Men and Women, by Ray S

In our heritage tradition leans heavily on the Judean folk lore of Adam and Eve and how they got in trouble fooling around under the apple tree resulting in a long list of don’ts and do’s.

However, as time went by and the rational thought showed its head a number of us became “thinkers” and “questioners.” The idea of who came first, Eve or Adam was not as relevant as who is at the top of their game, and likewise.

The convenient arrangement of two sexes succeeds in the purpose of supply and demand for bodies. Many of which complete their life cycle contributing greatly to our culture, others sadly to conflict and wars. “But the beat goes on” as the song says.

The miracle of birth is that with each new being there are no two alike, physically and emotionally. Our discovery of who we are and what we can contribute to our lot is the ultimate goal of womankind and mankind.

I am reminded of the Yin and Yang—how they fit together so perfectly and yet within those two identical forms there lies myriads of different individuals bringing so very many things to the table, and there’s room for all of us at this table.

© 1 May 2017

About the Author

Fitness, by Phillip Hoyle

I certainly am no fitness fanatic. It only takes a glance to know that. But there was a two-year period in my life when I went to the gym twice a week to exercise. I started at age 41 a couple of months after the Senior Minister of our congregation unexpectedly died at age 51. Like him I had some extra weight. I knew I was in for a lot of work dealing with a mourning congregation, an interim Senior Minister (turned out to be two of them, the first one who exuded negative assessment and power, the second one who had brain damage from an automobile accident), and the adjustments to the arrival of a new Senior Minister. A choir member suggested I join with her, my wife, and the church’s Administrative Assistant at a nearby gym for a twice-weekly noon-time Super Circuit. She thought we’d enjoy it.

Super Circuit combines aerobic with strength exercises. Each one-hour session began with warm-ups. Then the over-enthusiastic leader blew her whistle to begin the circuit. I’d walk to a near-by machine, set the weight, and do 12 or 15 reps working my abs, pecs, delts, lats, quads, or another muscle group. Finishing that I’d join in jogging, jumping rope, doing chin ups (I’m sure I could do one), walking on the treadmill, pedaling my way nowhere on a stationary bike, or some other option. The next whistle blow called us to the next station just counter-clock-wise to the first. In addition to the machines, the stations included a bench press, a place to do crunches, and other techniques of self-torture. The back and forth between stations and aerobics lasted 45 minutes. No stopping. When the last whistle blew, we’d gather back in the original assembly for stretches. Then it was off to the shower room. After that our little trio would drag ourselves about three blocks to Subway for vegetarian sandwiches and a Sprite. Numb, I’d return to work.

Did I get fit? Yes. After several months, about the same time my knees quit aching, I realized I could sing with an ease I had never before achieved. I reasoned it was the combination of aerobic (breath control) and strength (core development) that served me well.

Asking “Did I enjoy it?” seems appropriate. I didn’t lose any weight but I did feel fat turn into muscle. I was amused that I pressed more weight with my legs than either of the two younger buff athletic men in the class. Myrna and Maggie dropped out after a couple of months. I persisted two years during the interim and first months of the new Senior Minister. Then I made my escape, a story I’ve already told in this group.

When I moved to Albuquerque I located a gym near the church, but they had neither Super Circuit nor showers. Since my budget was already stretched I quit fitness training and eventually signed up for voice lessons.

When at age 51 I dropped out of polite society, I went to massage school. For the next fifteen years I did exercises like I had never experienced before. When I realized I had developed my biceps and triceps, I made my kids and grandkids feel them. Grandpa was becoming more fit than ever in his life, and I got paid for doing so. Now that was years ago. I’ll make no further comment except to use a phrase I learned from the Senior Minister whose death sent me to the gym. “Don’t throw a fit and fall in it.”

© 31 July 2017

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

Journaling in the Age of Dick Pics, by Pat Gourley

I have never had the discipline needed for any form of consistent journaling or diary keeping. The closest I have ever come to writing with focus has been this SAGE Story Telling Group. I suppose you could say my writings on AIDS were a focused personal collection of my observations and reactions to that nightmare, a journaling of sorts. My AIDS writings though when looked at over nearly three decades beginning in 1981 were actually quite sparse and spread out.

Looking at my expanded title for this topic you may wonder how I am going to leap from “journal” to “dick pics”. It is not going to be very smooth but is being driven in part by a strong desire to document a few of the crazier statements, actions and proclamations, often sexual in nature, that I have run across lately in my excessive Internet browsing and cable news watching. Further documentation, as if we needed any more, that in 2017 the world has gone totally insane.

