Sweetness Personified by Gillian

Sweetness
is not so very common. I have rarely, in fact I think never, heard anyone
describe themselves as sweet, it seems to be an attribute solely bestowed by
others; and then, as I say, not with great frequency.
My
mother was sweet. I thought so, as did most of the people who knew her. I doubt
my dad agreed, but that’s another story. Family baggage skews perceptions. And surely
there has never existed anyone so sweet that they were thought to be so by
absolutely everyone. There are always exceptions. Mom was a teacher and
generally considered sweet by kids and parents alike. She taught in one room of
the local two room school. I doubt, these days, anyone seen as sweet would
survive long in most classrooms. Back then, she just rang a tiny bell and children
scuttled to their desks, where they sat silently, arms folded, awaiting orders.
Of course there were the trouble makers, but I think they were perhaps somewhat
disarmed by my mother’s character. Tricks and scheming and deviltry tend to wither on
the vine when faced with sweetness.
My
dad was probably not seen as sweet by the men he worked with, nor the local
farmers he occasionally chatted to and very occasionally drank with in the
local pub.
He
most certainly was not seen that way by Mom, peering around that family
baggage. But to me he was kind, and thoughtful, and caring. To me he was sweet.
My
mother-in-law was sweet. I thought so. Her grandchildren and
great-grandchildren thought so. My husband, her son and only child, did not
think so. More family baggage.
I
doubt too many people see me as sweet, though I would claim to have my moments.
There
was just one who consistently called me sweet, both directly to me and in
describing me to others: my oldest stepson, Gary. Now for a teenage boy, and
later a grown man, to describe the traditionally evil stepmother that way must
mean one of two things. Either he is delusional, which in Gary’s case is abundantly
plausible as he was a confirmed alcoholic, or she is one terrific stepmom, and
I’m going with the latter.
Actually,
I can understand why I might have seemed sweet to him. He was, at the time he
entered my life, a confused and angry twelve-year-old with a drinking problem.
His mother, confirmed alcoholic herself, just encouraged his drinking. His
father simply went ballistic at Dale’s every delinquent act, which were legion. So that left me as
the sole parental influence who tried to talk calmly about his antics; to
understand, to see his view of the world. I failed, in the long run, to bring
about any major changes in Gary’s behavior. He died two years ago at the age of 55 when,
lounging naked in his hot tub with his wife after a day of heavy drinking, he
suffered a massive heart attack. I was, of course, heartbroken. But now time
has softened the hardest edges, I see perhaps it was not quite the tragedy it
seemed. To die instantly, naked in a hot tub with the one you love, drunk out
of your skull; that has to be one of the better ways to go.
Yes,
sweetness is very much in the eye of the beholder. Maybe Eva Braun even thought
Hitler was sweet. Who knows? I believe we all have a streak of sweetness in us.
To some it appears bright and wide and solid. To others, pale and weak. Some
people perhaps strengthen it, while with others it diminishes or disappears. None
of us can be sweetness personified to all of the people all of the time.
It’s a hard thing to gauge;
difficult to measure its results. If I act towards someone in a negative or
positive way, I can generally have a pretty good idea of what the results will
be; how I’ve
made that person feel or act. But I don’t even know if or when I’m being perceived as sweet, so it’s almost impossible to know the effects. Most emotions I can, if
I try hard enough, maintain at least some control over; determine not to get
angry, to be patient. But I have never actively decided to be sweet. I would
not know how. But I do recognize sweetness when I see it in others, and I know
one thing. I sure hope that somehow, in this new world in which plain old
politeness and civility seem to be dying fast, we do not bury sweetness along
with them. We would be much poorer for the loss.
© July 2014 
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.

Dreams by Gail Klock

          As she strolled confidently past our
car on that warm summer day I was struck by her beauty, inside and out. It’s
been at least twenty years since our eyes met as she graced me with her
heartwarming smile. I still think of her…I dream of having her spirit.
Twenty
years ago having the self-assurance of this transvestite was beyond my being,
but not beyond my dreams. I had some major internalized homophobia to overcome.
Let me digress a little, well maybe more than a little, to my nascent years as a
lesbian.  Growing up in the fifties and
sixties, and yes, in the seventies and eighties meant dealing with many
negative thoughts about who I was as a sexual person, as a person who chose a
lifelong mate of the same gender.
As
a high school student the closest term to homosexual I ever heard was
fairy.  In the deprecating way it was
used in hallway talk, “if you wear green and yellow on Thursdays everyone will
know you are a fairy,” told me this conversation was not about wee little
sprites of the enchanted forests. Out of some undisclosed  shame I knew to wear orange, blue, lavender,
anything but green and yellow on Thursdays.
In
my freshman year of college I had my first sexual/emotional encounter with
another woman. She was older and much more experienced in such matters. I can
still vividly recall the warmth and excitement I felt when we secretly held
hands in her car. I also remember when I spontaneously exclaimed, “Oh my God,
it’s not fair, it’s not fair, when she demonstrated her sexuality by reaching
out and touching my breast. My fear of identifying myself as a lesbian ended
this relationship quickly but not those insistent feelings of attraction to
women.
          Innocent back massages, which slowly
and delightfully crept to more erotic areas, began my sophomore year with my
second girlfriend. A self-awareness was also beginning to surface that I had never
felt this way with the nice, good looking men I was dating. Through-out the
three years of this relationship I began internalizing homophobia. All of my available
resources to help me figure out who I was were creating a sense of self-loathing.
The books and movies of the time, when they dared create a theme of homosexuality,
either ended with the woman leaving her female lover as soon as a man entered
the picture or contained characters who were so miserable they said lines I
could relate to all too easily such as, ‘I’m tired of living and scared of
dying”. At the same time many of the conversations I had with my girlfriend were
about the men we would meet and marry and the children we would have.  This was the only pathway to have lasting
love and having a family we knew about, totally betraying our love for one
another.
These
feelings of being involved in an inappropriate relationship were so
overpowering and controlling that I never even discussed them with my roommates
my junior and senior years, whom I suspected at the time and later confirmed to
be true, were also gay. I even shared a small bedroom with one of these
roommates, some nights each of us sleeping in our own little twin bed with our
respective girlfriends. I knew what was happening in my bed; I didn’t know if
my roommate was likewise engaged and was too ashamed to discuss it.   Maybe
there would have been some strength in numbers if these conversations had taken
place and some of my shame would have been reduced.
Psychology
101, oh I was looking forward to this class, I thought it would be really
interesting and I might learn more about myself, what it meant to love someone
of the same gender. Well, I learned and it stung, “Homosexuality is a mental
illness…”
Six
years later the field of psychology was still more of a prison than a tool to
help set me free of my unjust self-determined ideas of what it meant to be gay.
A psychiatrist I was seeing to help me overcome my feelings of unrest and
depression, which were due only in a small part to my sexuality, suggested I
use shockwave treatments to cure me of my unnatural feelings of attraction to
women. I did not need these treatments, but perhaps he did!
Gradually,
as I followed my own proclivities, they became more normal in the eyes of
society. The best decision I ever made was in the eighties. I chose to have a
child through artificial insemination. My partner of seven years was very
honest and told me she might leave me if I got pregnant. I really loved her and
didn’t want to lose her but I had dreamed of having a child since I was in
elementary school. Fortunately, by the time my oldest child turned three, my
partner- yes the same one, and I were arguing about who was going to be the
birth mother for our desired second child. Wisely, we followed the advice of a
wonderful psychologist and I was not the birth mother. By making this decision
we experienced both roles (birth mom and non-birth mom). At this time many
people thought of the birth mother as the only “real” parent…the same as a
relationship with a person of the opposite gender was the only “real”
relationship. To this day some insensitive/ignorant people still ask me which
of these young ladies is my “real” child.
I
also, in solidarity with my partner, made a decision to be open with all of our
children’s teachers about our relationship. At an unconscious level I sensed if
we were open about who we were, our children would not take on the guilt and
shame which homosexual closets spurned. 
As a result we received support from a lot of good people. Neighborhood
children would sometimes ask their mothers why they didn’t get two mommies.  Many people in Golden became a little more
educated and liberal due to our family and at the same time my internalized
homophobia began to dissipate. Coming out of the closet for my girls was an
integral step of becoming what I had dreamed of so many years before.
Yesterday
my oldest daughter and I enjoyed seeing “Kinky Boots”. One of my favorite lines
was, “When you change your mind, you change the world”.  Slowly my mind changed and slowly my world
changed along with it. I have almost captured the essence of that beautiful
transvestite I briefly encountered twenty or so years ago…she gave me a smile
and a dream.

