Month: July 2013

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Details! by Donny Kaye

One of the first television shows I really enjoyed as a kid was Dragnet with Sgt. Joe Friday and his partner, Frank Smith. One of his iconic lines for which I remember him most is, “Just the facts ma’am, just the facts!” My formative years were influenced by Joe Friday especially living with a mom who seemed to be able to find objection as details were shared. When I stuck to the facts I was more inclined to be allowed to do what I wanted to do than if I embellished at all with details. It seemed that the details of who I heard something from or where I heard it often resulted in restrictions that weren’t at all favorable to the interests of a young eight, nine, 10-year-old boy. I remember being banned from Jimmy because I attributed my use of SOB to him when questioned by my mother as to “where had I heard that language,” totally disregarding that my father used it frequently. Plus absolutely no credit was given me when using the term appropriately, in reference to my male dog. Our clubhouse was suspect, as was the far north side of our neighborhood where my friend Eddie lived and where I first tried puffing on a cigarette, not fully. Appreciating how detectable the smell of smoke was! I also learned that there were times when I could embellish with details, often which were made up, and I might receive favorable judgment and consequently, allowance to do what I wanted to do. What I realize now some 55 years later, is that those formative years and ability to stick with the facts as well as to embellish with detail when thought necessary became a way of life for me especially as a closeted man with stories that couldn’t be told without, what I presumed, severe implications and consequence. Leaving out the details of one’s life makes for a rather bland and unremarkable life experience. While at the same time trying to keep straight all of the embellishments thought necessary to cover that which seemed so necessary along life’s way, make for an interesting dilemma when trying to recollect the stories of the past. The experience of Storytime at the Center each Monday has helped me to reconnect with the richness of who it is that I am as a man who has recently come out of the closet. Beyond the opportunity to reclaim the stories that are my past, this experience is helping to create an attention to life’s details that is unparalleled.

Increasingly I am in a state of wonder and awe not only at who I am but who it is that journeys with me in this experience called “MyLife.” The details of my life are rich, exciting and inspired. My life is the unfolding experience of grace and passion. The details making each moment beyond what I could’ve imagined. I pay attention to the details not in a perfectionistic kind of way which I had refined over my lifetime but in regards to the quality that is brought to each of life’s moments as a result of being present to the detail if each moment. Just the facts? Awe, come on and tell me a little bit more of the juicy stuff that makes one squirm!

About the Author

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

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Breaking into Gay Culture by Phillip Hoyle

I didn’t break into Gay Culture but rather carefully walked in prepared for my entrance by my good friend Ted. Over many years he had coached me, revealed the ins and outs of much of the culture by taking me to gay bars, introducing me to gay people, teaching me the language both spoken and unspoken, introducing me to gay novels, showing me more of his life than I really asked to see, and talking endlessly with me about gay experience. His tutoring took on a different seriousness when in my mid-thirties I told him I’d made it with another man, a friend of mine he’d met years before. From that point on, Ted simply assumed I was gay whatever non-gay decisions I made. His assumption led him to open even more of himself to me rather than shield me from realities that would certainly become important should I leave my marriage and go gay full time! Ted was my effective educator.

About two months after my wife and I separated I made my entry into a world I had only studied. Three blocks from my apartment I entered a bar named The New Age Revolution, a bar I had seen while walking with my wife and had wondered if it could be gay. Why else would it have such a name in Tulsa, Oklahoma? I had thought about when I would be ready to go alone to such a place, thought about when I’d go there as a gay man. Would I be courageous enough to do so? Of course, I would. After all, I didn’t separate from a twenty-nine-year-long, perfectly fine marriage to an understanding and lively woman whom I adored without intending to live a fully open gay life. I had already begun preparing to leave my profession of thirty-two years, one in which I realized I would not be able to live openly gay. So I glanced in the mirror, took off my tie, straightened my clothes, walked out the apartment, descended sixteen floors in the elevator, waved at the security guard, exited the building, and walked those three blocks down to the bar. I went early, way too early according to Ted’s instruction. He taught me never to show up before ten. I’m sure I was there at 9:00. I suppose it was a weeknight; I had to work the next day. The place was nearly deserted. There was music. A few people stood around talking to one another. I went up to the bartender, said “Hi,” and ordered a beer; I don’t recall what kind of beer but it was in a bottle. While I slowly sipped at my drink, I looked around at the decorations. This place just had to be gay. I couldn’t imagine any other saloon that would display a decorated dildo on the wall behind the bar. I was pretty sure I had made it to the right place.