One phrase I want to immortalize in particular really sticks out and that is “ the smoke of Satan”. This one is perhaps originally credited to Pope Paul VI. He was reacting to what was, and still is, apparently quite significant ongoing and organized homosexual activity amongst the Curia in Rome. Surprise!

This smoke of Satan business has now gotten even worse under the current Pope Francis per some observers. The whole phrase was “the smoke of Satan has infiltrated the Church”. We queers have been called by many names throughout history but I must say “the smoke of Satan” may be my favorite.

I mean what does that even mean? Perhaps Satan is fond of a post-coital cigarette? Or something a bit more-kinky involving blowing smoke up someone’s ass, which is well documented in gay male internet porn often by those with a cigar fetish. I think though the phrase remains open to interpretation, let your imagination run wild.

So the next odd turn of phrase that I think deserves journaling on my part comes from a Republican Congressman named Buddy Carter from Georgia. Referring to the Senate being unable to address health care he recently said, “Somebody needs to go over there to that Senate and snatch a knot in their ass.” At first blush I thought maybe he was referring to anal beads. Pondering further I guess I again have no idea what is being referenced here. If you have Internet access and time on your hands I have included a link to an article detailing the apparently long history of the phrase. Not to cast any aspirations but it seems to be Southern in origin. http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2017/07/27/_snatch_a_knot_in_their_ass_explained.html

And of course what sort of chronicling of the salacious would not include the current vivid description of someone in the White House supposedly being pre-occupied with sucking his own dick. Though I think the comment was meant to be mean-spirited it has been great fun watching various pundits, often on live TV, trying to address this one. Several commentators, mostly women I might add, have tried in part to dismiss the act as ridiculous and physically impossible. Au contraire!

Even a cursory perusal of gay internet porn, using the search term of ‘auto-fellatio’, will show that for some it is truly quite possible to suck one’s own dick. Albeit it helps a lot to be rail thin, flexible like a yogi master and have a long shlong. This slight was directed at Steve Bannon though and of course he is most likely not well endowed, an adept yogi and certainly not rail thin.

One last mention of an activity that certainly warrants a deeper dive into the psychology of it all is the “dick pic’. The current flap surrounds again some jerk working for Fox News apparently harassing female co-workers with snaps of his junk. Without really giving it much thought I wondered if at least the first phone pic of a dick did not come from a cruising gay male. I mean after-all we have been for millennia in the forefront of facilitating hook-ups. A ‘dick pic’ certainly cuts to the chase for some and we have after all perfected the art of non-verbal sexual communication. Perhaps this is just one more thing co-opted by the straight male.

In researching this piece, and yes this did take a bit of legitimate research, I happened on this tongue-in cheek but delightful YouTube video on the history of the ‘dick pic’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_sFnktGzxCs

Enjoy!

© August 2017

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.

Ghosts Are Everywhere, by Nicholas

Now, I don’t believe in ghosts. But I know that my life is full of them. I don’t mean ghosts who go around rearranging the furniture in my house or turning lights off or on. And I don’t mean ghosts that are just faint memories of past people and places. Remembering is part of it but remembering is just a mental act of recall. I mean a sense of the presence of someone or something that is not here. I mean a sense of place when you’re not in that place and haven’t been for a long, long time.

Memories can be triggers. So can sounds, especially music, and flavors and smells. The scent of patchouli always immediately takes me back to Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park in 1968. It’s a sensation, not a thought, of the past. Certain Grateful Dead songs do it, like Black Peter and Sugaree, give me more than a musical memory. Expecting to Fly by Buffalo Springfield, almost anything by the Moody Blues re-create places like funky living rooms in San Francisco flats I have lived in. I associate songs by Steve Miller with climbing Mt. Tamalpais north of San Francisco. I have no idea why. They probably ran through my mind when I was doing that.

Joni Mitchell songs are also very evocative for me. I recall walking down a street one sunny morning hearing Night in the City wafting from someone’s open window. The image has stuck with me. Sometimes when I’m in San Francisco, I walk down that same block as I did decades ago. Yes, the song is still there.

I will be in San Francisco in a few weeks. That city is full of ghosts everywhere. I am still most attached to the two cities where I know the most ghosts: Cleveland where I grew up and San Francisco where I also grew up. Denver holds few ghosts for me and the least attachments though I have lived here a long time.

Hometowns imprint themselves on your memory bank much like first impressions are said to happen with ducklings. The first things seen become the mother of all further impressions, a standard by which all experience is ranked. I guess our creative imaginations are then a blank screen ready to receive whatever pictures show up.

