Month: August 2015

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Practical but Cruel Jokes, by Ricky

I joined the
Mormon Church in December of 1968.  Soon
thereafter, I became friendly with the missionaries whom had taught me the
pre-baptism lessons I needed for the introduction to Mormonism.  As a result, I was privy to some of their
stories of missionary experiences.  I
will relate two of them below.
Practical
Joke #1
Mormon missionaries always come in pairs and are referred
to as “companions”.  Such pairs share a
modest apartment and are placed together for varying amounts of time before
being split up and paired with a different companion.  Under these circumstances companions get to
experience each other’s idiosyncrasies.
One such pair had the following habits.  One insisted on being the first one in the
shower each morning.  The other had a pet
gold fish and would always be the first to drink from the cold water jug upon
returning to the apartment each day after being outside in the hot Southern
sun.
One day, as a practical joke, the first companion
secretly placed the other’s gold fish in the cold water jug before leaving the
apartment.  As expected, the other
missionary arrived home and grabbed the water jug and began to drink from it
before he noticed the now dead gold fish inside.  Internally, he was seething with anger but
did not show any outward signs other to acknowledge the “joke”.  But he was already plotting his revenge.
The night before an important gathering of all the
missionaries in the district, when he finished his shower, he set up his
practical joke.  During the week, he had
purchased a pack of blue Rit Dye gelatin capsules.  That night he removed the shower head and put
several capsules in the pipe.  Replacing
the head, he then went to bed.  Getting
up a little early the next morning, he informed his companion the he was going
to walk to the chapel where the meeting was to be held and was leaving
early.  Thus, he left his companion alone
and departed.
During his walk, the gelatin capsules eventually
dissolved.  When the companions met at
the meeting about one hour later, the one companion said to the other after
looking at him for a moment, “Are you feeling a little blue today, Elder?”  As you may expect, his companion’s exposed
skin (head, neck, hands) was bright blue.
Practical
Joke #2