This was not only the first time I had been alone in a gay bar; I’m sure it was the first time I’d been alone in any bar. I grew up in dry state with a prohibitionist mother and had married a tea-totaller. I had drunk beers on occasion, but had never gone to a bar before I was in my thirties and living away from Kansas. I had rarely even paid for a drink. I thought about a gay friend of mine who said he sometimes went to gay bars simply for the spiritual aspect of it, as a point of identity, participation, and presence. I stood in the bar that night not talking to anyone, thinking about how being there certainly was a kind of spiritual experience, one of great importance to me. I was finally present publicaly as a gay man. There I was beginning my future life as openly gay.

I drank another beer. Finally I nodded to the bartender, left a generous tip (changes must be commemorated with great generosity), and exited the door. I walked thoughtfully up the hill all the time watching peripherally for anyone that might have seen me leave the place; after all I was in Oklahoma. I entered the apartment building and returned to my home. I suspect I played music and messed around with some art project. I thought about making gay saints for my next series of mixed media works. Would I become one I wondered?

That evening I walked into a bar but wasn’t breaking into gay culture. Actually I was breaking out of several important, long-standing straight relationships. My entering gay culture passed as quietly as that first night in a gay bar by myself, and I’ve never regretted that short walk some fifteen years ago.

Denver, 2012

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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Weather by Ricky

When I came up with this response to the topic “weather,” there was a large heat wave in Colorado and several major forest fires burning out of control throughout the state.

Oh the temperature outside is frightful,

And the wildfires are so hurtful,
And since there’s no cold place to go,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

The heat shows no sign of dropping,

And I’ve brought some corn for popping,
The shades are pulled way down low,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!
When we finally wave goodbye,
I’ll be going into hot weather!
But if you’ll give me a ride,
We can beat the heat together.

The fires are slowly dying,

And, my friends, we’re still good-byeing,
But if you really love me so,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! Wait! 
 I don’t want snow. I really want Baseball Nut ice cream and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.*

Baseball Nut Ice Cream

*Lyricist Sammy Cahn and the composer Jule Styne created Let It Snow in 1945 and is used here under the fair-use provisions of copyright law. Baseball Nut ice cream is a trademark flavor by Baskins-Robins. Dr. Pepper is a trademark drink by Pepsi Co. 

© 1 July 2012

About the Author

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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Keeping the Peace by Louis

When I was 6 years old, in 1950, living with my parents, grandmother and 4 brothers in College Point, NY, I experienced real fear for the first time. My parents’ home was a 2-family antique, we lived downstairs, an Irish woman, Pat, lived upstairs with her boyfriend and daughter, Gail. Unbeknownst to my parents, Pat was married to a sailor who was Gail’s father, but the sailor father had been away in Korea for a long time. Gail was 6 years old, like myself. We were playmates.

Morally outraged father showed up on the scene and assaulted Bill, Pat’s boyfriend, inflicting serious injuries on him for which he had to be hospitalized, Little Gail came running downstairs. My mother took her to the nearby house of a friend. My father called the police. The police showed, arranged to have Bill and Pat taken to the hospital. A little later another police officer took charge of 6 year old Gail. Of course I was downstairs terrified hearing all the noise in the upstairs apartment. Furniture was being tossed about. My father reassured me it would all soon be over. After the police were through, the four actors in this drama had all disappeared. The apartment was silent and empty for a couple of months. Our new tenants were an Irish mother, Dolores, who came from the Bronx and her daughter, Edna. They created some of their own interesting stories.

From what my mother later told me, once recovered from her beating, Pat moved into an apartment over a bar but had to wait for about two months until her daughter was released to her custody. Then Dad came to her front door (at that other apartment) and banged and banged and eventually broke the lock and assaulted Pat once more. Pat obtained an Order of Protection (although they might have used a different term way back then). When the police again arrested Dad, he agreed to counseling from a Catholic priest. The priest was also in contact with Pat. Dad “repented”, for a while, but after about six weeks, he returned to his wife’s apartment in the middle of the night and again tried to terrorize her.

Pat was practical. She went downstairs and requested the assistance of the two bar bouncers. Dad was released from prison, and showed up twice more but was rebuffed, pommeled and humiliated by the two bouncers who were glad to assist Pat and Gail, to protect mother and daughter. Finally unwanted visits from the morally outraged husband ceased. So in this story the two heroic peacekeepers were the bar bouncers.