When I go back to my hometown, I see ghosts. The city is a fraction of the size it was when I was a kid. The crowds are mostly gone and with them, the once bustling city. Rapid transit trains that I rode as rattling, noisy and packed are now brand new, quiet and rarely packed. But I see the ghosts.

And when I really want to be with the ghosts, I go to one of the grand old cemeteries that hold members of my family and my ancestors. Those ghosts aren’t going anywhere. I can count on them staying put.

Actually, ghosts don’t move around much. In San Francisco, everybody moves frequently but the ghosts stick around. At the AIDS Memorial Grove in Golden Gate Park there are lots of ghosts. One has only to sit still and they show up. That used to be true of other places around the city but many of those—like the Trocadero disco—are gone and have become ghosts themselves. Even Castro Street has lots of ghosts on it as baby strollers have peculiarly replaced men in plaid flannel shirts.

Ghosts are fun. My ghosts are anyway. They love to dance—many of them are crazy about ABBA and, of course, Diana Ross.

When I was a kid, my father loved to tell stories about when he was a kid and his grandfather knew a bunch of old army veterans from the Civil War. Dad sat and listened as these old guys told their war stories. More than remembering and telling, they, and my dad through them, relived those experiences at each retelling. Now, I know what he felt.

© 23 April 2017

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.

Anxious Moments, by Louis Brown

( A ) Because Bernie Sanders told his followers to campaign for Hillary Clinton, I went to the local office of Ed Perlmutter, member of U. S. Congress, and did many hours of phone work for her. However, I felt uncomfortable doing so. Hillary Clinton, despite her consistent claims to being a liberal, really isn’t. She admires Henry Kissinger, voted for the War in Iraq and generally does not even acknowledge the existence of the liberal base of the Democratic Party. She was for the TPP before she was against it. Her opposition to the TPP was not sincere and she really never touched on the underlying hostility the TPP represents to working people in America. However, when I campaigned for her, I kept my real opinions to myself. Was this an anxious moment of an awkward situation?

( B ) When I took the course for para-legal studies at Queens College, NYC about 12 years ago, I noticed there was no real preparation to pass the final exam. Many participants told me you really did not have to know much to pass the final exam. So I did not take the final exam. And I flunked paralegal studies at Queens College. In addition to the dishonesty of the course presentation, I also noticed at Queens College (Flushing, NY) that there were virtually no Americans in attendance there – not in paralegal studies, not in the undergraduate school or the professional graduate school departments. I once saw a group of Jewish students, and I said to myself well at least there are some Jewish Americans attending college here. But as their boisterous dinner party in the cafeteria proceeded, I learned they were all from Israel, no Jewish Americans. Later I noticed there was one exception, one awkward Jewish American young man, not a part of this group, and I definitely identified with him. He was taking the paralegal course too. I doubt he passed the paralegal final exam either.

My point is that, as much as I am against xenophobia and am generally anti-Trump, I do think it is strange that the American public is not permitted to attend medical school. Trump is succeeding in appealing to people’s fears.

( C ) At Democratic Party meetings, including the Lesbian and Gay Democrats of Queens County, supporters of the AFL-CIO, like myself, remember when Democrats and the AFL-CIO spoke for the economic interests of about 80% of the American public, and, as a result, the Democratic Party flourished and was the majority party for many years. Now that the Democratic Party has dumped the AFL-CIO, they are losing dramatically elections all over the country. Many people like me know why, but our pro-labor advocacy is rarely brought up at Democratic Party meetings or at their promotional events. About 3 years ago I called the Colorado AFL-CIO and they told me they were not on speaking terms with the Colorado Democratic Party. I called the offices of Ed Perlmutter, Michael Bennet and Mark Udall, and they all told me they could not comment on what the Colorado AFLCIO said or thought about them. Why not? Because of the absence of the AFL-CIO in Democratic Party politics, you can expect their numbers in the Congress and state legislatures to decline even further. What a shame!

© 12 June 2017

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Flowers, by Lewis T

Roses are red;

Violets are blue;

Unless and until

They come into contact

With Lew.


Oh, I do have a green thumb; it’s about the color of swamp water. Laurin was the horticulturist between us. I used to fill the watering can and lift the 20-lb. bags of potting soil. He made the magic happen. When I order flowers online, they usually arrive pre-dead. A year ago, my ex-wife, who knows me well enough to know better, sent me an amaryllis. Somehow, I was able to keep it alive until it had finished blooming. I followed the directions to the letter as to how to “winterize” the bulbs and preserve them for the next blooming season. In early January, I was supposed to replant them and keep them watered until they bloomed again. I still haven’t done that. I’m afraid that they may actually recover and then I would be on the hook to watch over them for another nine months. If anyone would care to lift this burden from me, I would be happy to give them to you.