This next story takes place in the panhandle of
northwestern Florida.  A newly assigned
missionary, called “Greenie”, was assigned to a companionship for a short time
until he could be paired with his own companion.  The greenie arrived about two days prior to
another missionary meeting which was to take place in the morning in Panama
City.  It was necessary for the
missionaries to leave early in the morning in order to arrive in time for the
7:30 AM meeting.
There were two companionships and the greenie sharing a
car for the trip, 5 missionaries in all. 
After about an hour of travel, the driver pulls the car over next to a
field of watermelons and suggests that they go pick up a few for all the
missionaries to eat after the meeting. 
Everyone gets out of the car and the greenie says something like, “Isn’t
this stealing?”  He is told it is okay,
that it has been done before, and not to worry. 
The greenie agrees to help.
Just as the greenie picks up his water melon and removes
it from the vine, a young black man appears and demands to know what they are
doing in his water melon field.  One of
the missionaries pulls out a pistol and shoots the black man who falls down
mortally wounded to all appearances.  The
missionaries tell the greenie to get back to the car and start walking away
down the road towards their destination while they stay behind to hide the
body.
After hiding the body, the missionaries get back in the
car and drive up to the walking greenie and pick him up.  They explain that this type of thing does
happen occasionally, but no one cares because it was a black man, so don’t
worry.  Of course the greenie is in total
mental turmoil.
After arriving at the meeting and unloading the melons
the missionaries attend their appointed sessions.  The greenie is then informed that they will
be staying for regular church services. 
Just before the services are to begin, a black family arrives and the
greenie is startled to see the young black man who was shot and buried walk
into the chapel.  The four missionaries with
whom he rode then introduced the family and privately explained that they had
set him up as an initiation prank.
Practical jokes may be fairly common, but most are cruel
and not very funny.  I do not condone
them because they usually result in escalating rounds of revenge jokes and can
easily result in violence.
© 28 July 2014 
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.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Feeling Loved, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college freshman I heard a lecture in which the
professor pointed out how Americans love many things, everything from cars to
mashed potatoes. We celebrate the love of clothes, looks, hairdos, decorations,
and cities. We love our ball teams. But we don’t expect most of the things we
say we love to love us. Mostly we limit the hope of being loved to our relationships
with other humans except, of course, our pets, especially our dogs who we are
sure love us in return. In this story I’ve made an incomplete list of my
experiences of being loved by that one someone who figures centrally into our
American mythos of being loved, but obviously I’ve expanded my list to more
than that one and only—woman or man.
I was deeply loved by Myrna my wife. I felt loved. And
I loved her in so many ways in this most complicated relationship of my
life—one with a professional career, children, parents and siblings and in-laws
and many, many friends over a period of many years. I was happy about it
basking in such warm and complete love.
About two years into that marriage I was loved by a
gay friend. I loved him, but I had no experience and didn’t understand the
order of things. He loved my wife and didn’t want to hurt my marriage. I loved
him but not in the way I finally realized he wanted me to love him. I was very
young. I think I hurt him deeply. Still our friendship flourished for many years.
In the meantime I fell in love with a man who probably
loved me but whose life was too encumbered, whose imagination couldn’t deal
with what that might mean about himself and his life. As a result his love for
me became stunted. I loved what feeling I received from him although I hoped
he’d never want me to give up my married life for him. I also knew I’d never
ask him to give up his married life for me.
Then I loved a man who may have loved me but had built
a barrier around his feelings. Oh he wanted sex with me but he didn’t want to
give or receive the feelings of it all. So when we started the sex, I agreed to
his demand there be no emotions since I realized the advantage of his program
to my marriage. Still I wondered at his request but like a good soldier turned
off my emotions—at least some of them—but not so much as to miss experiencing
the thrills our play created.
Then I loved a man who really loved me. I warned him
that my love, while real and deep, was quite different than his. Now I was the
one defending the two of us from one another for quite complicated reasons. I
loved being loved by him although I could not imagine living with him.
I was loved by a man who had nothing to offer me
except his adoration. We lived in two greatly different worlds, his with Okie
twang, mine with educated artifice. I was nice and kind but never in love with
him. Still I appreciated his devotion even with its great impediments. I was
relieved when he no longer pursued me.
I liked a man who seemed to like me. Eventually I fell
in love with him and he with me. The experience was new to me since I was
recently separated from my wife and could actually go live with him. He loved
me. We lived together. I watched him die. I grieved.
I loved a man who really loved me. Our love had all
the markings of classic falling in love: the ancient lover and beloved, the
medieval romance, and the extremely baroque and renaissance drama of an opera
plot. Sadly this love affair was also a tragedy although a gentle one. I
grieved unlike ever before in my life when he died.
Again I love a man with whom I live. He loves me. We
don’t match very well but do live together successfully. Neither of us is
especially romantic, but I seem to have a much greater proclivity for romance
than he. We have a nice social life with mutual friends. His mother lives with
us. I know I am loved, but again it is a new experience with dynamics unlike
any of my other loves.
Perhaps the nice thing about my loves is that my wife
and the man I first fell in love with and the man I first allowed my love to
grow with all continue to be my good friends. My current love is also a good
friend. I have come to realize that I love any number of men for any number of
reasons. I will refrain from counting the ways in this story. Perhaps another
day there will be a poem describing that matter! Of course, these listed affairs
of the heart are only one category of being loved. But I have always realized
that I am loved by many different people for many different reasons and in many
different ways. I really feel loved. I guess it proper to say the one-and-only
aspect of my being loved is to be found in the individuality of each loving relationship.
© 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
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Sports, by Gillian

