Author: jnelson

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Breaking Into the Gay Culture by Will Stanton

Breaking into the gay culture. I have no idea what that means. I suppose one first would have to define “gay culture.” I’m not sure what that is, either.

Does that mean living in San Francisco and being 99% nude in a parade? Does it mean hanging out in gay bars and trying to pick up tricks, perhaps even resignedly going home with a nameless body at 2:00 A.M.? Does it mean late-night roaming of Cheesman Park, or hanging out around men’s restrooms? Does it mean wearing rainbow colors, or lots of gay bling announcing to the world that my orientation may be different from yours? Is this that “gay culture,” especially as defined by uninformed or homophobic people?

On the other hand, could it mean that wealthy, cultured, and well educated gentleman who is bored by the bar scene and, instead, sits in the balcony of the Met Opera with a group of black-tie friends and then throws exclusive after-opera parties at his magnificent home? Or, does it refer to someone like billionaire, arms-industrialist Alfred Krupp enjoying the view of a dozen naked, young boys splashing in his swimming pool, flaunting the draconian anti-gay laws of early-20th-century Germany?

Or finally, can it mean a bizarrely inverted and destructive so-called “un-gay culture” populated by outwardly-straight army generals, fundamentalist preachers, homophobic Republican senators, or “pray-to-cure therapists,” anyone who fears or denies his own orientation that he does not understand or is willing to accept?

One obviously visible part of gay culture that I certainly respect is those persons who work for gay civil rights and to educate the otherwise ignorant public. Such work may expose them to ridicule or worse. Or at least, that dedication may dominate their lives and take up most of their time, possibly denying them the opportunity to pursue other, more personally rewarding directions.

For those gays, however, who may have realized their orientation but who have not found much of a of a life beyond it, I would hope that “gay culture” is not defined by unproductive pursuits for frequent sex partners, short-term relationships, beer-busts, and constant gay social events. Human lives should mean much more than that.

It seems to me that the natural, healthful approach for viewing one’s orientation is that it is simply one element of a person’s personality and thinking, that it does not have to dominate one’s mind. Consequently, choosing friends, joining clubs, selecting careers, interests, and hobbies does not have to be determined primarily upon whether they are considered to be gay or straight activities. After all, any psychologist or biologist worth his salt now knows that sexual orientation is not binary, not black or white; it is fluid, running the spectrum of thinking, feelings, and behavior. I could be mistaken, but perhaps some individuals think of Story Time more as a gay writers’ group. I chose to join because I prefer to view it simply as a writers’ group. The human experience often contains universal elements not limited by gay or straight.

© 22 August 2012

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Patriotism by Terry

America is a lot of country to love. Patriotism is love of one’s country. So here are a few things I love, or recall loving about America.

I love America The Beautiful as opposed to the America of The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

I love that first job I got at age thirteen in Minot North Dakota, coaching 4th and 5th grade girls in softball and volleyball. I loved the look on my players’ faces when they got their first hit.

I loved my job as usher at the DCPA where I got to listen to The Brahms Requiem, and to witness performance of The Buddy Holly Story.

I loved my job at Sylvan Lake in The Black Hills. I loved honeymooning at one of its cabins three years later, where my new husband and I shared the same dream. I loved our family reunion forty years later where I met the twins, my grand Nephew and Niece, who rode peeking out from their grandparents backpacks most of the way on our hike up Terry Peak, memorably curtailed by a sudden thunderstorm that we mostly outran.

I love the freedom to risk, to make honest mistakes. I am thinking of my marriage that also found its final chapter at that same little Eden in The Black Hills. Where the emperors clothes no longer covered a young couple that grew apart in what felt like tragedy.

I loved the fields of North Dakota where I chased many a Monarch butterfly, so long unaware that I could neither reach nor outrun them in their high reels across the plain.

I loved the psychodrama plays at The Moreno Institute, its the stage with its balcony and colored footlights. I loved my International friends there who taught me French tongue twisters and who acted out their life’s stories in role plays or dramas based in their real worlds.

A lot of people mistake patriotism for unquestioning nationalism, my country right or wrong. I do not have any idea how to love all of fifty states, most of which I have never seen. It is a strange feeling to realize what abstractions replace a sighting of The entire South, not to mention Indiana, Kansas, Maryland Washington DC West Virginia., Nevada Utah., Hawaii, and Alaska.