© 13 February 2017

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Assumptions, by Gillian

We all know the old saying that if you ass/u/me, you simply make an ass of u and me. I enjoy plays on words, so I like that one. It is also absolutely true. Assumptions of any kind are never safe, and we’re frequently sorry. We learn pretty fast about many assumptions we should never make: the bus/plane/train will leave or arrive on time, teachers and parents are always right and life is always fair, if I always tell the truth I will be rewarded, and Mr. Right will come along and we will live happily ever after.

As we get older, we adjust to more subtle assumptions we should not make. Self-improvement books tell us not to assume everything in the world is about us; indeed, to remind ourselves on many occasions, this is not about me. Similarly the assumption we make that we constantly need to offer our opinions is erroneous. One book has an entire chapter challenging me constantly to ask myself, Why Am I Talking?

Erroneous assumptions about any given situation often turn out to be very embarrassing, even under circumstances where no-one else knows the assumptions I was making in my own heads. One of my favorite stories on these lines is from when I was somewhere in my mid-thirties. I managed an IBM department which employed several temporary employees in addition to the permanent staff. I began to notice one of the latest temporaries, a very attractive young man, eyeing me a little too often; a little too much. I groaned to myself. This was not good. I was married.

I was going to have to deal with this situation. And soon. Lo and behold, only a couple of days later, the man came into my office. He shuffled his feet and looked a little uncomfortable. Then he said,

‘Sorry if you’ve noticed me staring at you. I’m kind of embarrassed but I have to tell you. You remind me so very much of my mother.’

And if that statement doesn’t take the wind out of a girl’s sails, then I don’t know what does!

Although I have told the story quite often since, at the time I was so very glad that I had told no-one about this sexy young man who clearly had the hots for me!

Assumptions must change constantly with changes in time and space and circumstances, but I missed the boat on that one.

Changing political assumptions, now, another boat I missed although I did run to catch a later one. Growing up in in the extremely socialist Britain of the 1950’s, I always assumes that The Government, always with a psychological capital G, had my very best interests at heart. The very existence of The Government was in order to make my life better. I never once questioned that assumption. I had no doubts. Then, in this country, I encountered the likes of Reagan and Nixon and one more assumption bit the dust. That assumption was, of course, doomed, wherever I lived. Had I stayed in the UK it would have died just as swiftly, as the socialist Britain of my youth crumbled under the weight of Margaret Thatcher’s conservatism. I certainly see nothing in the current political scene that hints of any revival.

So as we age we leave a trail of broken and battered assumptions in our wake. Not that I claim to miss them much; their absence doubtless leaves me with a healthier, saner, ability to make rational decisions. But I notice, as I age, an occasional new assumption insinuates itself. I always assume, for instance, that at my time of life it is not a good idea to buy green bananas.

© March 2017

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

Birthdays, by Betsy

The following is an imaginary voice from the Universe heard inside a woman’s uterus by a viable life preparing for its day of birth.

“Now is the time for you to make your choice. You may choose from these two options: gay or straight. In other terms—homosexual or heterosexual. Before you decide let me explain the consequences of your choice.

“If you select the gay option you will have many obstacles in your life that you otherwise would not have. You will be considered abnormal by many people from the start, you could very easily find yourself being discriminated against by employers, landlords, merchants, and service providers. The law may possibly not offer any recourse for you if and when you are discovered depending on how the movement goes and the state of civil rights. You could actually be put in jail if you are found out.

“You may feel constrained to stay in the closet for a long, long time, maybe forever. That means denying your truth to yourself and to others. This could have a serious impact on your emotional and mental health—possibly on your physical health as well.

“If you try to express your sexuality and live as the person you are; i.e. live as an openly gay person, you risk your safety, security, and well being. You will keep your self esteem and self respect however. But there may be a price to pay for that.

“If you select the straight option life should be easier for you. You will derive benefits from marrying a person of the opposite sex. As a woman you will be safe if you serve him well. You will be secure if you do his bidding. You will have no difficult choices to make because they will all be made for you and to your advantage if you stay in line. The only risk for you is that you might screw up because you don’t realize that you have all the advantages.

“As I said, it’s your choice.”

The above scenario is, of course, absurd. None of this would happen because this choice is not available to us. This choice is never given to any of us before birth. We are born LGBTQ or heterosexual or gender fluid or whatever else yet to be defined—whatever else exists on the sexuality spectrum.