© 9 March 2015  


About
the Author 
I grew up in Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents.
Upon completion of high school I attended Colorado State University majoring in
Physical Education. My first teaching job was at a high school in Madison,
Wisconsin. After three years of teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend
graduate school at UNC-Greensboro. After obtaining my MSPE I coached
basketball, volleyball, and softball at the college level starting with Wake
Forest University and moving on to Springfield College, Brown University, and
Colorado School of Mines.
While coaching at Mines my long term partner and I had two
daughters through artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home
required by coaching I resigned from this position and got my elementary education
certification. I taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County
Schools for ten years. As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my
granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the
storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT
organizations.

As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter,
playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling
group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.

Lonely Places by Betsy

There are so many lonely places one
could write about, I find it difficult to settle on one of them.  Probably the loneliest for me would be
loneliness of the heart, such as having a secret about oneself–something one
is terrified to disclose–that’s a very lonely place indeed.
Fear makes a person feel very
lonely–fear of violence, abuse, hunger, thirst, etc. I imagine this to be a
very lonely state of being.  Some are
fearful of being physically alone. They want to be surrounded by people–any
people– all the time.  This also must be
an agonizingly lonely person.
I imagine hatred would contribute to a
person’s feeling of loneliness as well. I believe for humans the natural state
of being is to love not to hate. Hatred is a creation of the human mind and is
not “natural.”
These are all states of being.  Right now I am thinking about an actual
place.
Because I have recently returned from
a visit to the state of Alaska I am thinking of a place most of us have never
visited, a place that appears to be very lonely. Most of the area of the state
of Alaska is a vast wilderness uninhabited by humans. The population of the
state is around 732,000.  That’s in the
entire state of 663,268 square miles an area almost one quarter the size of the
continental United States.  More than
half these 700,000 people live in the cities of Anchorage, Fairbanks, and
Juneau.  The other half are scattered in
towns, villages, or solitary homes, many of them reachable only by airplane or
boat.  Alaska is the largest state in
area in the U.S. and ranks 47th in population making it the least densely
populated state with only 1.26 people per square mile.  I imagine that living in the bush in Alaska
would be a very lonely existence for most folks used to living in a world of
people. But there are many people who live in the bush and live off the land by
choice. Perhaps they were born there and their parents lived there, or maybe
they just landed there and loved it and decided to stay. In some remote
villages a piece of fruit such as one orange can cost $5.00.  You would HAVE to live off the land in these
circumstances.
Alaska’s road system covers only a
small area of the state linking the central population centers of Anchorage and
Fairbanks and the Alaska Highway, the route out of the state through Canada.
The state capital of Juneau is not accessible by road only by car ferry.  The northern and western part of Alaska have
no road system connecting the communities with the rest of the state. 
I try to imagine living in the bush
hundreds of miles from the nearest town. Most of the people living in the bush
live in tiny villages or a group of some sort. 
But I know there are some who live by themselves, alone, in such a
place–and by choice.  This would seem
like a very lonely place to many of us, but clearly not to those who live such
an existence.
I imagine them to be so well
integrated into their environment that they never have a sense of
aloneness.  They actually are not
alone–being so completely ONE with your environment I imagine would not feel
lonely.
Loneliness is most definitely a state
of mind and relative to one’s situation. 
In a way it could be very lonely to think of ourselves, us Earthlings,
as alone in the universe, not knowing who may or may not be out there, where they
are, who they are, how close they are, are they there at all.  On the other hand when I think of myself as
PART of the universe, it doesn’t seem lonely at all.  I guess that’s how it is for the lone
Alaskan, family, or even a community of Alaskan’s living in the bush.  They know they are a PART of the natural
conditions in which they live since their very lives depend so totally on those
conditions.
I do not believe that the lonely
states of being mentioned above–fear, hatred, secretive living, I do not
consider living in such a state to be living in tune with one’s natural
environment, immediate surroundings or the Universe for that matter. So perhaps
we humans create our own lonely places. 
Perhaps there really are no lonely places except as creations of our
minds.
I’ll have to give this more
thought.  But for starters I like
thinking about being in tune with my surroundings, my environment, whatever it
may be–being in tune or being at ONE–I like to think of this as the way we
are meant to live. I like to think of being in tune as a source of contentment
and peace–the antithesis of feeling as if we live in a lonely place.
©
11 August 2014
 
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.

