doing something that, really, after all does have to be done. Chores are an existential act, a sign of being, or, if you’re a philosopher, being-ness. Cleanliness may or may not be next to godliness, but it is right up there with human-ness. It’s like your mother used to say about your room: “Does some animal live here?”

Cleaning house is important. It is so important that I am willing to pay someone to do it for me. After all, the exchange of money is the highest form of activity in American society, so it is fitting that this noble endeavor should be further honored by the payment of cash to another to do the actual cleaning. 

I keep a pretty clean house and since we don’t have kids or dogs, our house does not collect inordinate amounts of dirt. But still, dirt does accumulate and there are some things that I just won’t do. I will vacuum the carpets but I hate dusting things. I almost would rather throw them away than dust stuff. So, I pay someone else to dust my trinkets and souvenirs. 

House cleaners come into my house and make my little house cleaning busyness look like actual work, like a science. I know I can trust these professionals. They know how to tackle a project like dusting wooden slat venetian blinds. I would just slap the things around and get fed up, say it looked good enough and quit. But cleaners take to it like a surgeon doing an operation on a vital organ. They have a plan of attack and follow it. I figure, it’s knowledge and skill I am paying for, not just relief from drudgery. I admire the professionals who actually do take house cleaning far more seriously than I ever do.

I used to be one of those professionals making my living for a time cleaning up other people’s messes while I struggled to make a living as a freelance writer and journalist. It is work cleaning a house and that’s another reason I don’t begrudge someone what I pay them to clean up my dirt.

But sometimes I just let the cleaning go. Today, for example, I did not get around to cleaning the bathroom which does need it. Instead I spent the morning finishing this story. Some things trump even house cleaning. 

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Multi Racial by Michael King

Diversity is the characteristic of life. This is true of humanoids as well as all other life forms. Creatures that are similar tend to group themselves and are often defensive or even hostile toward beings that are different. The early humans dating back a million years seldom came into contact with the various subhuman groups that hadn’t developed the brain capacity to express wisdom and forethought and eventually became extinct. It is the focalized bones of these subhumans that have been found and incorrectly labeled as ancestors. Present day humans are in the ape family as were the various groups of unrelated subhumans.

The true humans continued slowly to evolve for about five hundred thousand years when the racial diversity occurred. There were the primary colored races, red yellow and blue and the secondary colored races, orange green and indigo. When the colored races mated with the precolored peoples the dominant genetic makeup of the colored parent was always passed on to the children. Only one group of the precolored peoples still exists as the Eskimos of northwestern North America.

The natural animosity toward beings who are different kept the racial groups somewhat separated and often in conflict when small bands encountered each other. Intermixing was rare but did occur. The half-breeds were usually discriminated against as were the captive slaves from warring groups. Trade brought together dissimilar peoples more peaceably and when the differing humans were in close contact interbreeding occurred more frequently.

Over the last five hundred thousand years the green and orange races were wiped out or to a minor extent absorbed into the more blended groups. The indigo race for the most part became isolated in sub-Saharan Africa but in northern Africa and around the Mediterranean there has been much intermixing of most of the colored races

The red race settled in northeast Asia until somewhat displaced be the yellow race, although many remained in what is now Mongolia. The Japanese is a blend of red and yellow and some of the red peoples migrated to North America. Most of the blue peoples settled Europe with considerable blending. Around thirty eight thousand years ago the violet race emerged and became blended with all but the red peoples of the Americas and the Indigo peoples of sub-Saharan Africa with the majority in northern Europe.

There are mostly multiracial peoples now on the planet and the blending of races is increasing at a rapid rate. Differences in skin color still bring about conflict when ignorance, prejudice and hatred is taught to children who pass it on to succeeding generations. In recent history there have been many examples of ethnic cleansing, vicious slaughtering and gross mistreatment of fellow humans. Greed, power and prejudice pathetically have not diminished.

I am probably as multiracial as anyone however since my more immediate ancestors came from Europe the mix of red, yellow, blue, violet and possibly orange and green mixed with the precolored peoples is also the multiracial blend of most European peoples and a large percentage of immigrants in North America. New DNA testing is showing that besides the red race there are traces of most of the colored races in the indigenous peoples of South America precluding the arrival of the Spanish five hundred years ago. The Cherokee have some of the same DNA as the Hebrews and the Incas contain DNA similar to northeast Asians. Only a small percent of DNA can be presently understood. We will have a much clearer perspective when the other ninety some percent can be analyzed and so much erroneous theories can be corrected. Most of my encounters with follow humans have been cordial and I have had warm friendships with the individuals from most racial and ethnic groups. It has been a joy to travel and in the process connect with people from a different culture and racial blend.