In my youth, I
understood sports to be for fun, fitness, and friendly competition. Now, in my
curmudgeonly old age, I know sports to be about money, winning at all costs,
and very unfriendly competition.
Even amateur sports
have gone completely out of whack. Have you been to a school ball game lately?
Even pee-wee baseball is all about winning. At that age, should it not be about having fun, getting some healthy fresh air exercise, and learning the basics of
the game? Oh no! Fathers scream abuse not only at other children but at their
own. God forbid that poor little Joey should strike out or fail to catch a
ball. He’ll pay for that when he gets home. The pressure on so many
children these days is immense. Everything has become so serious.
Professional sports,
of course, have paved the way. Back in the 1970s I had friends with Broncos
season tickets. The husband frequently had better things to do, and my husband
was rarely interested, so off to the game the girls went! It was fun. Having
had the same seats for several seasons, my friend knew all the people around
us. We all bought each other beers and chatted and cheered. After my divorce I
lost touch with those friends, and I did not go to a live game for a long time.
Then one day another friend had a spare ticket and I went to Mile High Stadium
again, for the first time in probably twenty years. My, how it had changed.
Everyone seemed to be angry rather than enjoying themselves. There was a
constant stream of verbal abuse hurled at the players on both teams, and of
course the officiating crew. I was so sick of the constant “F” word. By the time
I left I felt as if it had been burned into my ears and my brain and my psyche.
(Or, as Betsy commented when I read this to her, I felt completely fucked! And
not in a good way!) I have not been offered a ticket to a football game since
then; if I were, I seriously doubt that I would accept it.
I have to admit I
still follow the NFL pretty devotedly on TV. I can’t explain why I like it.
Many lesbians are ardent football fans, which seems strange as the game
consists of what most of us abhor; sanctioned violence, perpetrated by huge
sweaty men. I have to close my mind to two things, though. The violence to
women committed by an unfortunately large number of players, and the huge
salaries now offered to these people, would put me off the entire sport if I
thought about them too much, so mostly I don’t. 
After all, I don’t refuse to see a movie because of the shenanigans of
those acting in it.
I do abhor the lack
of humanity which seems to have taken over. If a player has an injury, the
opposing team members will do their best to attack that part of his body. Has
it really gotten to the stage where the intent is to do permanent bodily
injury?
“Be great for the Broncos if they could take him out for
the rest of the season,” laughs the commentator happily.
“Well if anybody can eliminate him, Foster can. Man! He
plays so angry,” rejoins his co-commentator in admiration.
“He’s
just looking to rip someone’s head off every play!”
This isn’t war.
It’s supposed to be a game. Was it always so merciless? Maybe so and I didn’t
get it. After all I have never played football.
OK. Fair enough.
Football is a violent game. If you don’t like it don’t watch it.
But it’s not just
football.
I have played
tennis, though far from the Pro level. But, at that Pro level, how it has
changed. Once considered a sport of Gentlemen and Ladies, it is now as
cut-throat as any other professional sport.
“Now Farmer’s
injured that right ankle, Varenova will keep her going to that side, see if she
can’t break her down,” a happy commentator reports.
“Exactly,”
replies another, “It’s time to take advantage of that injury and finish
her off. Go in for the kill right now.”
So this verbiage of
violence seems to have penetrated even the sport of Ladies and Gentlemen.  It is so pervasive, and I cannot believe it
has a positive effect on our society.
All this, and the
seriousness with which we take sports, players and spectators alike, of course
has come with the advent of huge financial rewards. These in turn came with the
universal obsession with sports by so many people. In the days before huge
lights dominated the playing fields, games were played in the daylight hours,
thus eliminating most of the potential fans who were, of necessity, at work.
Even if it were broadcast live on the radio, or later the old black-and-white
TV, few were available to enjoy it. Most were played at weekends, to attract
more followers, but time off work was limited and people had many things to
cram into a weekend.
Then came the huge
brightly-lit stadium where people could gather after work and watch, or watch
at home on the TV in the evening, relaxing from that hard day at the factory.  The fan base kept growing. Sports were becoming
big business. Compensation for players and coaches, support staff and owners,
kept rising.
Then came mass
media, complete with ever-improved recording devises and exponentially
increasing choices of what to watch when. No need to miss anything. Ever.
Grandma turns up unexpectedly right at the kickoff or the first serve; no
matter. Press the little red button and welcome Granny with open arms. In
addition, the fan base for all sports is expanding horizontally, across the
globe. Want to watch the Australian Open Tennis here in the U.S.? Can’t even
figure out what day it is in Australia, never mind what time? No worries. Look
it up on the TV Guide, on the TV of course, not that little book we once bought
at the grocery store, hit that little red button and go to bed. Watch it
tomorrow. Sometime. Whenever.
So, given
professional sport’s universal, world wide appeal, I suppose the money involved
is only to be expected. I’m not sure what Neil Armstrong earned by being the
first human ever to walk on the moon, but I doubt it was anything like what
many many sports heroes earn. But why not? The moon walk was reportedly watched
by 530 million people. The 2011 Cricket World Cup between India and Pakistan
was supposedly watched by about one billion.
I miss the days
with less hype, less money, less drama, involved in sports. But what I really
really miss is the gentler language, before it all became so infused with
violence. But it seems to be what most people want. After all, you get what you
pay for.
© 3 Nov 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.
Posted on