Forbidden Fruit by Will Stanton

To view human beings
as largely well informed and rational is sadly misleading.  Ignorance and emotion seem to have a far
greater influence on people’s thinking and beliefs.  We find evidence of this in all walks of
life, politics, science, social issues, cultural.  This is especially true with especially
sensitive or controversial topics. 
People too often are even afraid to discuss some issues.  For today’s topic, I decided to accept the
challenge.  I have tried to be as precise,
thoughtful,  and factual as
possible.  Please bare with me, for this
subject can not be considered in just one, glib paragraph.
When considering the
topic of “Forbidden Fruit,” I imagine that we can use this  topic simply as a point of departure for
ideas that can go off in many different directions.  All kinds of desires and cravings can be
considered to be “forbidden fruit” depending upon what we are taught growing
up.  We are profoundly affected by what
we learn from parents, religion, social mores, laws of the land, and what we
continually hear on sensationalized TV news.
Yet, I suppose that
the one concept of “forbidden fruit” that immediately comes to mind for most
people is sexual.  This is not
surprising, considering that Puritan roots and Christian-Judeo perspective
continue to have such a profound effect upon our nation.  Hypocritically, at the same time that many
people express moral outrage at some sexual behaviors, they may actually enjoy
being titillated by anything sexual, rather like naïve adolescents as opposed
to thoughtful adults.  Then there is the
not-surprising scientific research substantiating the fact that many bloviating
homophobes actually fear their own latent homosexuality.  Ignorance, fear, loathing, and hypocrisy do
not permit an insightful, constructive discourse.
When I pondered which
“forbidden fruit” our current society considers to be the “most  forbidden,” I suppose that the answer must be
pedophilia, the love or attraction to young people.  The term derives from the Greek philos,
meaning “beloved, dear, loving,” although the suffix “philia” now has a
negative connotation.  This subject has
become so sensitive that most people either avoid discussing the topic entirely
or they repeat the emotionally charged condemnation that they have learned
without exploring the nature of, or contributing factors to, pedophilia.  In this presentation, I to try to look
logically at the phenomenon.  
Both in my
professional career working with people’s heads, along with chance encounters
over the years, I have met any number of people who have trusted me with the
revelation that they feel such attraction. 
Apparently, it’s not uncommon, perhaps as many as several million people
in the U.S. alone.  It is very important
to recognize that not all pedophiles are alike. 
Some are older adults, whereas others already recognize harboring such
attraction upon the onset of puberty or even earlier.  Many are male; some are female.  The objects of their attraction may be boys
and/or girls, who may be teens or even very young children.  Some people struggle with suppressing acting
upon such attraction.  Some people
sublimate their thoughts into acceptable activities.  Most therapists have little or no
understanding or training in this field, and little professional assistance has
been made for non-offenders.  In our
society, however, any overt expression of such desire can have draconian social
and legal consequences.  In my
profession, I never was in the position of having to address such an attraction,
nor did I consider myself thoroughly prepared to do so. That was not my field.
When acquaintances
have made such revelations to me, I tried to be as reasonable and constructive
in my responses as I can.  When the
objects of attraction are teenagers, I do not spout the usual sound-bites of
obligatory morale outrage, which would be counterproductive as well as
irrational.  I try to use some sound
critical thinking skills in exploring this sensitive topic, but I certainly do
not have all the answers.  There is no
such thing as simple answers to anything; every true answer is
multifactorial.  I am, however, dismayed
by the idea of abusing very young children and of pornography sites that
specialize in such behavior.  That
behavior is so foreign to my way of thinking that I am unable to address it
other than to regard it as pathological.
Another behavior that
all persons should condemn in any sexual encounter is coercion, force,
or violence in any form.  The young, and
especially the very young, are more vulnerable; therefore, force or violence
against any young person is especially egregious, although adults are not
immune to violence either.  Far too often
in our society, people are the victims of rape and battery.  And, violence in many non-sexual forms
continues to plague our society.  When it
comes to sexual or physical attraction to teens or young adults, if someone
claims to truly care about somebody or actually love that person, logically
there is absolutely no place for coercion, force, or violence.
I am aware of a very
disturbing fact: too often violence accompanies sexual acts, whether the
partner is a woman, young man, or child. 
Some percentage of those repugnant attacks well may be from undiagnosed
sociopaths, but there is yet another factor that raises a very disturbing
question.  I know of some cases where men
were so concerned for their macho image and disturbed by their own sexual
predilections that, upon completing the sexual act upon a teen or young adult,
they have beaten up the weaker partner, supposedly just to prove to themselves
that the attacker is no less of a man. 
If one stops to ponder this fact, the question is raised: is the answer
simply that the attacker just lacks the ability to feel empathy for other human
beings, or has society instilled in him so much fear and loathing for his
desires that he resorts to violence to expunge any feelings of guilt and
shame?  To my knowledge, no research has
been done in this specific area.    
What factors,
therefore, can be considered in attempting to understand such attraction?  Frankly, one would be hard-pressed to find
anyone in the field who might be able to provide a fairly full answer.
Understanding
attraction to teens and young adults might be easier to understand.  Youth usually is equated with good health,
something all people desire.  As we age,
we increasingly become vulnerable to disease, injury, physical deterioration,
loss of virility and athleticism, and loss of aesthetic appeal.  The often futile desire to appear young has
resulted in the creation of  weight-loss
clinics and gyms, skin-creams, lipstick and rouge for women, and wigs for bald
men.  The hackneyed joke about
middle-aged men is that they may feel compelled to buy impractical sports cars
in an attempt to feel young again.
Aesthetic appeal also
is a major consideration.  Studies show
that people innately are attracted to fine facial features, smooth skin, full
heads of hair, clear eyes, good teeth, and lean bodies.  It did not take modern psychological research
to come to that conclusion.  All one
needs to do is look at the statues carved by Greek, Roman, and neo-Classical
sculptors, along with the paintings from the Baroque and neo-Classical periods.  The young nude obviously was admired in those
times.  Our own society often avoids such
fine arts, considering that so many people find such things offensive if not
down-right frightening.
More than one person
has raised the question about the peculiar clothing style for young males that
has persisted for so long in America and even is infecting styles
over-seas.  Whereas young woman often
wear clothes and bathing suits that leave nothing to the imagination, with bare
buttocks and mostly exposed breasts, young males have been given for many years
now very baggy clothes, long gym shorts, and even baggy pants to swim in.  A swim coach recently remarked to me that
trying to swim in those baggy suits is like trying to drive a car with the
hand-brake on.  He must send away to
order comfortable swim suits.  He
wondered if people of influence have decided that the male form should be
covered up; otherwise, males might garner prurient attention.  Usually, styles change fairly quickly.  In the case of baggy clothes for males,
however, the cover-up seems to persist. 
Is it possible that America has become so paranoid about male attraction
that real swim suits and better fitting pants will never be offered for sale
again?  Is it too hard for adults to
control their feelings and behavior to allow such clothes?  Or, have people’s thinking just become
skewed?
It is sensible that,
in any civilized society, simple aesthetic appeal can not be a rationale for
sexual contact with too young males or females. 
If the desire for contact is some subliminal hope that such contact will
magically make the older adult young and attractive again, such magic does not
exist.  If such contact simply is for
physical gratification, having sex would be just using someone, not a real
expression of love.  Using someone should
not be acceptable whatever the age. 
After all, human beings should have a greater sense of morality and
empathy than a dog humping your leg.
It is true that young
people are, in fact, sexual beings.  They
are not the asexual beings as purported in Victorian England.  There is plenty of research that supports
that fact, and I certainly saw much evidence of that when I was a camp
counselor for two summers.  I even
witnessed a couple of occasions with youths propositioned counselors.  That does not mean, however, that the adult
has the green light to act upon it.
Thoughts throughout
history regarding sexuality are so mixed that what is taboo is not a law set in
concrete.  There have been some