I loved joining the Great Peace March across America in what year I forget, though I was probably the only person there where someone actually tried to start a fight with me for some unknown affront. Happily I escaped unscathed in time to head on to The Women’s Music Festival in Michigan, which I definitely loved until I fell asleep in the middle of the outdoor premier of Desert Hearts. I do however, own my own copy of the video.

I love teachers, music teachers, art teachers, I love learning and still do love teaching, my way of working to enhance my pupils and clients ability to enjoy their lives in the face of childhood mental illness, drug addiction and Alzheimer and dementia. I love that I was able to pursue that calling.

I love doctors and nurses who keep trying to pull rabbits out of hats, like the sorcerer’s apprentice trying to mop up the continual distresses of humans, each one of whom is destined for a tragic end.

I love the builders who raise schools and airports and hospitals from flat earth, I love astronauts and actors, their sense of adventure.

I love painting for several hours per creation. I love when I hear people express their in-loveness with my paintings. I love to write exactly what I want to convey, a story or essay or poem and when someone connects.

I love Carmel Sutra Ice Cream (Ben and Jerry’s).

I love talking or chatting online into the wee hours of the night with long-time friends who live far away.

I love playing Scrabble with two friends, one of whom grew up loving to read the dictionary, I don’t think I have won against her yet.

I do love women who love women. I love their wittiness and laughter, their wondrous sexiness.

I love good men with their spirit, generosity and pride and such widespread handsomeness of soul.

Lastly but not least, I love my cats, Charley and Star for as long as they are with me and I with them.

I guess you could say I am in love with my own world, but then, who could possibly get their arms around a whole country? Well anyway I’m imagining a gigantic hug.

© November 2013

About the Author


I am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.

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It’s a Drag by Ricky

No, really; this topic is really a drag, a downer, a disappointment, a travesty, a calamity, a disaster, a catastrophe, a cataclysm, a … well, you get the idea. The only “drags” I attended were the stock car drag races near Carson City, when I was a young teen. I didn’t care for them because they were so loud my ears hurt and they smelled bad and so did the dragsters.

In my 50’s, a friend and I went to another drag race, this time in Utah at a track just outside Salt Lake City. We were there specifically to see a jet-powered dragster known as “California Smoky”. Once again, I learned how loud the drags were. In order to take a photograph as the vehicle sped by, I had to use two hands on the camera. Even after spending 16 years in the Air Force, I failed to remember exactly how loud a jet engine is at full throttle and full after-burner. I think my ears are still ringing.

I’ve never been to a so called drag-queen show so my experience with that is limited to the late-night so called “documentaries” about the “profession”. Of course, I have seen male movie actors playing female characters in some parts of movies as an “all-male-review” type of comedy. In addition, I can remember TV performers doing the same thing; most notably Milton Beryl.

When I was about 13 or 14, I tried on my mother’s panties to see what the material felt like; nylon panties vs. cotton briefs. I preferred the cotton.

Although, it’s not related directly, this topic reminded me of the pop song, Kind of a Drag, by composer Jimmy Holvay and sung by the group known as “Buckinghams”. So, I won’t drag this out any longer. I’m done.

© 12 September
2011

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 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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Solitude by Ray S.

“Hear that? It’s Debussy’s Le Mer.” How appropriate for the moment. Sounds just the way I feel. It is so hard to get started in the morning, the prospects of managing another day’s routine and decisions nagging at my subconscious.

“Subconscious, why do you command so much energy of my old mind? We are always at swords point or you’ve taken over completely. You’re the victor and I’m the defeated. You revel in the worst negative. O, these quiet hours of solitude.”

And then I said, “Well, how did you know when your retreat into self-imposed isolation would result in the discovery of your real self.” Did it settle all of those damning self-doubts? I guess it did, it is hard for me to imagine you any different than you are now. How long did it take in meditation or whatever to lift that millstone from your back? Can you show me how? I don’t think I have the will or discipline to beat my evil twin.

The music swells and I envision a soul departing this vail of all it demands. See it rising into the sky like a balloon, oh feel the relief from escaping everything earthly. What an adventure. The vastness of the universe beckons. Maybe this soul will be drown to all the other family of soul that took this trip earlier. How about that. A family reunion. It might be crowded.