It is my hope and the hope of most people that we can learn to accept, respect and enjoy one another. No matter how diverse we appear we all share some of the same ancestry and exist on the same planet where we can still become ecologically kind and appreciate the magnificence of all existence.

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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Writing by Merlyn

I have never been and will never be what I consider a good writer.
Most of my life I made a real good living fixing things
The only writing I needed to use until story time was filling out the work orders,

I was real good at writing the three C’s. (Complaint-Cause-Correction)
I never wanted the people that approved paying me to question what I did to fix whatever I worked on.
I used the least amount of words possible and used just the facts that I knew they needed to know.

I enjoyed working on something that no one else could fix. 
Everyone likes a challenge. Some people like to work on crossword puzzles. I loved to work on the unfixable. I would get so wrapped up in what was causing the complaint that the day would fly by until I found the cause.

I had to help a new kid fill out the three C’s once after he had turned in the paperwork.
(Complaint: won’t run. Cause: broke. Correction: replace broken part). He used 6 words but left out all of the facts.

I have been coming to the Telling My Story group every Monday afternoon for almost two years, most of the time I do have a story to share but the words don’t flow from my thoughts to the keyboard. When I first started I would peck away at my keyboard for hours till I had about 900 words in the Document, then I would I edit all the crap out of the story and end up with a round 300 words. I’m getting better, I find it a lot easier to get what I’m feeling into my stories but I can’t honestly say that I don’t enjoy the writing part of Telling My Story. This story has 381 words.

I really come to story time to hear everyone else tell their stories. Almost everyone in the group has been writing all of their lives. When I listen to them tell their stories I can feel the emotions they feel about the subject. I can tell how much thought they put into each sentence as they wrote it and I think they have a lot of fun writing their stories.

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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The Rise of the Guardian Angels by Louis

From September 1962 to June 1966 I attended Flushing High School in Flushing, Queens, NY. There were 3 types of preparation regimens one could follow. First there was the academic or college preparatory. I was in that group. Most of my classmates were Jewish. Then there was the commercial course, consisting primarily of teenage girls preparing to become secretaries. The boys in the commercial course studied woodworking and some English. The commercial course people were primarily white. Then there was the General Course leading to a minimal type of high school diploma. This was almost exclusively black and Hispanic.

The first year I attended, I was assaulted a few times by some white gang members. Even back then they called themselves the “Aryans”. They were mostly Germans from my home town of College Point. Then there were the Amazons, the girls’ gang. They invited me to join their gang. I agreed. They knew I was gay and said I was their type of client. They attacked members of the Aryans, and I was never bothered again. Once the Amazons wanted to attack a certain girl named Monica. Monica was very refined and soft-spoken. The Amazons were heavily made-up and somewhat aggressive. I beseeched them not to beat up Monica. So they spared Monica. Once the Amazons wanted to attack a small-statured Jewish boy, Charles, who read a lot of books. I again beseeched them not to attack him. So Charles was spared.

Once, before I went to high school, I was in the local park, Chisholm Park, in College Point, and I was sitting with my brother Wally, who was reading The New York Times. For some reason this enraged one of the local Aryans, who came over and set fire to the paper with a cigarette lighter. We were more amused than intimidated. We also had an Italian-American friend, Patsy (at home Pasquale), and he liked to read books and poetry. So the Aryans used to bully him too. I guess College Pointers were expected to stay away from books.

Although I was spared being bullied any more, the gangs still made life unpleasant in High School. One of the Aryans told me that, in their meeting, they really wanted to attack the black gang, the Panthers (or what have you), but they couldn’t because the Panthers were too numerous. So they decided to attack the Hispanic gang, well more precisely the Puerto Rican gang, the Borinqueños. Gradually, Flushing High School became a police state. Sections of the school were separated by large metal gates manned by policemen sporting well-displayed pistols.

The friction between the Aryans and the Borinqueños intensified, and a “rumble” was declared. The rumble or “armed” confrontation was planned for a summer evening on Main Street of College Point. The Borinqueños had machetes while the Aryans had heavy-duty chains. The rumble started by both gangs breaking out the front windows of almost all the stores on our Main Street. No gang member got killed, but many were injured and hospitalized. When the police first showed up, they could do nothing because they were outnumbered. Reinforcements did not show up for another couple of hours. By then most of the gang warriors had disappeared. They were particularly proud of the damage they had caused and of the injuries they had inflicted on members of the opposing gang.