interesting differences in what was considered taboo and what was not.  For example in the golden age of Greece,
especially in Athens and Crete, and among the aristocracy, love and sex between
a young man and an adolescent boy on the cusp of puberty was not only
acceptable but also admired, so long as both persons acted with dignity and
responsibility. 
What was considered
taboo among that society was if the man was far too old or if the boy was too
young.  Interestingly enough, a boy of,
say, eleven or less, probably was considered too young, not because of his immature
physical development, but rather, because too much attention and admiration
lavished upon the youngster possibly could skew his thinking and result in an
inflated perception of himself.
The older person, of
course, was required to be the mentor of the younger person and to assist in
his development.  If the younger person,
the eromenos, misbehaved, that was a poor reflection upon the mentor,
the erastēs.  Odd by our standards
today, if the mentor was of admirable class and breeding and the youth found
the suitor acceptable, the man was permitted to carry out a ritual abduction of
the ephebe as a celebration of the union.  Some museums today contain Greek vases with
sexually explicit scenes that were gifts given by the erastēs to the
eromenos.
The general acceptance of, using the Greek term, paideresteia,
even was idealized with myths such as of Ganymede’s abduction by Zeus, and
Apollo’s love for Hyacinthus. 
Historically famous is the union of Caesar Hadrian and young
Antinous.  Of course, in today’s society,
such relationships would not be understood, let alone tolerated.  What questions does such a dramatic contrast
in societal mores raise?
During a few centuries
in Europe, men held a peculiar philosophy regarding sex and relationships in
general.  To varying degrees, society
then was misogynistic.  For the most
part, women were second-class citizens but necessary for breeding.  Masculinity was to be admired.  Considering the uniformed state of science of
the time, it was believed that the preferable maleness was equated with heat, whereas
the feminine was equated with cold.  Too
much contact with woman, both sexually and in daily living, could diminish a
man’s heat.  So in addition to any
aesthetic appeal of youths, a man supposedly maintained his desired heat by not
having “excessive” contact with females. 
An added plus, of course, was that a union with a youth would not result
in unwanted pregnancy.
There certainly is a
lot of hypocrisy about pedophilia even today. 
For centuries, the men of Afghanistan have had a reputation for being
brutally macho and for denigrating women.  
Anyone suggesting to an Afghan man that he was lacking in masculinity
could cost him his  life.  Yet at the same time, Afghan tribesmen,
especially the most prominent Pashtunmen tribe, enjoy having adolescent boys
dress up as girls, dance for them, and then have sex with them.  These men claim that they are not gay because
they do not actually love the boys; they merely use them.  I noticed that, over the dozen or so years of
the Afghan war, our government, Department of Defense, and major new media have
avoided mentioning this continuing tradition of dancing boys (Bacha Bazi)
while our troops were supposedly bringing American-style democracy and
civilization to the barbarians.
Despite severe laws in
our own nation, hypocrisy has rained supreme. 
At one time in New York City, for example, law-makers and political
power-brokers had a private club that included having sex with underage males.  I am aware of numerous examples of persons
with much money and influence doing what they please, protected by their money
and power, whereas the average person tends to be in much greater danger of
being caught and suffering the consequences. 
What does it mean about a society that professes one thing but does the
opposite for some people?
Further, what may be
declared legal or illegal has varied greatly from state to state and nation to
nation.  What may be declared illegal at
seventeen in this nation may be declared legal in Britain, legal at sixteen in
several countries including France, fifteen in some countries such as Denmark,
fourteen in several countries such as Austria, Germany, and Estonia, and
thirteen in Spain.  The age of consent is
a legal concept, not so much a standardized psychological demarcation.  People develop physically and emotionally at
different rates.  Balancing law with
human nature is a tricky prospect.  How
much thought has been put into this question in our own country?
Perhaps the aspect of
pedophilia least likely to be discussed is the frequent claim of  “irrevocable psychological harm done” and
“being scarred for life.”  When it comes
to near-age partners, this assertion needs to be examined dispassionately.  Certainly, there are cases where coercion,
force, or violence have resulted in trauma. 
The fact remains, however, that there have been, and continue to be,
short-term and long-term interactions between teens and adults that are
mutually desired and apparently without the younger partner feeling “abused,
molested, traumatized.”  Again, no research
has been conducted in this area.
I recall cases told to
me by two young men where their long-term relationships were described as very
loving and rewarding.  Surprisingly
enough, I also have seen comments regarding the film “For a Lost Soldier,” that
centers upon such a relationship, posted on YouTube stating, “I wish that had
happened with me.” 
How the two cases told
to me ended raises some very important, thought-provoking questions.  In each case, each person, now of adult age,
sought help from licensed psychiatrists because of family difficulties.  When the psychiatrists were told of the
relationships, they (along with the families) immediately expressed the
currently popular outrage.  They
instructed the two to think of their experiences as “disgusting, evil, and
having harmed them for life.”  Only after
they were told this did they begin to feel upset.  So, the logical question is, were they each,
in fact, traumatized by their experiences, or were they taught that they must
feel traumatized?  Would they have felt
ashamed and traumatized had those experiences occurred in the Greek era?  How much responsibility does society bare for
some people feeling traumatized?  These
are questions that most people fear to consider.  I don’t have all the answers, but at least I
have rationally considered the questions.
It is true that many
people’s thinking regarding sex is based primarily upon religious beliefs and
current societal mores. They are not open to consideration of additional
information.  Yet, it is that additional
information that may help to clarify society’s understanding of
pedophilia.  This clarification is
necessary, for pedophilia is not a rare or recent phenomenon.  It has existed throughout known history.
There is the
possibility that, with some pedophiles, some basic emotional need, stemming
from learned childhood experiences, prompts attraction to young people.  Also, in addition to learned experiences,
modern research shows that human sexuality is not binary, male or female.  Instead, 
because of dozens of differences in brain and endocrine physiology,
sexual identification and attraction vary greatly among people, ranging along a
wide scale.  Consequently, there appears
to be some innate quality among some people prompting them to have a greater
than average attraction to the young physical form.  I believe that it would be beneficial to
inquire as to why this is, to see it possibly as an innate predilection among
some people rather than a conscious, deviant choice. 
There is so much more
than can be said about this subject, but let me finish with one last
thought.  Regardless of what the
contributing factors of pedophilia are, anyone with such feelings is saddled
with the difficult obligation to live within the current mores and laws of the
society in which he resides.  And frankly
when it involves very young children, everyone should be.  Theoretically, if someone is attracted to
teens, one can choose to live in a different country than ours; however, that
is not so easy as, for example, feeling uncomfortable with the teachings of one
church and changing to a different one nearby.
Someone troubled by
his inclinations may benefit from counseling. 
There are some professionals who are more understanding and sympathetic
than the two I referred to earlier and who possibly can assist in dealing with
such feelings.  The search may not not be
easy, for most therapists have little or no training in this area, especially
for non-offenders.  Ironically, the
number of individuals independently seeking help recently has declined because
of the fear of exposure based upon so much sensationalized coverage in the
media.  The few professionals who are
assigned to treat pedophiles may have a skewed view of the subject from the
hard description detailed in the current Diagnostic and Statistical
Manuel.       
One possibly helpful
source may be found by searching on-line for a well run self-help group.  For example, a group was started by a teen
pedophile who spoke in an April 11, 2014, interview on “This America
Life.”  That program has a link (starting
at 28:17 to 55:17.) 
What I have presented
here is only a small portion of information regarding this human  phenomenon of pedophilia.  For the sake of society as a whole and the
people who are involved, a better understanding would be helpful, rather than
responding just with knee-jerk condemnation. 
Only when it is better understood can society and the concerned
individuals begin to deal with it in a rational and constructive manner.
© 28 March 2014 
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.