OMG. Will this all end up the same old, same old? No, remember you left all that sub conscious junk back there. You’ll just have to be patient.

Sounds like the sea has crashed it’s final crescendo and the two battling sub-consciousnesses have given up until tomorrow morning, ready for another go at whatever.

How do you know anything, when, how, where, why? Solitude can be so tired, deadly and lonely.

And then there comes another melody with words:

“Never treats; me sweet and gentle, the way he should.
I’ve got it bad and that ain’t good
Lord above me make him love me the way he should
I’ve got it bad and that ain’t good!

I end up like I start out,
Just crying my heart out.
I’ve got it bad and that ain’t good.

(With apologies to Earl Father Hines.)

© 30 September
2013

About the
Author

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Coping with Loved Ones by Phillip Hoyle

Coping with loved ones is not really my topic although I do face some such challenges, challenges I’ve settled by maintaining distance. Still my experience is not so much coping as simply living away from the people whom I seem so much to bother. I don’t expect them to change in their attitudes. I keep my distance. I have done so for fifteen years.

When I told my sisters that my wife and I were separating, that she was going back to Albuquerque to work and I was staying in Tulsa, that we didn’t know how to solve the difficulty two sexual affairs I’d had with men had created, and that I bore the responsibility for our problems, one of my four sisters was stricken. Sometime later, after I had moved to Denver to live my life as a gay man, I received a letter from her and her family that she, her minister husband, and their two young adult daughters had signed, a letter that separated them from me with its condemnation expressed in biblical language. I read it—a letter her husband had written—and felt sadness. I felt especially sad that they had involved their daughters in the act of rejection. I felt deeply sad for my sister. I did not respond to their communication. I have not seen my sister or her family since then.

Each March I send my sister a birthday card. Each December I send her family a Christmas card. That’s it. That’s enough for me. I feel sad for them all. I did send her husband a get-well card when he was being treated for cancer. I sent him my congratulations when he retired. I don’t know to do more than that. I hope my sister has a sense of peace in all this. That’s my best wish for her.

My other three sisters have been open, loving, and including, whatever their thoughts about homosexuality, sin, and salvation. I appreciate their attitudes. I treasure them all, even the rejecting sister who once had been one of my closest friends. I suspect this story would be more interesting if it had been written by my rejecting sister. She’s surely the one who has to cope. She’s the one who holds out for me to change. She’s the one who believes I’ve committed some unpardonable sin. She’s the one who has to deal with the embarrassment of having a sinfully gay brother who probably does all kinds of horrible things decent people must protect their children from, must rid their society of, and must enact laws to limit. She’s the one who fears that civil freedoms for the pursuit of happiness or simply the right to work, marry, and live in peace give too much to homosexuals. She’s the one who has to cope with too much. So she does cope; she prays every day of the week for my repentance. I keep my distance so she doesn’t have to cope with me close up. Face to face might be too much provocation.

My coping strategies: distance and separation. Perhaps they are too much a habit I’ve cultivated. I see they may present a problem on the horizon. As we age and our health deteriorates, a thing well underway with this group of siblings, I am sure I will need to be face to face with members of the rejecting family. Then I’ll have something more to write about! Then I’ll know more about coping like people in small towns have to cope with their families! In the meantime I’ll send my cards and best wishes for these folk who find me to be so evilly unrepentant.

© 14 October 2012

About the Author


Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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My Favorite Fantasy by Pat Gourley

I suppose some might say my fantasy life is sorely lacking in imagination and creativity and my opening lines to this piece might just reinforce that since it begins with yet again another Grateful Dead reference. The phrase that might be thrown at me here would be along the lines of “get a life”. Sort of like the bumper sticker that appeared shortly after Jerry Garcia died in 1995: Jerry is dead, Phish stink, Get a job. Despite the validity of this self-criticism here I go again. The topic of fantasy was brought to my mind as the result of the current four night run by Furthur at Red Rocks and their opening the second set on the 3rd, Saturday night, with the old Traffic tune Dear Mr. Fantasy.