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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Being Held by Will Stanton

It was a balmy evening, and the scent of tropical flowers permeated the air. Through a gap in the high jungle canopy, distant stars twinkled in the dark sky. Parrots, macaws, and a myriad of mammals sang their evensong, the music of jungle depths. I lay dreaming in my hammock, drink in hand, and with a sense of contentment.

Andy joined me, sensuously sliding into the hammock with me. I’d known Andy since he was little. It was a curious relationship over the years, Andy and I; at least, some people thought so. Actually, some people worried that Andy was not very trustworthy and said so. Joe, the guy who brought provisions to me from the village, frequently looked askance at me and made critical comments. I knew that he genuinely was concerned, but I grew tired of it; they didn’t understand. That’s why I moved way out here so Andy and I could be pretty much alone.

Andy certainly was affectionate, though. He snuggled against me for warmth and gently flicked his tongue in my ear, giving me a slight, chilled shiver. Andy could be rather dominating at times, but I had to be careful how I responded. If I rejected him too abruptly, he could become rather temperamental. So, I usually let him go ahead, wrap himself around me, and hug me. He was strong, but that was not surprising. He was grown now.

That night, Andy seemed more interested in me than usual, and a little rougher. He gave a little squeeze, and it left me breathless. “Not so hard, Andy,” I said; but Andy’s hug grew stronger. Was he trying to engage me in a little sadomasochism, or what? He brought his head around to face me. I didn’t like the look in his eyes, cold and determined. I actually began to be rather frightened. Was Andy as dangerous as some people said? A hug is one thing, but making my ribs ache was quite another.

“Don’t move! I’ve got him!” came a familiar voice. I caught a glimpse of Joe running up to where I lay with Andy. A loud explosion shattered and pained my ears, followed by a loud ringing. Blood splattered across my face. Horrified, I wrenched myself away from the bloody mass that used to be Andy’s head. His body loosened, and I scrambled out of the hammock. Gasping, I lay on the ground. “Are you alright?” asked Joe. Still out of breath, I nodded.

I gradually gathered myself up and stood there with Joe, gun still in hand, and looked down at what once was my friend Andy. I was in shock, but I also could feel a sense of relief. Joe had been right all the time; Andy could not be trusted. He might have been cute when little, but it was downright foolish to keep him around after he had grown so big. Forty feet is pretty darn big, even for a green anaconda.

© 08 October 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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Keeping the Peace by Ray S

Maude and Emily, nee Clyde and Frank Le Clerke, they were married in Canada and Frank took Clyde’s surname in preference to his own Germanic Danglebunger.

They have a long history together, now in their late sixties they are the epitome of ideal monogamous married folks. Oh once in a while they were known to stray from the straight and narrow but just for an occasional fling—nothing more than a brash alcoholic one nighter when one or the other was away on business, and later in life the excitement of some mutually arranged three-ways. But, enough of the intimate details.

The two had met soon after the Stonewall period in a rather select hotel bar, not the usual black hole of Calcutta with a key to the back room. At the time they were two butterflies emerging from their constrictive cocoons. Clyde was a wanna be theatrical producer whose primary occupation was assistant to a well-known stage costume designer—until retirement recently.

Lt. Col. Frank Le Clerke, nee Danglebunger, Retd. had enjoyed a carefully closeted military career with the aid and cooperation of his lovely wife, now moved on to greener pastures. It had been a rewarding-in-so-many-ways period in his life, even with the 2.4 children and a choice dictated by a good WASP family life and successful entry to the military academy. You had to do what formulas and middleclass America required then, and other possibilities were unheard of, replete with influences leading to a reward of hell and damnation. Thus knowingly or unknowingly he sought the cozy confines of the nearest closet.

Since all of that water passed over the dam, the “girls” have led a relatively peaceful and comfortable gay life. They are now rewarded with five grandchildren, courtesy of the younger Danglebungers, and the acquisition of an early twentieth century brownstone overlooking the city’s downtown. Needless to say, Clyde supervised the interior makeover of the old house. Frank saw to the bills and supervised the various young sub-contractors.

As described in the preceding information, all was harmonious at 6969 Oak Avenue until several months ago when the subject of the approach of the annual Gay Pride events and especially the grand parade on the last day of Pride Week came up.

For as long as they care to remember they had entered into the parade plans with enthusiasm verging on manic. Each year their entry and participation had to outdo that of the last. Hadn’t they won first prize seven odd times and become known as the Queens of the Floating Prides? These two were committed, this time of the year preempted all other yearly celebrations including birthdays and holidays. Each had his just due by the Pride Parade, and their own entry took the lead.