The Party by Ricky

During my 13th or 14th year, while in 8th
or 9th grade, A female classmate invited me to her birthday
party.  Sadly, I do not remember her
name, but I do remember the highlight of the party.  There were no adults present as we began to
play spin-the-bottle.  Time passed
excruciatingly slow while I watched the bottle top consistently spin pass me
and settle on other boys in attendance – some two or three times.  We each got only one spin per turn and if the
bottle stopped on the same sex or between two people, your turn was over.
According to our rules, every boy/girl partner got three
minutes alone in a large storeroom.  I
guess everyone was supposed to know what to do in that room, which I thought,
was to “make out” but no one said anything at all to confirm that belief or to
explain what was or was not expected. 
Consequently, when the bottle finally stopped on me there was an awkward
moment in the storeroom as we negotiated what we would do.  It turns out the girl did not know what was
expected either.  We admitted that we
really did not want to “make out” so we just stood there talking until the time
was up.  I was not invited to another
party as an adolescent.
After I married, I returned to college to finish a degree in
Justice Administration.  While there, I
joined Air Force ROTC.  Since I already
had four years of enlisted experience, I only needed to do the last two years
of ROTC classes and obtain a degree to become an Air Force officer.  The timing, although unplanned on my part,
was perfect and both goals aligned precisely.
One day I read on the ROTC bulletin board that there was a
mandatory “social event” at Captain Williams’ home that night; casual
dress.  I told my wife and we both
attended.  I was somewhat bewildered upon
my arrival when I did not know any of the other ROTC cadets.  It turns out that there were two Captain
Williams; one Air Force and one Army. 
Since I did not know either of their first names I accidently crashed
the Army’s social.  Captain Williams was
very gracious and invited us to stay.  We
did.
As we partook from the bountiful refreshments, Deborah asked
me to get her some of the fruit punch.  I
shortly returned with two glasses and gave her one.  I found it to be a delicious blending of
various pieces of fruit, sherbet, and 7-Up. 
Deborah sipped her’s slowly while I “sipped” much faster and went to get
another.  A short while after I returned
with my second drink, Deborah had finished and asked me to get her
another.  Before I left, I asked her if
she liked it and she responded that she did. 
I retrieved another cup of the punch for her.
After she had drunk about half of the second cup, I asked
again if she really liked it.  Deborah
was no dummy so she immediately got suspicious and asked me why I was asking
her.  I said, “Just curious.”  She replied, “What’s in it?”  I told her that there was a variety of fruit
flavors but the predominant flavor was banana. 
Deborah has hated bananas even before she could talk.  She communicated her dislike by spraying
whatever her mother had mixed bananas into all over her mother, table, and
wall.  Her mom was consistent and so was
Deborah; her mother finally gave up.  At
the social, she put down her punch cup and did not drink from it again.
This past New Year’s Eve, I went alone to a party held in the
Constitution
building.  I paid my Greenbacks and entered.  All the big Whigs were there spouting the usual
Anti-Federalist
propaganda – sounding very Republican
The Tories
family arrived at the party wearing Bull Moose headdresses.  I thought they appeared rather Progressive
but everyone else said it made them look like has-beens; so the family members
promised to Reform
and wear something more Libertarian in the future.  The hostess tried her best to provide
nutritious refreshments which included Greens
Some Bostonians took offense and wanted to hold their own little party
in another room, but a Prohibition on violence effectively prevented
them from throwing out the Tea.  A few
Silver
haired guests wanted to ruin People’s games by starting an Anti-Monopoly
chant.  Shortly thereafter, a cadre of American
Socialists
demanded Justice in entertainment and began to light up
the Marijuana.  The police responded when a Communist
and an American
Nazi
engaged in fisticuffs.  I
tried to have an Objectivist attitude towards all the activities, but since I
value Peace and
Freedom
and I am a Pacifist at heart, I left the party early along
with other Citizens.  All in all, it was a very Democratic
affair.
© 7 January 2013  
About the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I 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,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.