Dear Mister Fantasy play us a tune
Something to make us all happy
Do anything take us out of this gloom
Sing a song, play guitar
Make it snappy
You are the one who can make us all laugh
But doing that you break out in tears
Please don’t be sad if it was a straight mind you had
We wouldn’t have known you all these years

Traffic – Winwood, Capaldi & Wood, 1967.

These are lyrics from a song made popular by Traffic in 1967. Their music was certainly within my sphere of listening influence if not when it actually was released certainly a few years later. This tune though made no lasting impression on me until the Grateful Dead resurrected it in the mid- 1980’s. The tune was brought to the band for then keyboardist Brent Mydland, who was one of a string of key board players for the Grateful Dead over thirty years. Several of them met untimely deaths, Brent included, who did himself in with a speedball in 1990. I suppose shooting a combination of cocaine and heroin is one way to attempt creation of a fantasy or perhaps facilitate fanciful escape. Several other much better known celebrities, based on an Internet search, have blasted out of this life with speedballs most notable perhaps were SNL greats Chris Farley and John Belushi.

What is music but one way to make us all happy and to take us out of our gloom? I am going to veer away from music as facilitator of fantasy though and take fantasy into the realm of Queerdom. Particularly the role fantasy plays in the lives of gay men. The proposition here will be that the creation of fantasy worlds is one of our special powers, one of our great gifts to the larger society and ourselves. We hone our skills at fantasy often in our early masturbatory and sexual daydreams, which we often have to create on our own since the dominant society, provides us with very little sanctioned sexual guidance.

                             

Our fanciful thumbprints are all over many facets of societal escape well beyond the sexual realm from personal grooming, art, film, classical music, show tunes and theatre to fashion and drag of all sorts to name but a few. I am not meaning to say that lesbians, bisexuals and trans folks are not also fanciful just that gay men seem to have really cornered the market on escapism. Fantasy I suppose has a downside as well as its many up sides, especially the social safety valve it provides. An example of the downside, and I am making this up pretty much as I write, is that our desire for escape often goes beyond harmless fantasies and too often gets goosed along with drugs and alcohol. Jerry Garcia once said people do drugs because they make them feel good. Going back to the Traffic lyrics again many of us gay men have certainly used substances to take us out of our gloom.

In order to fulfill many of our adolescent and pre-adolescent fantasies of being swept off our feet by Mister Right and then sexually ravaged until we nearly explode, drugs and alcohol are often used to help us to get over the initial and very powerful societal taboos involved. There has been some speculation over the years that gay men are perhaps more prone biologically to an over use of tobacco, drugs of all sorts and alcohol. I would argue that we are more prone biologically to fantasy.

Certainly not every gay man is into getting fucked though it is something most at some time or the other do fantasize about. This has got to be first explored in the realm of fantasy. Nobody wakes up one morning and out of the blue says ‘gee I think I’ll get some dude to fuck me today’. Any form of physical and emotional intimacy with another man is still so taboo that this remains a real test of character to get over it and move into the realms of positive gay intimacy despite the current minimal societal sanctioning of gay marriage.

There is much more run up psychologically, emotionally and physically to letting a man screw you than for a straight guy to have his first sexual encounter with a woman. The sexual signs posts are everywhere in our society for heterosexuals but don’t exist for gay men outside the realm of fantasy often times. Our sexual fantasies these days are and for decades really have been supported by gay male porn. Inadequate access even in 2013 to peers knowledgeable about the ins and outs of gay sex make the often totally fanciful world of gay male porn very attractive. Gay male sex education even in the world of the relatively tolerant Public Health environment rarely goes beyond the vapid message of “play safe –use a condom.”

In answer to the original question what is my favorite fantasy I am left at a bit of a loss on how to pick one. I sometimes think my entire life is a fantasy or perhaps worse a total illusion. I do think though that one’s favorite fantasy should be something that gets the blood running. I suppose I do also at times confuse my dreams with fantasy or maybe my dreams are pure fantasy. I dream of a socialist utopia where everyone is treated equally, has adequate food, clothing and shelter, the planet is healthy and the whole world is infused with a queer sensibility.

Well enough with taking the high road around my favorite fantasy. Being brutally honest I am going to base my favorite fantasy simply on how often I engage in it. That hands down would be my nearly daily masturbatory fantasies. These are often ignited with a bit of Internet porn but usually reach fruition by recalling a past sexual encounter that ends in my imagination the way I would have hoped rather than how it actually did. I must say though that most days that works just fine.