Any Writing is Experimental, by Will Stanton

Any
writing, especially when one first endeavors to write, is experimental.  This is particularly true for those not well
versed or prone to writing.  As one
becomes more accomplished, the need for experimentation is reduced but rarely
eliminated.
The
primary function of writing (and speaking, for that matter) is to communicate
clearly, conveying accurately what is meant to be said.  If that is achieved, the secondary
consideration is to communicate in an engaging manner through a good command of
language and perhaps, when appropriate, with humor.
The
main advantage of writing, versus attempting to speak extemporaneously, is one
is given the chance, in advance of presentation, to organize one’s thoughts and
words.  In that way, the presenter has a
good chance of eliminating pauses or non-verbal utterances while searching for
the next thing to say.  This also
prevents one from repeating or wandering astray onto unrelated and unnecessary
sidetracks.  The presenter also has the
advantage of not droning on, losing the main point or topic meant to be
conveyed and, consequently, driving the listeners to distraction.  The presentation should be no more nor less
than required.
A
colleague of mine, Dr. Hughes, made an in-depth study of well-known
speakers.  He concluded that the most
effective, extemporaneous speaker was, unfortunately, Adolf Hitler.  Winston Churchill found it impossible.  He had to write and re-write his speeches and
then practice them until he felt comfortable presenting them.
Over
the years, I regularly was required to speak extemporaneously in my
therapeutic-group sessions, in lectures regarding some of my other interests,
and even, for fun, spontaneously creating and relating stories.  Apparently, I’ve inherited a modicum of
verbal skills.
I
still find, however, reviewing and fine-tuning early drafts beneficial.  The main reason is that imagery and memories
are clear to me, yet they may not be clear to listeners unless I make sure that
I express them clearly.  As a
consequence, I always begin early thinking through and writing about a topic,
rather than waiting to the last moment or, perhaps, not writing at all.
I
am aware of only one super-genius who never had to rethink or revise what he
wrote, and that was the superlative composer Mozart.  He could perform one of his piano concertos,
then at the same time compose another in his head, and finally, upon returning
home, set the new concerto down on paper without a single change or
correction.  Obviously, that skill is
astonishing.  Most of us, however, are
not so astonishing, and experimenting with our writing still is required.
© 14 July 2015 
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.
Posted on