What’s Your Sign? by Phillip Hoyle

What’s your sign? I’ve been asked, but probably missed what was happening either because I don’t interpret questions as come-ons or more probably because I feel aversion to any archaic system of interpreting human behavior. I readily admit to being prejudiced in this matter. I’m wary due to my inattention to emotional signs; I just don’t read people well. I’m also wary due to Christian teaching and scientific methodology, both of which in the forms I got them rejected the reading of stars as omens. Were I asked, “What’s your sign?” I’d either want to explore these ideas intellectually or judge the person asking me as someone I’d not want to become intimate with—but those are my problems. In admitting these things I really wonder if my prejudice serves simply as one more defense to protect me from predators.

Oh I can answer: for instance, if you are interested, I’m a Cancer, but it seems such a lame sign as if I’m the victim of a diagnosis. Then to add on to that there’s the image of being a crustaceous crab or someone who walks backwards or sideways when what I really am interested in from life is that it be enjoyable. I certainly don’t want to become someone’s dinner. The Zodiac sign just doesn’t stick with me at a superficial level. This moniker Cancer, this superficial analytical device approached superficially for superficial reasons doesn’t attract me in any way.

In general, I find the Zodiac about as interesting as I find the medieval meditations on the temperaments. For me they have their place in history. I recall my good friend Gerry McMillin being put off by a book on the Zodiac and the Gospels, a volume that a student and friend lent her. When she told me she probably would return it unread, I reminded her that astrology was the astronomy of the biblical eras. I elaborated that according to the Jewish historian Josephus, a contemporary of the earliest Christian period, the Zodiac had a major architectural presence in Herod’s temple. Furthermore I added that I do think it strange that if this phenomenon was no good as in evil, Satanic, or against God, why didn’t Jesus the prophet and subject of the Gospels rail against it? He did preach against the money exchanges in the same temple. My friend was then able to read the book and somewhat see its logic. Still, like her, I’m not much interested in the Zodiac or in casual discussions of its details.

Super-rationalist me doesn’t want the imposition of magical formulae for analysis of personality type or prediction of future or fate, or… whatever. I have always been more interested in modern analytical categories, but eventually I came to see that norms established in psychotherapeutic practice, in sociological inquiry, and even in education-related developmental schemes often are used against people rather than for them. They are thought to describe the perfect person against which one must be judged rather than simply averages of assessment. Such norms are conscripted for court use in civil and criminal proceedings by both prosecutors and defenders. They are used to demean cultures different than those based on Euro-American values. And the modern behavioral norms really haven’t changed all that much from their ancient counterparts—which means they are imbued or endowed or stink of the fear of the beyond, powers over which humans have no control, and so forth. So I laugh at being asked “What’s your sign?”

Oh, I’m polite, because really I don’t know what the asker is wanting: for example, does the interlocutor simply want conversation? Not bad in itself. Does the person want an answer to easily fit me into some convenient category? I will only disappoint. Does he or she want to know me for what I am? That’s going to take more than a conversation. Is the asker on some drug that makes the esoteric knowledge afforded by the Zodiac real? I’m not at all interested. Is my inquirerer a lay pop psychologist? Still not interested. Is this person a deep thinker trying to assess me in my approach to life? This will take a long time; we’ll need many meetings and carafes of coffee and probably some wine. You see, many possibilities make me both interested and wary.

What to answer? I could say:
“I’m a Cancer but probably not in the way you mean.” or
“I’m a Cancer but not all that moody.” or
“I’m a Cancer but an unpredictable cusper.” or
“I’m a Cancer but probably not what you’re looking for.”

Now, if with dark browns enhanced by natural eye shadow and a slight downturn shape at the lateral edges that crinkle when laughing, and should those eyes look longingly into my hazels and ask: “What’s your sign?” I’ll probably not have anything to say but may really get confused and confounded by the question and not worry over why it was asked. I’ll simply say, “Sure,” and pay the bar bill and say, “Let’s go.”