In closing I’d like to say that in doing these writings for this group I occasionally stumble on a thought that I think deserves much more exploration than I give it. For example the whole idea that the nonsexual fantasy worlds of gay men are actually great safety valves for society in general. I don’t think many would argue that without show tunes the world would be just a bit sadder place. Being the lazy fuck that I am though I rarely delve deeper but too often of an afternoon get distracted into the fantasies at hand.

©
October 2013

Photos from Author

About
the Author


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

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Hitting a Milestone by Nicholas

The first thing I wanted to do on reaching 60 years of age was look back. Look back on just how I turned out to be me. As I’m writing this, Quicksilver Messenger Service—does anybody remember that ‘60s rock group? —is singing “What are you going to do about me?” Good question. What am I going to do about me? A little self obsessed, maybe, but there’s no apologizing needed for that in this day and age.

In 2006, I turned 60 years of age. This was one of those milestone “zero” birthdays, like 30, 40, 50. Only this one seemed to hit me as more of a milestone than the others ever did. I wasn’t sure if it marked another mile but I sure felt the weight of the stone.

I like to say that I faced my 60th birthday instead of that I celebrated my 60th. There was a celebration, of course, one of the best parties I’ve ever had. It was put together by my sisters and Jamie and was quite a wing-ding, with catered food, champagne, a huge cake and lots of family and friends to share it with. In fact, I extended the celebration to all that year long, not just one day. It was not just another routine birthday passed with a day off work, a bike ride in the mountains, a special dinner with Jamie, a few cards and presents and then on to the next day. No, this one meant something.

This birthday was different and needed to be marked differently. This one presented challenges. It demanded to be paid attention to. Turning 60 was truly a cusp of something, a turning point. I am now closer to my departure from this planet than am I to my arrival upon it.

I felt that I’d crossed a threshold, stepped over a line, a boundary to somewhere though I was not sure where. If the past was a burden piling up behind me, the future seemed a foggy mystery and unknown territory. I was in a new country without a map and with loads of hopes and fears but not sure what direction to take.

Suddenly, I felt a sense of being old. Now I was one of the old people, a senior citizen. I was now entitled, if I summoned the nerve, to boot some young person out of those seats at the front of the bus reserved for old folks. I’ve never done that, of course. But I was old and everybody knew it. No more anonymity, I was marked with gray hair, sagging skin, a bit slower to take stairs, and a few more bottles of pills on the shelf. Now with this birthday and every birthday hence, my age was a matter of public policy. I was officially a statistic, a “boomer,” a term I despise. This birthday and the party to commemorate it left me with an uncomfortable self-consciousness.

And some confusion. One morning I was bicycling along the South Platte River, following the familiar path when suddenly the way was blocked and I was shuffled off onto a detour around a huge construction zone. I followed the detour hesitantly, not knowing exactly where I was and fearing that it was taking me too far out of the way. But the route was well marked so I continued to follow the signs. Eventually, I got back to the river path and I knew where I was.

That’s the way I was feeling on this birthday. I don’t know where this path is leading and this one is not marked at all. Am I on another detour or is this the main path? I’m trying to work my way to a point where I can see where I’ve been and so I can figure out where I’m going. At least that’s the aim.

I have this sense of the past, my past—which has grown rather bulky—and I do not want to let go of it. I can’t let go of it. I like my history and my memories. I like what I’ve done, embarrassments and failings as well as achievements and successes.

In my first 60s—the 1960s—the world was on fire with change and excitement. There was nothing I and my generation couldn’t do to make the world a better place. Justice was on the move and so was personal freedom. The personal became the political and politics became very personal and passionate. Passion is the word I attach to the ‘60s. The music was passionate. The war and the war against the war were passionate. The drive for civil rights was passionate. The freedom was passionate.

If I hearken after any remnant of that youthful decade it is that sense of passion. If there is any bit from that era that I’d like to restore to my later years, it is that passion. Turn nostalgia around and let it lead me into the future. Grow old and find your passion. Is that wisdom speaking? Have I stumbled onto wisdom somehow?