Anger, by Ricky

“Tranquility base here.  The Eagle has landed.”  The first astronauts to land on the moon,
found an environment completely serene and peaceful.  Of course it would be because there were no
people there until then.  It’s a pity
that our planet is not so tranquil.
Earth is still geologically active and also has an
energetic atmosphere, so there are naturally occurring events that would
disturb the quiet nature of a planet at rest. 
But the tranquility to which I am assigning my “it’s a pity” is the lack
of peacefulness between people, cultures, and nations.
Situations continuously arise which allow people to
make themselves irritated.  Irritation
leads to frustration.  Frustration leads
to anger.  Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to violence.  Violence leads to war.  War leads to destruction.  Destruction leads to famine, pestilence, and
death.
I think we need an organization that can roundup all
the hate and war mongers and send them to the moon so we can have peace on
earth and they can experience tranquility there.  Maybe we could let them stay there “to infinity and beyond.”
© 9 June 2014 
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.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
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Exploring, by Phillip Hoyle

I was a Boy Scout but never an Explorer. Still I had
explorations I really enjoyed. They usually took place in the stacks at the
public library, at the piano when facing a new score, or at home or office when
fulfilling a project for school or work.
These explorations kept me busy and mostly out of trouble
for years, but things have changed so much that these days I most enjoy messing
around with words in an exploration of rhythm, contrast, and other aspects of
storytelling.
You might conclude as have I that my life-long explorations
are mostly projects of mind and imagination. That’s been quite enough for me
although I do like to go to the same places by differing routes, say take the
scenic lane, stop by and see something I’ve always missed, or approach a
similar project in a slightly different manner. So today I’m reading something
again related to my childhood and continuing fascination with Native American
cultures but this time in poetic form. My interest in a peyote fan at the
Denver Art Museum served as the starting point, but the verse tells of my
childhood imaginings.
© Denver, 2013
Magic Fan
By Phillip E. Hoyle
The clutch of feathers
worked magic, at least for the boy
Who slid them over the
back of his hand,
Between his fingers,
On the skin of his face
Transporting him to a
world of freedom
Where he was one of the Indians
he had read,
Who moved freely through
the life
Of prairie and forest,
Of hunt and survival,
Through the endless
tracks of his mind.
His room, his lodge
festooned with portraits
And costumes of leather
and feather
Faithful companions in
his world of flight,
This fullness of fancy
barely
Tethered by nearness of
family.
There in his lodge, he
worked his feathers
Formed into headdress,
bustle, and fan,
Costume for his great
dream
Of being an Indian
dressed up in style
That spoke of tribal
belonging.
The basement, the space
for a dance
Of adoption, the
footwork of fancy,
Steps made real by the
presence of
Feathers that moved air
and spirit
Through ceremonial smoke
of love and desire.
His dances were brief,
three minutes or less
—sad frontier of 78s—but
He practiced the joy
Shown in dip, turn, and
stomp;
The movement expressing
the life he could feel.
His fan led the way as
he pranced,
Swift feet moving in
moccasins that
Circled the room of
ceremony and smoke.
Bustles shimmering,
bells resounding
Sisters worrying, ‘He’s
at it again.’
In echoing basement his
beads bounced
His body the drum, the
people, the dream
Of roach and shirt,
breechclout and leggings.
Of such transportation:
The magic of feather and
fan.
© Denver,
2012 
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
Posted on