© Denver, 2013

About the Author 



Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Dreams by Pat Gourley

I have always had a very active “dream-life”. It is hard to
actually measure this for sure but it seems that at least half of my sleep is
dreaming. These would be the dreams that I am aware of or can remember in the
morning. The dream recollection process is not something I often bother to do
and I do not keep dream journals and probably never will. I take the same stance
toward my dreams that the Grateful Dead took with their music. The reason they
allowed even encouraged people to tape their shows was the attitude “we are
done with it and you can do whatever you want with it”. An attitude greatly
facilitated by a huge repertoire of tunes often performed with unique
improvisation with each rendition. I view my dreams the same way – well that
was interesting but it is over and I need to get on with the day and besides I
have to really pee.
Though I have always spent a good part of my night from back
to early childhood dreaming a lot these nocturnal adventures seem to be in
sharper focus than ever these days. Perhaps that is due to the recurrent
interruption of my REM sleep with the need to get up and urinate mid-dream.
Usually I am able to go back to sleep easily and it seems I swear that the
dream picks up where it left off. I often think, usually in a dense fog or semi-dream-state,
how exhausting is this to revisit the same idiotic situation, aren’t we done
yet?
 My personal bias is
that most pharmaceutical sleep aides are bad for you certainly if used
frequently and particularly those that actually create an amnesiac state are
not good for a healthy and vibrant dream life and may, at least in a transient
fashion, contribute to waking memory loss issues. I try to live by the old
Buddhist axiom that if you wake up and can’t get back to sleep it is actually a
call to the cushion. Nothing like trying to meditate late at night in the dark
to make you start to nod off in a hurry and for me it can be as effective as
Ambien. The only time I have taken Ambien was on a transatlantic flight to
Paris, which essentially resulted in me waking up in Paris feeling dopey,
anything but rested, wondering at first how the hell I got here and second why
no one was speaking English.
In poking around the ether a bit before writing this I was
looking for a current theory on dreaming and I happened on an article from
Scientific American from a few years back. A few sentences from that piece
seemed at least somewhat applicable to my own dream life:
Dreams seem to help us process emotions by
encoding and constructing memories of them. What we see and experience in our
dreams might not necessarily be real, but the emotions attached to these
experiences certainly are. Our dream stories essentially try to strip the
emotion out of a certain experience by creating a memory of it. This way, the
emotion itself is no longer active.  This mechanism fulfills an important
role because when we don’t process our emotions, especially negative ones, this
increases personal worry and anxiety. In fact, severe REM sleep-deprivation is
increasingly correlated to the development of mental disorders. In short,
dreams help regulate traffic on that fragile bridge which connects our
experiences with our emotions and memories.
Scientific American:
July 26, 2011. Sander van der Linden
It seems to me that there is some heavy-duty
Zen implications implied in this explanation that I will not ruminate too much
on but just say we can’t always control the shit that happens to us but we can
usually choose how we react emotionally to it. Apparently dreaming may be a
great and safe way to address all sorts of unfinished waking business.
Let me relate a few of the general
dream themes I have personally and you are all free to psychoanalyze them or
not. I most often tend to pay them little heed. The closest I come to a nightmare
these days is a recurrent dream I will have about getting to the airport on
time, needless to say I am frustrated at every turn and never do make the
flight.
A dream I had repeatedly, now several
decades in the past, was that I was going to be called on to fill in and play rhythm
guitar for the Rolling Stones because Keith Richards was not able to make the
show or perhaps was passed out back stage with a needle in his arm. I would
awake from this in quite an agitated state just as Mick looked at me to bring
the opening cords of Sympathy for the Devil or Tumbling Dice. Why this always
involved the Rolling Stones and not the Grateful Dead is a bit of a mystery to
me. Oh and by the way I can’t play a single cord on any type of guitar.
The only nasty type of childhood dream
I really remember having involved being chased down a long hallway by some
demon or the other and getting to a door that was always very big and
inaccessible to me. The door of course required a key I did not have. This
would seem to go on forever and never ended well.
The most vivid and intense dreams of
my life followed the death of my partner David in 1995. These dreams reoccurred
periodically for more than a year after his death and always had to do with my giving
away his stuff and that dear old queen left me with a lot of stuff.  I actually was slowly giving his things away
to friends or charity so I suppose I had those dreams coming. He was never
happy with the choices I was making in dispersing his estate.
I would say that overall my dreams these
days are extremely mundane and boring and rarely ever a source of consternation
while occurring or upon awaking. Often they involve very mundane things about
work, like did I give the right drug to the right patient or did I wind up
killing someone. Something that has apparently never happened since I still
have a job. I suppose I should examine for a minute a why my dreams about filling
in for Keith Richards were more disconcerting to me when they were occurring
than making a medication error at work and killing someone.
The closest dreams ever come these
days to exciting are the rare sexual ones. Ironically these always end in a
very frustrating manner with the much anticipated happy ending always just
outside of my reach.  And the age-old
phenomenon of a nocturnal emission never happens. But I guess a guy can dream
can’t he?
© November 2014 
 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.

In Praise of Drifting by Gillian

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
Frequently, drifting,
as applied to people, is used negatively. There are those scruffy old bums or drifters
in Depression-era movies; not anyone you want to grow up to be.
“Come
on,”  parents admonish
their adolescent offspring.
“You
need some direction in your life. You can’t
just drift!“
In the old days,
and I mean even before my time, maybe people simply drifted much more than
today. Sons drifted into continuing whatever trade their father had, or farming
the same family acres, and marrying some vaguely distant cousin from the next
valley. Many people did not contemplate these moves, they simply drifted into
the next phase of their lives without considering too deeply what in fact they
actually wanted. They did not have the options we have now; perhaps in fact
just drifting has become a negative because, being privileged to have so many
options, we are committing some act of betrayal by not taking complete
advantage of them.
I didn’t
see myself as drifting, in my younger days, but looking back I see clearly that
I was. I drifted my way through life letting others design major life changes
for me, until I came out to myself.  Then
decision-making on behalf of the real me versus that character acting my part,
became meaningful. But I’ve written about
all that several times before and I won’t
go into that again.
So, in praise of
drifting.
I think most clearly,
most productively, when I’m drifting in that
warm pool of unconsciousness just below the waking level. I am unaware that I’m
thinking, but I must be because I so often wake up with the puzzle solved, the
solution at hand, the decision made, the story written. No, I haven’t
taken to sleep-walking, let alone sleep-writing, but usually I decide, as I
drift just below the surface, what I want to write for Story Time, or on that
difficult Sympathy card, or in that note of apology.
I also love
physical drifting. I lie on my back in the swimming pool, letting every muscle
go limp, and just drift. I empty my brain of all thought, my body of all power,
and just drift. Usually I’m bumped out of my
reverie by an irritated hand or foot pushing me away, or the cold hard edge of
the pool impeding my slow, aimless, motion. Drifting is not as easy as it
sounds!