Moral: repenting to please a priest is one thing, but sometimes force or “gentle persuasion” is a better deterrent. This whole episode made me think about the mores of heterosexuals. The whole notion of imposing one’s will on someone else or on another group of people, using fisticuffs, is totally foreign to me and to my family. I suppose that, according to heterosexual rules, Pat was a sinner, but sinners are supposed to be forgiven not pommeled by a bully. Or am I being too civilized?

I remember Bill the other sinner. He used to bounce me on his knee and tousle my hair. I liked the way he smelled. He had good posture and was handsome. I guess I had an idea of who I really was at the tender age of 6. Of course, I did not know the terms used, “gay,” “homosexual” and the long list of derogatory names.

Yes Bill reappeared in Pat’s life after she divorced Gail’s Dad, but left after about a year. I heard from another well-informed College Point neighbor that eventually, except for daughter Gail, they all died. Did all their suffering have any lasting meaning? Guess not.

In College Point, there were a large number of wife-beaters. Naturally, I was horrified by hearing their stories and so embraced women’s liberation as a needed political movement to give women more options than to be a punching bag for an abusive husband.

Denver, 2013

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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From the Pulpit by Michael King

Not too long after I got my divorce from my first wife I allowed myself to have male appreciation fantasies. I had curiosities since I had not done the showers, etc. that most guys do in P.E. in Jr. High and High School because I was exempt due to asthma. I had seen a few naked guys briefly but not enough to have my curiosity satisfied. I also had confusion regarding religion. Having had some personal spiritual experiences, my religious beliefs were not well thought out and seemed problematic with anything homosexual. But I was becoming increasingly intrigued with masculine appreciation and had desires to explore further
One Sunday my son and I decided to go to church. We hadn’t done that before and I also felt that he and I needed to spend more time together, just the two of us. The church we went to was the Episcopal Church in Honolulu near where we lived. It was quite ornate and definitely High Church.

I don’t know if the speaker was a priest, but I was totally fascinated by his appearance, especially his forearm and elbow.

I had never before looked at an arm in the way I was seeing his. I was totally turned on by his arm as he was gesturing to emphasize his talk. He was also good looking and seemed to be in good shape. He also was probably in his thirties or maybe late twenties.

This new experience created both emotional and intellectual conflict as well as religious and spiritual confusion. I still think this new fascination with a man’s forearm and elbow was the kind of peek experience that I can look back on as a turning point in my life. I don’t have any idea what the sermon was about, but it was from the pulpit that I first dared to let myself imagine any uncensored fascination with the male body.

It took many years for me to be relaxed about my interests or to let myself be free to fully explore the wonders of masculine beauty.

Now forty years later I am open, unashamed and thoroughly enjoy forearms, elbows, and lots and lots of other body parts and am free to do so all day long, including my dreams, my fantasies and my love life.

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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Breaking into Gay Culture by Betsy

Not only was I unaware of how or where to break into the gay culture, I was oblivious of the fact that there was a unique culture belonging to the gay community. Moreover, I was unaware that this is something I needed to do for myself when I came out.

One of my very first experiences breaking into the lesbian community was actually at my place of employment. I was working at a non-profit agency at the time and having seen some of the local lesbian literature around I learned that there existed in Denver a Women’s Outdoor Club. I understood that this was a lesbian club and felt it was a group that would appeal to me and be appropriate for me to belong to. I understood that I belonged in such a group in spite of the fact that I was still married, living with my husband, still one child at home, and was definitely “feeling” my way forward into unfamiliar territory (hoping I was moving forward and not backward, but not sure at this point).

I recognized the name of one of the members of the Women’s Outdoor Club as one of agency’s volunteers. I had seen her many times in the office. She knew I was married at the time. The next time I saw her I said to her, “I think I would like to join the Women’s Outdoor Club.”

In a hushed tone she replied, “It IS for lesbians.”

I said, “Yes, I know, and I qualify.”

“Oh,” she said. Come along on our next trip. We’re hiking up in Rocky Mountain National Park.”