The Big Bang, by Gillian

Was
there only, ever, just one? The Big Bang, I read, created a new reality. So it
must follow that for something to be considered another Big Bang, or at least
analogous with it, it must change reality. Completely.
My
mind roves backwards over the history of our planet. Little blobs of floating
rock became continents which joined together and split asunder, and floated
from pole to equator. Talk about creating change! It was completely covered in
ice. It spewed out lava from deep fissures in it’s surface for millions of
years. It was bombarded by missiles from space, including the one which
created, literally, the big bang which is held responsible for the demise of
the dinosaurs. Surely no-one could deny that those events created new
realities?
It
seems to me that history is peppered with Big Bangs. Take just the short space
of human history. Invasions. Whether your little village on the Asian Steppes
was slashed and burned by Genghis Khan or your little village in the Andes was
hand-delivered deadly diseases by Cortez and his cronies, I bet it changed your
reality. Revolutions, from French to American to Communist to Industrial,
change realities. That child working twelve hours a day down the coal mine
surely had a very different reality from his parents who had slaved away their
childhoods in the fields. Every country invaded by another, from the Roman
Empire to British India to the U.S. occupation of Iraq, suffers an inevitable
change in reality. The World Wars altered huge swathes of the world, never to
be the same again. Yet so often, in fact, I suppose, always, there is some
previous contributing factor to these humanoid Big Bangs. So perhaps, they are
in fact the Big Bangs. 9/11 was a Big Bang all it’s own, but it became the
excuse for the next one, the invasion of Iraq. The justification for WW1 was
the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. If Princip had failed, perhaps there
would never have been that terrible war (though I suspect they would have found
some other excuse) so was the assassination the real Big Bang? Or does it go
further back? Probably it’s somewhere in that miasma of territorial, ethnic,
and religious struggles which seem to have plagued the Balkans for ever.
It’s
all too complex. I think I’ll stick, in blissful egocentricity, to my own
history, which seems to me equally liberally peppered with alternate realities.
I have already written about them; moving at a young age to to remote
countryside, leaving there to go to college. Emigrating to The United States,
most certainly a new reality. Marriage. Divorce. Coming out. Meeting my
beautiful Betsy.
Now
that was a real change of my reality. I had only come out, to myself and the
world, a few years before. Although chronologically in my forties, in lesbian
years I was a wacky teenager all set to sow that brand new bushel of oats. I
had NO intention of settling down with one woman for the rest of my life. In a
nanosecond Betsy burned through that reality, and, Big Bang, I settled down to
happiness ever after. Not that I’m too sure Betsy would care for being referred
to as my Big Bang. It does have a certain sexual slant to it. In fact, on
further reflection, it sounds like soothing you’d find on the bathroom wall.
I
guess you could think of death as the final Big Bang. If it doesn’t change
reality, your own, at least, I don’t know what does. But change it to what, is
of course the big question. In my new reality, will I be reincarnated as a
squealing newborn in Borneo, or one of those Amazon butterflies which change
realities around the globe with a flutter of their gossamer wings? Or will I be
….. nothing. Gone. No reality. Or a reality so changed it is way beyond my
imagination?
What
is reality, after all? For us humanoids it is what we must do to live; we must
have oxygen, food and water, and shelter. Down at the nitty gritty, that is
reality. Being invaded by the Mongol hordes or sold in slavery does not change
that. So perhaps there is only one Big Bang after all.
I
don’t even understand my own Big Bang theory. My head, which was beginning to
throb in the second paragraph, feels about to have a Big Bang of its own.
I
wish I’d never started this.
I
think I’ll just have a nice cup of tea.
© 20 Oct 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.
Posted on