The first time I
was married, my husband and I, and his children, lived in Jamestown, an old
gold-mining town in the Foothills above Boulder. We had a horse, and the town
is surrounded by National Forest. I loved to spend any free time I managed to
grab, which was not much, riding along the endless trails. But this wan’t
really riding, it was nothing more than sitting on the back of a horse. I
rarely touched the reins, the old mare wandered wherever she wanted; we
drifted. At least I did. She had very definite ideas on where she was heading.
She had been trained as a cutting horse, and, having spent most of her life
among them, I don’t think it had ever
occurred to her that she was not, in fact, a cow. In the summer months herds
summer-pastured in the forests around town, and instinct always told her where
they were on any particular day. She wandered lazily in their direction. I
drifted idly in the saddle. Idyllic moments. Until, reaching a certain
closeness to the herd, she would, without warning, break into an excited gallop
which, inevitably, tore me from my drifting state and propelled me into an
equally excited grab for the reins. After cutting out a couple of resentful
cows from the herd, to keep her hand in so to speak, she settled in to graze
with them for the rest of her life, each time resulting in a battle of wills
when I decided it was time head for the barn. But once her reluctant head was
turned in that direction, she usually being the only one who knew the way home,
we returned to our peaceful pattern, she wandering, me drifting.

We love to drift
when Betsy and I go off on trips in our camper-van. Of course we usually have
some vague plan of when and where, but we have no reservations, no deadlines.
We change decisions frequently; staying longer here, less time there, ending up
in a campground we had no intention of using, or didn’t
even know existed. I have no desire to live like that every day of my life, but
it’s
wonderfully free and relaxing for a while. Just drifting.
I find, as I age,
that actually I do live more like that, more of the time. It’s
so much easier to do a little more delicious drifting in the latter part of
life. Drifting doesn’t go down well with
teachers and bosses. When you have successfully escaped their strictures, it
becomes much easier to decide not to do that today, or to go there next week,
or to stay a few days longer. Betsy and I both find ourselves shrugging a
casual “whatever,”
in
answer to questions to which we would have had very definite responses not so
long ago.
And of course we
are all carried along, inevitably, in the Big Drift, which will deposit us,
sooner or later, in the Big Sleep. We have always known this, but it hangs
around the front of my mind rather more as later becomes less likely
with each passing day, and sooner approaches with indecent haste. I don’t
know what awaits me where the Big Drift pours over the cliffs, but I do know I
will not burn in some eternal fire any more than I shall play the harp upon a
cloud.
I have no fears,
and find myself at odds with my adored Dylan Thomas. Perhaps, for some psyches,
it is healthier to rage against the dying of the light, but I think not for
mine. When that time comes I hope to drift, peacefully, towards the light.

©
July 2014
  
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.

Horseshoes by Deborah MacNair

When told the subject of this piece
Was horseshoes, I remember thinking, “Oh jeesh.”
“Horseshoes” it said, about them you’ll write,
But what can I say,
That won’t come out trite?
For my story you see
Is pathetic but true,
That I know almost nothing
About the horseshoe.
But one thing I know,
One claim to fame,
Folks throw them at a post,
And call it a game.
When a ringer is thrown,
You can tell at a glance,
This game requires skill,
And not random chance.
If you can’t make a ringer,
Please don’t sing the blues,
For “close enough” counts,
In the game of horseshoes.
Still one question I have,
One question it’s true,
Does the horse ever wonder,
What became of his shoes?!

© 3 March 2015

First Encounters of a Pornographic Kind by Betsy

As with any subject in
the world, the internet has everything and nothing to say about pornography, I
discovered as I was searching for some statistical information.   I can say “nothing” because of constantly
encountering the statement that statistics on porn change daily and are
basically meaningless because the numbers are impossible to gather.
 However, while reading through a particular
page of information a few statements  got
my attention; notably, every second that ticks by over $3,000 is spent on
pornography.  Mind boggling!  And this: the porn industry as a whole in one
year takes in larger revenues than Microsoft, Google, Amazon, e-bay, Yahoo,
Apple and Netflix combined.  Even more
mind-boggling!
Consumption of
pornography as an addiction is very prevalent, I learned. But, then, that keeps
the industry flourishing–even in hard times.  After reading on a bit further, I still really
had next to nothing to write about pornography.
“I know, I’ll look up
information on porn history,” I said to myself.
Upon turning to a page on that subject, my eyes
could not help but be drawn to  an
ancient picture depicting a “Priapus figure from Pompeii.”  The poor guy was shown standing there with a
frontal encumbrance which would be enough to weigh down the strongest of
men.  What “jumped out at me” so to speak
is the caption below the picture: In ancient Rome large phali were considered
undesirable for men to possess, it said, and often were depicted as such for
comic effect.  Really!!  Undesirable! 
I don’t believe it for a minute.  
But then, what do I know? 
And then there is our
Puritan culture.  Which reminds me of my
loving Great Aunt Anne.   She was an
adorable woman.  As I watched her age she
became smaller and smaller until in her 80’s she definitely qualified as a
“little old lady.”  This of course made
her even more adorable.  She and my Uncle
occasionally took road trips to visit various family members.  They would stay in small motels when their
journey required an overnight stay.  They
were tight-fisted and they always looked for the small town, family owned motel
off the beaten path. This was in the 1960’s when such places existed.
On one of her visits to
my house she seemed slightly off center, not really upset, but not quite
herself.  Something was on her mind.  So I asked her about herself.  Was she sure she was all right?  With a very embarrassed look about her and
turning her head to check who else might hear what she was about to say, she
revealed that the night before in their motel room, she had had her first
encounter with pornography.  She
inadvertently had discovered under their bed piles of magazines–probably 50
magazines.  Being curious to read one of
them, she described herself picking one up, opening it, and immediately
releasing it to the floor and kicking it back to its place under the bed.  Inside, whispered Aunt Anne, were pictures
depicting “oh the worst pornography you can imagine.  Pictures leaving nothing to the imagination,
scenes–well, I could not even look at the pictures!” 
 Although this story took place a very long
time ago, my vision of this little old lady and her first encounter with
pornography will stick in my mind forever. 
And truly to this day when the subject of pornography comes up my Aunt
Anne is the first thing that comes to mind.

© October 2011 

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.