The choice is made when we become aware, conscious, of ourselves—our feelings, what drives us, with whom we fall in love. We make the choices later in life when we understand that there IS a choice— and that choice, as we all know, is not who we ARE by birth, but whether or not we choose to LIVE as an expression of who we are.

Personally, I understand very well the consequences of denying who I am and living as someone I am not. Once I became aware of my sexual orientation I was able to make that choice, respect myself, and be happy and fulfilled.

Those who wish to change us LGBTQ’s, punish us, put us away, or whatever, seem to imagine that we all experience the above in-utero scenario and we should be punished or, at least, forced to change because we made the wrong choice. We made the choice in-utero and were born gay yes on our first birthday, because we chose to. REALLY! Or, if they do not accept that absurdity, they want to punish us for expressing our real selves—for living as gay people.

I choose to live in a world which accepts every newborn baby for exactly what it is—everything that it is. I choose to welcome every life into this world as perfect as I did one week ago my first great grand child.

You know, I’m convinced he’s gay because of the way he waved when he was born. Then when he started primping his bald head his mother and grandmother and Auntie Gill were convinced too. He’s lucky. He knows he is loved by us all—gay or straight.

© 14 November 2016

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

The Opera House, by Ricky

With apologies to Dr. Seuss and Ogden Nash I submit for your reading pleasure (or whatever it turns out to be):

The Opera House

Come inside, Mr. Bird said the mouse
And I will show you what’s inside an opera house.
An opera house has things like stairs,
Elevators and soft cushy chairs,
But don’t sit too long or ushers will stare.

Around the pillars and down the halls
There is more to see behind these walls.
On the stage, there is much to do
Before the productions are finally through.

There are ropes, ladders, and scaffolding galore,
And canvas and cloth and curtains that reach the floor.
With pits for music and trap-doors for exits
Performers must avoid blows to the solar plexus.

In the dressing rooms beyond the stage
Many a Prima Donna hath raged.
Stagehands are waiting in the wings
For the final time the “Fat Lady” sings.

Come on, come on there’s more to see
Let us make haste I have to pee.
From gilded washrooms to golden arches
Patrons patiently check their bejeweled watches
For the time when the curtain will rise
And they can finally sit down and close their eyes.

Talking and snoring are both frowned upon
But then, so is “shushing” someone looked down upon.
An opera house is seldom austere
Many have a large chandelier
Which refracts the light with a tinkling sound,
But gives no warning before crashing to the ground.

Keep moving right along you see
Before that thing comes down on me.
Opera houses oft feel alive,
Where life and death both do thrive.
Some will house a persistent ghost
But only one is more famous than most.

Composers recollected from times long past
Now drift through air where they do bask
In the glow of the product of their life’s task.
No more than this do they ever ask,
That we the living appreciate them so,
Not one is forgotten though dead long ago.

An opera house cannot become a tomb
When so many of us come to fill the room
And keep alive the majestic tradition
Of all the castrati operatic renditions.
Farinelli, Senesino, and others all knew their position;
Was to sing beautiful arias in their unusual condition.

Do you see? Do you see? The pit fills with musicians
And the gilded boxes house the patricians.
So now, Mr. Bird, said the mouse.
You know what there is in an opera house.

Oh, I forgot to mention that it’s about time you knew,
An opera house presents operas too.
Now we must leave this beautiful place
To buy a ticket lest we lose face.
What! All sold out. Don’t fly into a rage.
Remember poor Custard is crying for a nice safe cage.

© 30 October 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

The Eyes of Love, by Ray

She was standing nearby, and I couldn’t stop looking at her beautiful cornflower blue eyes. Having said this to you all, it could have been the conclusion of this Story Time offering, but there was no need to apologize for my surreal intrusion because a good ‘LGBTQ’ friend greeted me with a happy ‘L’ squeeze saying, “I want you to meet my partner.” Guess Who? The pretty young thing with those beautiful blue eyes! Serendipity maybe. The two of them are to be married next winter.

That afternoon at Denver Pridefest 2017 I found four eyes of love at the AIDS Quilt exhibit. Two beautiful or should I say handsome men arrived at the desk as volunteer docents. As we talked and got acquainted it wasn’t difficult to sense they were partners, it was so evident in the way they looked at each other. To me, it said not only love but also respect for each other. What a beautiful thing to experience; and how wonderful to know and witness and enjoy these testimonies of lesbian and gay love.

Sincerely,

“None But The Lonely Heart”

© 19 June 2017

About the Author