My Earliest LGBT Memory, by Will Stanton

Five years old (or should I
say, “Five years young?) is very early for such a clear memory.  The experience must have had quite an impact
upon me to remember it so well.   The visual
aspect was powerful enough not to forget, but the excited feeling in my stomach
is what really affected me.
I was five, he was six.  He lived just two houses over from my
home.  To my regret, he and his family
did not stay there very long.  I have no
idea where he went after they moved.
I recall one spring evening
when I tagged along with my older brother to my neighbors’ home.  We didn’t actually play.  There were five of us there, and we simply
sat on the grass and chatted about whatever children of that age talk
about.  That I don’t remember, for it is
what I saw that captured and held my attention.
A traditional belief is that
children that age are not sexual, whatever is meant by that term “sexual.”  Sexual or not, I do know that, from a very
early age, I have had an unusually heightened sense of the aesthetic.  And, at the age of five, that came into play,
big-time.
The first thing that struck me
(and, the word “struck” certainly denotes the impact that I felt) was the
extraordinary beauty of his face.  The
aristocratic, finely sculpted features – – high cheek-bones, arched eyebrows,
narrow, straight nose, ideal line of the jaw and chin, and perfectly shaped
lips worthy of a Cupid.  I was
mesmerized.  As often appears to be the
case with the young, his warm-colored skin was flawless, and his richly colored
locks had avoided the shears and were allowed to flow downward toward his
eyes.  Those shining clear eyes had a
demure expression, not the more intense, self-confident look of the other boys
around him.  The others around him?  I barely remember them, almost as though they
already sat in the shadows of approaching dusk.
As the others talked among
themselves, he sat quietly, his long, lithe limbs side-saddle in the
grass.  I was not used to seeing boys sit
that way.  He seemed preoccupied with his
own thoughts.  Only occasionally did he
speak, and then in very soft tones. 
Those few moments of speech were music to my ears.
The full impact of this vision
raised strange and powerful emotions within me. 
I felt “butterflies” in my stomach, an adrenaline rush that was a whole
new experience for me.  It is that
shivering excitement that I felt which amazed me at the time and was so
indelibly imprinted upon my memory.
That remarkable moment
awakened in me a powerful passion for beauty in the human form that has stayed
with me my whole life.  It has inspired
in me the desire to express that passion through many forms of artistic
endeavor – – music, art, and writing, as I am doing now.  It often has dominated my feelings, perhaps
even plagued my thinking.  I often feel
like Gustav von Aschenbach in “Death in Venice,” overwhelmed by bitter-sweet
sensations each time I encounter beauty in human form.
Now that I am decades older
than that first experience at age five, even a generation older than von Aschenbach,
I sense no evidence that I shall change. 
Like Gustav, I shall be mesmerized by beauty to the very end of my days.
© 14 July 2015 
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.
Posted on

Forbidden Fruits by Ricky

Fruits I forbid myself: all fermented fruit products and any spoiled or rotten fruits. And while we are on the subject of forbidden I forbid myself from eating certain vegetables: asparagus, yellow squash, yellow wax beans, eggplant, and any other vegetable that I cannot pronounce or spell its name.

© 21 April 2014

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 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Don’t Touch Me There by Phillip Hoyle

I don’t believe those words have ever come out of my mouth. I’m not kidding, but I don’t want to claim too much for I was a ticklish boy. Tickling made me laugh and squirm, caused my throat to constrict and tire, made me try to get away from my tormentor. And I especially liked it when Paul tickled me, Paul a tall, muscular man, family friend and member of our church, who worked construction or some other physical job. We knew Paul and his wife and daughter because the daughter, like my next younger sister, had contracted polio and went to regular doctor’s appointments in Topeka, Kansas, sixty miles away. Rides were shared by the two families, so we spent a lot of time together, and we kids got to know each other and each other’s parents. Paul was almost like a kid himself. He loved to play. He loved to tickle us. I loved to be tickled by him. I’d run from him; he’d pursue me, get me down on the ground or floor and tickle me until I squealed. I had no other such relationship with an adult, certainly not with an adult male and couldn’t get enough of his attention. This giant would grab me with his huge paws, lift me high, then lower me to the ground and tickle my ribs until I was laughing, screaming, kicking, and trying to escape. I loved the attention.

There were other men who paid me mind: my dad who encouraged my singing by accompanying me on the piano, my grandfather Hoyle who sat in his chair smoking his pipe but occasionally talking with me or driving me somewhere in his Pontiac, my grandpa Pink who when he drove the tractor would lift me onto his lap and kid me and tell me stories and sing me songs, Mr. Lown the preacher who talked with me about becoming a minister, Bob who took me along with other boys to powwows and taught me to dance, and Mr. Martin who encouraged my singing in high school. I had plenty of attention from men but no other adult ever played with me like Paul. Still I loved the attentions of all these men and none of them ever crossed the line, caused me to say, “Don’t touch me there.”

Of course I don’t know that I would have said it anyway. Writing this I feel a bit like my friend who complained that the priest he served with at the altar for many years never molested him. But now, really, I’m just kidding.

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