The time came for the hike. My husband delivered me to the car pooling meeting place and after the event picked me up. I often think about that day. He knew what I was doing and with whom. There were no secrets. Everything was out in the open. I think he was hoping I would get a taste of the new culture and find that I didn’t fit or didn’t like it. His hopes did not come to fruition. I do not and at the time did not think of this experience as “breaking into” a culture or a group. The reality was that I was doing an activity (hiking) with a number of female nature-loving hikers. This was really nothing terribly new. The difference was there were no men in the group–husbands or otherwise, nor were we a group of women hiking together while chatting about our respective husbands or male companions.

Another introduction to the culture was a visit to the Three Sisters Bar. The place seemed rather “seedy” to me–dark and almost sinister. I had no idea who the women were who were there or what they looked like. It was far too dark to see anything. Seeing the women together was quite exciting actually. I cannot remember how I got there or with whom either. Just that it was the place to go at night.

During my coming out process I learned about a group for married women or women who had been married who were coming out or considering coming out, were gay, or bisexual or thought they were gay. The group was organized and facilitated by a woman in the community who had travelled the same route more or less; that is, she, too, had been married, raised a family, and came out later in life. Perfect, I thought. That’s for me. And it was just what I needed.

One of the meetings included a tour of the then existing women’s bars. We started with our usual support group discussion and following that left the meeting place to visit the bars. This was extremely helpful to me as I had no prior knowledge of any of these places except the Sisters. It turns out there were three or four bars and they were all quite enjoyable when one was comfortably entrenched in a group and not scared to death. I will always be grateful to my mentor and leader for her support group.

Prior to that experience and meeting many other women of my age group, I seriously thought I was unique in that I was married, had been married for a long time, and now, later in life was coming out, changing my life-style completely. But I found that to be untrue as there were many other women just like me.

In those days the Center sponsored a support group for women coming out. All extremely helpful and made the coming out process much less difficult.

I suspect the gay culture is more discernible, more definable, and takes on more importance for those individuals, gay men or lesbians, who are seeking partners, either consciously or unconsciously.

I have to say that after 30 years or so in the lesbian community and almost 30 years in a stable same-sex relationship, I do not feel that there is an identifiable lesbian culture per se. Maybe among some women there is, but to me it feels more like a women’s culture, free from the constraints, real or imagined, imposed by the presence of straight men. There are plenty of straight women who partake of activities for women alone–free of the influence, direction, or guidance of the straight men to whom they are attached. By the same token by sharing a common sexual identity most lesbians tend to relate to each other more comfortably than with straight women perhaps. In my view this does not reflect a lesbian culture, rather women’s culture. Some of my best friends are straight women. Our bonding is more around our common values and our womanhood. I believe this is true in the lesbian community as well.

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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Slang in an Historical Subculture by Will Stanton

Historical evidence shows that a significantly large proportion of homosexual language and labels arises from within or from the margins surrounding a queer subculture, that they are terms indigenous to queer culture, self-generated and self-cultivated. Perhaps one reason why social scientists and psychologists scrupulously avoid using this slang is because they realize that slang arises, at least partly, from within the minority group itself and that, to some extent, empowers it. Homosexuals have not found it very difficult to call themselves fairies, queers, or faggots, whereas they do not generally call themselves perverts, or sexual psychopaths.

Some analyses of campy language are based upon the compensation model: camp changes the real, hostile world into a new one which is controllable and seems to be safer. Camp has been a way for gay men to re-imagine the world around them. It exaggerates and therefore appears to diffuse real threats.

Many theorists believe that, especially with gay men, referring to one another with women’s names or pronouns evolved as a coded, protected way of speaking about one’s personal or sexual life. If one man were to be overheard at a public dinner table saying to another, “You’ll never guess what Mary said on our date last night,” little would be thought of it.” Other theorists believe, however, on the contrary, that more flamboyant gays refer to each other with women’s names almost entirely within a queer context in which no heterosexuals were present. It operated primarily within gay culture and functioned to cement the relations within that culture. All of the camp talk of the eighteenth-century gays (“mollies”), for example, was overheard by police constables who had infiltrated the molly houses. Such talk virtually was unknown outside the confines of a molly house.

Queer language is not something that is new to modern times. In ancient times the transgendered priests of the goddess Cotytto spoke a gay, even obscene jargon of their own.

