Author: phoyle

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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Some Ramblng Explorations by Ray S

It was during the summer of his eighth year. Father had set up camp for the family at the Indiana Sand Dunes State Park. Close enough so he could commute into the city and be with the family all weekend. When you’re that young you take a lot for granted and looking back now it is amazing to realize how well planned and engineered the little camp community was. Besides his family, mother, father, and older brother, there were three other families that met at the camp grounds each summer. All with various canvas domiciles. One was even a real circus tent with the interior sub divided by sheets hung on clothes line to allow for some degree of privacy and decorum. But nothing in his mind could compare with Father’s layout.

There were three of the latest no-center-pole square tents. If memory doesn’t fail, they were interestingly or curiously named Dickey Bird tents. Father set the two tents up facing each other with the front flaps joining to make a dining-sitting area–the sides draped with a zippered doorway and made of something called ”bobbinette.” All of this was set upon a 6 inch high wooden deck to keep the sand out and dry in case of rain. The T bird tent was for him and his brother.

The little kids would go swimming, or learned to swim assisted by adults in beautiful Lake Michigan–oblivious of the nearby steel mills of Gary.

There were exploring expeditions in the shore line sand hills collecting little pails full of wild blueberries which Mother made into wonderful pies for the crew’s communal dinners. And, yes, she baked them in a fireside tin oven. The lady was quite adept at camping culinary cuisine.

Usually on the 2nd of July a pit was dug a little way from the tents. About 5 feet square and 4 feet deep. Then the men would build a big fire and keep it going until morning when there would be a goodly pile of hot coals. Fresh ham roasts, loins and pork ribs were seasoned and wrapped tightly in layers of butcher paper followed by three layers of wet burlap sacks, all tied and bound. The bundles were lowered into the pit of coals and then covered over with the excavated soil.

The next day the 4th of July was celebrated with everyone enjoying the pit roasted barbecue and all the trimmings.

Brother and his buddies all went down to the lakeside in hopes of finding some teenage romance. The little kids sat around the campfire watching the adults doing what adults do when it is party time and celebrating the demise of prohibition.

Summer at camp, swim and play, and know there would never be an end to those happy days.

But he does recall how everybody became so quiet and spoke in hushed voices one day. He finally asked Mother and Father why this change in the people’s mood. One of the families actually had a car radio and had heard the announcement of the plane crash and subsequent deaths of the pilot–one Wiley Post and his passenger friend Will Rogers. This was the major national tragedy of the time, the Great Depression not withstanding.

Exploring the childhood days of the early half of the 20th century has led from blueberries, sand and camp to realities of the Graf Zepplin at Lakehurst, the soup kitchens and bread lines in all the cities, the underworlds personalities of John Dillinger, Al Capone, Bonnie and Clyde, the rise of totalitarian governments in Europe and the Orient, and the ultimate reality, World War II.

So much for exploring. On to our next topic “No Good Will Come of It.”

About the Author

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The Essence of GLBTQ by Phillip Hoyle

For me, the essence of being GLBTQ(Aetc.) is first a recognition of being other, by which I mean being a person whose sexuality leaves him or her on the outside: a sinner, pervert, mentally ill, or more generally put, queer. Second, it means a dedication to some kind of community building within that outsider existence, by which I mean recognizing oneself as gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, questioning, etc., and sometimes connecting as a couple or friend with others that attract you and who feel somehow attracted to you. Third, it means dedication to improving the lot of such outsiders through coalitions of community-building (as in GLBTetc) through communication, valuing, participation in GLBTetc groups, and sometimes activism related to political process. But I don’t here want simply to write an essay on philosophy. Let me tell you some stories.

I was attending a professional meeting in a Denver hotel in 1977 studying Jungian psychology as it relates to religious education. While alone in my room one afternoon, Jung’s Shadow concept about which I had been writing and thinking took the form of a vision hovering over me, and I realized the shadow experience was in fact my homosexuality.

A year later I was in seminary. My encounters with gay persons and my experience of falling in love with a man caused me to realize that my homosexual shadow was more than the flipside of my sexual self. I was walking down a street with the man when I found myself singing love songs to him. This experience helped me realize my homosexual desire was situated at the core of my sexuality. I then “knew” and came to prize my bi-sexual experience in a new and more essential way. I kept singing!

I studied sexuality; I experienced my bisexuality; I loved myself. My homosexual desire and experiences provided me joy and pain—the joy of feeling one night in a hotel that my heart was going to beat itself right out of my rib cage as I was making love to my male companion, the pain of realizing that same lover was never going to express his love for me in the ways I was willing to express mine to him. Still for years I nurtured that relationship—my smallest gay community—all the while knowing that its existence, should it become outwardly known, could spell the end of my marriage and of my career as a minister because my desire and experience occurred outside the cultural norms of religion (I was a sinner, probably the worst kind), failed to be monogamous (against the law), and beyond the psychological, medical, and psychotherapeutic norms (a pervert or mentally ill to many health professionals).