So, yes, it was quite a party, the party of a lifetime. It was the party that marked and celebrated way more than another year on the planet. I can’t forget that party because to do so would be to forget my life, its past, present and future.

© 17 October 2013

About the Author

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









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Halloween Humor by Will Stanton

Thirty-six Halloweens have come and gone since I first came to Denver, yet in those many years, I have attended only a few parties and hosted even fewer. Those parties, however, are, for various reasons, rather memorable.

The first large party that I attended was filled with truly creative people who thought of, and made, their own costumes… no rented or purchased costumes there with people saying, “How to you like my costume?” If you remember the old TV ads for Fruit of the Loom underwear, several people showed up as those advertisement characters, a bunch of grapes, etc. One man made an authentic replica of a Roman legionnaire’s armor.

Ever since I was a young child and attended local children’s parades and costume contests, I thoroughly subscribed to that tenant that my mother taught me, “create your own costume!” Yet at times, coming up with a fresh ideas may not be the simplest task.

About 4:00 in the afternoon of the day of that party, I still did not have an idea for myself. Then, I read an article in Time Magazine that provided my idea. The magazine article spoke of the scandal in the Olympics with the Eastern-Block countries apparently posing men as women in several events. I went to a T-shirt shop and had them make a red shirt with a big CCCP (for USSR) on the front and back. Then I picked up a wig and bra from ARC. The rest of the costume was easy, simply using gym sox and shoes and small gym shorts. In those days, I did sixteen hours per week of heavy-duty sports, so I was very buff and had big shoulders and chest. You can imagine what I looked like. To my surprise and pleasure, my costume as a “Soviet woman-athlete” was a big hit. A friend who took a photo promised to give me a copy, but he never did. I wish I had it to show people.

Another party with especially creative attendees occurred a few years ago. I have known for many years a remarkably talented man who has been a successful artist, craftsman, writer, and editor. In his line of business over the years, he has made a point of connecting with many other talented people. For his party, he announced a theme: leather. For a moment, I wondered if he was alluding to the gay interpretation; however, then I concluded that his suggestion was more broad, considering that his friends are of mixed persuasion.

I decided that, in keeping with the dark atmosphere of Halloween, I would go as a Russian KGB general. I had a cheap Russian military hat that I easily spruced up to resemble the required Soviet officer’s hat. I borrowed a huge black-leather coat. The rest was easy: black boots, black trousers and belt, black shirt and tie. The effect on the other guests was dramatic, and I shall not exaggerate in my telling of it.

The home was packed with interesting people, and it was not easy to move about. Throughout the evening, however, whenever I walked throughout the house, people instinctively stepped aside to make room for me. This phenomenon never changed; it continued until I left at 2:00 in the morning.

Even more curious was the fact that three people tried to pick me up all throughout the evening. The second woman was even more persistent than the first, and her husband was right there at the party. Someone had stood up to permit me to sit down on the coach, and this determined lady knelt next me for 45 minutes, chatting me up, and making quite clear that she “would really like to get to know me!” The third interested party was a young man half my age.

My being a very self-effacing person with little belief that I possess irresistible charisma, I was quite surprised and puzzled by all this attention. Then the words of Mark Twain came to mind and possibly explained it: “Clothes make the man!”

Regarding Halloween humor, I always have enjoyed a truly good joke. I recall how fun the popular Irish humorist David Allan was. When I could, I would try to catch him on TV and hear his wry humor. One of my favorites has remained with me to this day. The joke is set in an Irish pub on Halloween night:

Shawn O’Leary, having consumed
several pints of Guinness and a few shots of Cutty Sark, comes stumbling out
the door into the stormy night.

“Cor!  What a terrible night, with the wind and rain
a’blowin’!  It’s a night for witches and
banshees

and things that go Bump in the night! 
I better take the shortcut home…through the graveyard.” 

So, Shawn stumbles off through the
grave yard from tree to tree and grave to grave until he comes to a fresh-dug
grave; and Plop!, he falls in.  Shawn
looks up, shakes his head and starts to try to climb out.  The earth, however, is loose from the rain
and crumbles.  He keeps sliding back down
into the grave.