In the gay subculture of early eighteenth-century London, gay slang was a modification of thieves’ slang and prostitute slang. As today, the mollies would ‘‘make Love to one another’’, and they used other euphemisms such as ‘’the pleasant Deed’’ and ‘‘to do the Story.’’ They had more specific verbs for anal intercourse, such as ‘to indorse’ (from contemporary boxing slang,) and ‘‘caudle-making’’ or ‘‘giving caudle’’ (from the Latin cauda, a tail.) Later in the century, sodomites were called ‘‘backgammon players’’ and ‘‘gentlemen of the back door.’’ Gay cruising grounds were called ‘‘the markets,’’ where the mollies went ‘‘strolling and caterwauling.’’ If they were lucky, they would ‘‘picked up’ partners, or ‘trade’’ (both terms are still in common use today.) Or, they would ‘‘make a bargain’’ or agree to have sex (this derives from a rather obscure game known as ‘‘selling a bargain.’’) Another variation is ‘‘bit a blow,’’ equivalent to the modern phrase ‘‘score a trick.’’ To ‘‘put the bite’’ on someone was to arrange for sex, possibly sex for money, derived from a contemporary phrase implying some sort of trickery, usually financial.

The most striking feature of the eighteenth-century ‘‘Female Dialect’’ was that gay men referred to one another with feminine names such as Madam Blackwell, Miss Kitten, Miss Fanny Knight, Miss Irons, Moll Irons, Flying Horse Moll, Pomegranate Molly, Black Moll, China Mary, Primrose Mary, Orange Mary, Garter Mary, Pippin Mary (alias Queen Irons), Dip-Candle Mary, Small Coal Mary, Aunt Greer, Aunt May, Aunt England, Princess Seraphina the butcher, the Countess of Camomile, Lady Godiva, the Duchess of Gloucester, Orange Deb, Tub Nan, Hardware Nan, Old Fish Hannah and Johannah the Ox-Cheek Woman.

The Maiden Names which the mollies assumed bore little relationship to specific male-female role-playing in terms of sexual behavior. ‘’Fanny Murray’’ was an athletic bargeman, ‘’Lucy Cooper’’ was a Herculean coal-heaver, ‘’Kitty Fisher’’ was a deaf tire repairman, ‘‘Kitty Cambric’ is a coal merchant; Miss Selina, a police office assistant; ‘’Black-eyed Leonora’’ a drummer in the Guards, ‘’Pretty Harriet’’ a butcher; and ‘’Miss Sweet Lips’’ a country grocer.

© 3 March 2011

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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Exploring by Merlyn

I have always loved to explore someplace I have never been before. The places I have been that I think about the most are the places I have just stumbled on.

We did not see anyone for three days at small lake in Utah. We were parked under a big tree with a cool breeze coming off the water that kept the bugs away from a clearing that went into the clean water. We had the freedom to be naked and do anything we wanted.

Michael and I are planning on taking a couple of trips this summer. The first one will be a short sentimental journey for Michael that will give us a few destinations in places that he hasn’t been to in 50 years. Michael grew up in Truth or Consequences NM; he went to college in Silver City NM and taught School in Artesia NM. We will spend most of our time south of Albuquerque in southern New Mexico

The rest of the time we plan on just wandering exploring places we have never been. Stopping in small towns and checking out the antique stores, galleries, and museums. The most interesting places we found on the last trip was from talking to people, asking them what there is to see and what they like to do in the area.

If everything works out OK we are planning a road trip east into New England in the fall. I haven’t been in DC in 30 years so I want to stop there for a day or so and see the new monuments that weren’t there then. We are talking about driving up the eastern seaboard from Delaware north then back across upstate New York. Michael wants to see Niagara Falls.

The rest of the time we will just wander.

An ex girl friend sent me the article she cut out of some paper and the picture she took of me on a trip we went on together in the early 80s along the Canadian border in Washington.
She called it “All that wander are not lost.”

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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Over the River and through the Woods by Ricky

In my case, the title should be Through the Woods and Over the River. In the 1960’s no one advised me about anything not related to schoolwork. Therefore, I remained confused about my personal, physical, and mental development. I did not even know that my emotional development was deficient. I was naïve about such things and could not see my orientation because “the trees were blocking my 

view of the forest.” Metaphorically speaking, I lived my life in the “woods” until the trees began to “thin out” in 1982.

I finally made it through the woods and out into the open during the summer of 2010 when I finally reviewed all the trail signs together and arrived at the conclusion that I am on the correct trail. However, I faced another obstacle – should I cross the river in front of me or remain near the woods for safety.

For the vast majority of my life, I was in denial and did not believe the signs often posted along the trail I was walking. After I accepted that the signs were correct, I pondered for several months if I even wanted to cross that wide and foreboding river.