But this year try as they may the two couldn’t seem to agree on a theme and subsequent design and costumes. Was there anything in the way of stories and guises that the city’s drag queens hadn’t used before? The answer was of course NO, but there had to be something different this year.

What about a miniaturized replica of the Stonewall on the float with the two of them dressed as a drag queen and a New York cop? Frank said yes, and he could even wear his old Army sidearm. Clyde responded that Frank was too old to expose himself, when Frank then corrected Clyde explaining sidearm was a common term for a pistol in a holster, not an anatomical part.

Clyde had his own grand vision of the two of them presenting themselves as models in a 1920’s fashion show descending a circular staircase built on the float. Turned out to be too high to clear the utility lines across the parade route. What about a Broadway Ziegfeld follies theme, lower stairway with them costumed in Clyde’s own designed follies gowns. Frank didn’t like the stairs in any case because he no longer was as steady as he used to be in those six-inch stiletto heels.

Alas, the time was growing shorter and neither could agree; keeping the peace was to be a lost cause.

It was three weeks to go and a Saturday morning. Frank had suited up for his early run in the park. Clyde had accompanied him, only to find his usual park bench close to the running path so as to enjoy viewing all the naked boys, well at least stripped to their waists. Springtime in the park turned out to be inspirational in so many ways.

Frank enjoyed the respectful, admiring and acknowledging similes of some of the naked boys as they passed him. He visualized how these men would appear dressed or undressed as Athenian athletes racing each other in an Olympic marathon. He was glad he had his loose fitting running shorts on.

Clyde was distracted from his studies by the nearby cackle and proud array of one of the park’s peacocks in full plumage display. “That’s it,” the light bulb shown brilliantly in his creative imagination. He hadn’t been a producer in show business, but he had produced some great costume designs. Hope springs eternal!

Sunday morning, the parade’s designated meeting place has been accomplished and the show is well on its way. Weather is cooperating, the girls’ pancake and mascara isn’t running. The bands are playing loud and noisy. Then to the tune of the familiar “Moaning Low” the contingent of “Floating Prides” arrived at the reviewing stand.

Oh, so many beautiful, bizarre, horny queens in full array and display. It was a wondrously true sight to behold.

But what of our girls? Where were the perennial prize takers?

Seems that Saturday afternoon after the park, Maude and Emily, nee Clyde and Frank, had a nice al fresco lunch and bottle of bubbly to discuss some brand new float designs gained as a result of their morning’s exertions.

Then as so many old queens tend to do, they went antique store browsing. Nothing in particular in mind when both were struck by a really cheesy style gold guilt pharaoh-like throne, replete in leopard print upholstery. Ta-da.

OMG—look at that! Here comes a team of four sort-of-white horses with applied zebra stripes drawing a float complete with a temple of Karnack backdrop; raised dais for that chair now elevated to a throne for none other than Cleopatra dressed in shimmering gauze revealing her tasteful black lace lingerie and fish net hose. All of this crowning her black Egyptian wig with a full peacock crown. I swear it could have been Claudette Colbert in the DeMille Cleopatra, or maybe even Liz.

And at her side in full man-tan stood as naked as he was allowed due to children attending the parade stood Frank, nee Emily—this time doing his damndest to recreate the fit Frank Danglebunger of past times. Marc Anthony would have looked half as good if he had lived long enough to qualify for various military benefits and Social Security, or whatever.

The horse-zebras drew our two Pridly Queen’s float past the dignitaries on the reviewing stand (one of the animals couldn’t hold it any longer—must have been all that music and cheering) and left a respectable deposit for the occupants of the reviewing stand, as well as the rest of the parade. Oh shit! But they kept the peace in the Le Clerke homestead for another year.

Denver, June 2013

About the Author

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The Great State of Gay by Gillian

A Limerick

A lightning bolt hit me one day,
It left me with nothing to say.
You’re gay, don’t you know? How can you be so slow?
So I checked out the gay state of play.

Caught up on a runaway train,
I hurtled through darkness and rain.
I had to come out, not a whisper, a SHOUT.
I could not, ever, go back again.

I came out to them, young and old
I don’t know what made me so bold
I stood tall and proud and I shouted out loud.
The spy coming in from the cold.

This action might not have been wise,
I took it against some advice
But there’s nowhere to run, and it’s all been such fun,
Just go with the roll of the dice.

So here I am every Monday*
Caught up in the gay state of play,
I live a great life – even took me a wife
Here in the great State of Gay.

*Monday is the day we have our storytelling group.

The Wisdom of GLBT Identity    11/26/2012

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.