So finally, Shawn hunkers down in
the corner and says,”Oh well, I might as well make a night of it.”
About this time, Bryan O’Casey
stumbles out of the pub and says, “Cor! 
What a terrible night.  It’s a
night for witches and banshees and things that go Bump in the night.  I better take the shortcut home…through the
grave yard.”
So Bryan heads off into the graveyard
and stumbles into the very same grave.  Looking
up, Bryan starts to climb out, but he keeps sliding back down into the grave.
All this while, Shawn O’Leary is
watching him.  Finally Shawn speaks up
and says, “You might as well give up trying to get out of this grave
tonight.  You’ll never make it.” 

He did! 

© 18 June 2012





About the Author




I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Facts by Michael King


I am more aware of my memory than when I was younger. I have become increasingly conscious of how the things remembered are isolated pieces of time, interaction, momentous events, strong emotions and other seemingly significant events in my past. Sometimes I will recall something of no particular importance with any particular feeling attached. It is from this awareness that I approach the topic for Monday, “Facts.”


It is my understanding that in a trial there may be numerous witnesses that observed a crime. Without coordination they may tell very different stories about the event. There is no reason to question their honesty, but what are the facts? Facts seem to be an elusive kind of reasonable makes-sense explanation regarding any given situation. It seems the mind will interpret experience in a way that seems plausible. If that is the case then facts are something that seems to be the most probable rather than the actual reality.


In “Telling my Story” I am usually aware that my memories are the perceptions that I now have of people and events in contrast to how I might have perceived those memories 25 years ago, 50 years ago, 70 years ago or even yesterday. What are the facts? Usually the date, the people, the place and the event are factual. Then are the particulars as to the surroundings. And becoming more vague would be the probable small details if recalled at all and then in the interpretation of the facts are the more distortive emotions and feelings. All these factors contribute to the probable facts related to any situation.


It amazes me that there are people that will respond to a question with the word “absolutely.” Either they are conning someone, trying to sell something or are unaware of how ludicrous their comment is. I’m convinced that being factual is not very important to some people and not particularly expected. There are many examples where people aren’t even aware of their distortions or perhaps don’t care if there is accuracy in either their thoughts or comments.


My conclusion is that to be factual is variable to the persons, events, memories, observations and philosophies. Perhaps more factual would be scientific evidence. Even then there is much room for interpretation. That is a fact.


Now, after that disclaimer, I’ll share a few facts about me. I am a 73 year old male humanoid mortal living on my planet of nativity. I was twice wed and divorced, fathered four children and am the grandfather of two men and a woman and two very young granddaughters. I live in Denver, Colorado with my partner Merlyn. I am an active openly gay eccentric who wears ear bobs, sports tattoos and piercings and has fairly colorful wardrobe. I paint and do sculpture, write stories for “Story Time,” help set up for the Prime Timers’ “Nooners,” volunteer at the GLBT Center, go antiquing and visit thrift stores, cook, eat, drink vodka, go to plays, stage performances, ballet and opera, exercise at the Y, walk, ride the bus and Merlyn’s Suburban, watch movies, porn and TV, talk to my family and sometimes get together with them, And then there are those other facts that shall go unsaid.

© 23 March 2013

About
the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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Coming Out Spiritually by Merlyn

I have never come out spiritually, I look inside of myself, It’s the only place I have ever found the spiritual answers that are so important.

I was born into a family that faithfully attended The United Brotherhood Church in Beach Park, Michigan. Everything we did was a sin so we had to be saved over and over again with tent revival meetings, church camps and temperance meetings.

On Sunday mornings we would all show up at the church, stand up with a Jesus loves me look on our faces and sing the songs, drink the blood and eat the body of Christ, leave the church and start sinning again.

I realized there wasn’t any point in living in fear of going to hell and feeling guilty all the time.

When I was around 10 years old I stopped believing in organized religion, the Bible, God and Jesus. I refused to go to church after I turned eleven. I don’t think I have been in a church more than 20 times on a Sunday morning in the last 58 years.

One of the best things about being a nonbeliever is I don’t have to try to fit any new beliefs in with my old beliefs. I have had a completely open mind whenever I have studied any of the great spiritual teachings that millions of people believe in. I have never found any of them that I can believe in.

I know a lot of people that will never be able to find peace and understanding because they have so many hang-ups brought on because of their religious convictions.

The only time I ever think about religion is when I’m around other people that bring the subject up.

© 1
July 2013

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.