Eventually, I did cross it when I told the members of my therapy group; I am out of the woods and now across the river. Strangely, when I looked back after that meeting, the “mighty” river appeared to be nothing more than a small creek easily walked over.

All the time I spent fearing the crossing equaled time wasted. My fears were real enough but in my case, groundless and now I am healing mentally and emotionally. I know others will have similar experiences with woods and rivers just as I know some others will have vastly different experiences. 

In life, a person will face many rivers that need crossing and perhaps there will be many woods or even forests to pass through. Different trails have varying opportunities for growth, experiences, development, satisfaction, self-awareness and offer different or strange woods, and rivers. The trick is to select a trail that matches one’s personality, abilities, understanding of the terrain ahead, dedication, preparation, and skills, or the journey may not be very enjoyable.

I hope everyone’s journey is successful and a reasonably pleasant stroll compared to a difficult, stress filled, and dangerous climb or with river crossings filled with turbulent rapids

and packed with piranha.

© 25 June 2012


About the Author

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just days 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 (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, 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 of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

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

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

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House Cleaning by Ray S

The inspiration or need to excavate some 80 years worth of one time essential acquisitions long since forgotten in their deep dark hiding places–under the basement stairs, the long forgotten coal bin, through the trapdoor to the spidery crawl space. You know what I mean. Out of sight, out of mind.

Why start? It’s just a never ending task with so many unknown challenges and memories to be confronted with. You set out to clean up the mess, sort out the savers, discard that which you cannot even remember where it came from, or was it even yours?

Because of a faint flicker of conscience fighting its way to the fore, guilt is the reward for the slacker so get on with it, you haven’t got all day or forever for that matter. The voice of conscience and virtue spurs you on to…let’s start at the top this time–it’s too dark and moldy in the nether regions.

Open the stairway door to the third floor, with trash can, broom, dust pan, and flash light it is an all out attack on the ancient history–stocked, stored, and discarded of 107 Bloomingbank Road. Watch out sleeping dreams of long ago, ghosts of growing and growing older, forbidden and forgotten memories. You’re about to be rousted out of your dusty but cozy shoe boxes, photo albums, school year books filled with pictures of people you can’t recall or one’s you yearned to know well or more intimately.

O M! There’s a picture of gorgeous Ian McCullum. I was in love with him before I even knew about same sex love, or was it lust? Anyway he asked me to be his partner in an Apache dance skit for the senior hight talent night. I couldn’t believe it. He’d been pleasant enough at school, but we weren’t pals. The truth will out. As his partner, I had to appear in black satin pajamas and flowing scarf topped off with a feathered turbin. You can guess where this was going….

After the show ended so did my infatuation primarily because Ian liked girls better than apprentice fags. So much for the 1943 year book.

Wonder if this box of 78 RPM’s would bring anything at collector’s row? Probably Value Village would turn them down. Oh well, let’s move on. Now, look at this all wrapped up in newspaper–the Chicago Tribune, June, 1941–the old and cherished Lionel steam locomotive, all that remains of your train board that you received on an earlier Christmas 1938 which was immediately commandeered by your older brother and dad. But it’s the thought that counts and you did get a tunnel and train station the next year.

Here’s a box of letters to the family when I was going to be an Air Corps hero. If naivete was a qualification for the Army Air Corp, I was overly qualified. After the Army’s foregone decision that washed out all of the cadet squadron, the men (all 18 year olds) moved on the many and varied military positions: guard duty, kitchen police, butt control, and, if you’re lucky, a corner in the squad room.

In the process of pursuing weekend passes and R&R the more important (depending on your point of view) aspects of emerging male on male associations had taken a particular precedence over sporting events and cultural pursuits; such as, the grand old hotel in Richmond that hosted a military gang bang in room 769. Talk about advanced education opportunities.

Look at this–an old post card post marked Chicago, Ill. from dear sweet Tom the warrant office that made my acquaintance on the bus returning to the Air Force Base from D.C. Just enough time to establish the fact that maybe he could find a place for me in his office. Gee, I wish I’d kept in touch after we got our Ruptured Ducks, but he was married anyway and I didn’t know about the subtleties of being BI.

More fodder for the trash bag of years gone by–some misspent, some not–one can only judge from the long view back. Housecleaning, as I told you, can be a never- ending chore that sometimes can only be concluded by one of two situations: the house burns down or you stop reading those letters and breathing.

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