Eventually I did reveal these things—my alternate needs and complementary community. I paid a high price and entered a gay-male world that opened the way for me to enter into an LGBTQAetc. essential experience. I had know, loved, and supported lesbians. I had known and loved gay men. I had known and loved my own bisexual self. I had not known transgender persons, but in my fledgling practice as a massage therapist I was ushered into such a relationship. My transgender client intrigued me with her story. I saw her generosity and worked hard to adjust my own assumptions. I appreciate to this day her tolerance of my bungling attempts to adjust my language. Too often with her I felt like when I was a seminarian dealing with images of God. My miscommunication then was to address God as Father in the opening prayer of a feminist organizing effort—one I supported and promoted. My thirty years of prayer language resisted. Luckily I giggled aloud at my misstep. But with my transgender client, I did not giggle but realized that her good nature helped me understand that in order to be an LGBTQ, I’d have to concentrate and accept others and myself like never before in my whole life because old images and old language always want to interrupt the flow of love and acceptance. For me, the essence of GLBTQ is plain hard work. That’s what I know about such things.
Thanks for listening! What I most appreciate about being in this storytelling group is that weekly I get to practice GLBTQ essential experience. Here we can giggle together as we learn.

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

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Mushrooms by Pat Gourley

My experiences with mushrooms have been varied over the years and for the most part quite wonderful with one exception, which I will address further on. I love to cook with them and in the past thirty years my use of these wonderful and diverse fungi has been limited to those legally sold in supermarkets or a couple edible varieties found in the foothills near Denver. The types I have harvested mostly in the hills surrounding South Park have been a variety of Boletes and the sinfully delicious Morels or as we called them when I was growing up in rural Indiana “sponge” mushrooms. Morels in particular are often found in burn areas the year following the blaze and occasionally in the caterpillar tracks left from post-fire cleanup.

My childhood contact with mushrooms outside of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup in a green bean casserole almost exclusively served at Thanksgiving was nonexistent until in my early teens when I started mushroom hunting with one of my uncles. Our trips to the woods looking for these delicacies happened in the spring and the morels we most often found were growing under small shrub-like plants called May Apples. We also harvested in much larger quantities something we called a button mushroom from decaying logs, these may actually have been a forest Bolete of some sort. My uncle would sauté the button mushrooms in butter and serve them in heaping piles on toast. In the interest of full disclosure these mushrooms were fried rather than sautéed, trust me nothing was sautéed in rural Indiana in the 1950’s. The morels were again lightly fried in butter and served alone. Their earthy and very funky taste would later in life come to mind when sampling certain varieties of semen.

Probably my most noticeable and life impacting mushroom experience though involved what most, myself included, would call a bad trip, though in hindsight with a bit of historical revision might be described as a prophetic visionary experience. Needless to say this trip did not occur as the result of eating the buttons and morels of my childhood. Rather it happened in the fall of 1979 with a variety of homegrown psilocybin or as they were known at the time “magic” mushrooms. I was no stranger to hallucinogens by this time in my life and had used mushrooms to very positive effect on numerous occasions though LSD was always my drug of choice. I was perhaps initially drawn to hallucinogenic mushrooms through the music and iconic art of the Allman Brothers Band- sorry, no, not the Grateful Dead.

This adventure also involved the Empire Baths, now known as the Denver Swim Club, and a rather torrid, at least in my own mind, affair with a very sweet, straight-acting Mormon, local emergency room doctor. I had met this man at one of the queer health care provider support groups popular at the time. I am still not sure what my attraction was to this guy but it was consuming. He was my own age and I strongly preferred older men. He was very conservative around things queer, into electronic disco music and in many ways still tied deeply to his large Utah-based Mormon family. There was some reciprocal interest on his part I suppose perhaps an attraction to the exotic, me being a queer rolling in things radical fairie and addicted to the music of the Grateful Dead while living with numerous other eccentric types in a communal situation. It certainly wasn’t the sex, which was mediocre at its infrequent best.

I’ll refer to him here as Hank since he remained tied to those Mormon roots until the time of his AIDS related death in 1991. His death was attributed to cancer on the death certificate I was told by his twink lover at the time and not HIV. I am cognizant after all that the big NSA spy building nearing completion is in Utah and though I expect my hum drum and really boring life is not of much interest to our homegrown extensive International spy apparatus I would not want to risk causing any existential anguish to his large and I am sure still very Mormon family in some indirect and convoluted way.

Hank’s drug of choice was always pure pharmaceutical grade cocaine and snorted in large quantities. A drug I never appreciated, I mean really where was the bang for the buck. Though I must say there was a time or two with another lover who would fuck me with powdered coke under his foreskin that I do have rather fond memories of. This was of course a bit selfish I suppose on my part since the head of his penis would get very numb while I got off a bit high.

Where Hank’s interest in psilocybin came from I am not sure but he became obsessed with growing them in his small Capitol Hill apartment. The spores were actually available for sale legally in head shops at the time. The spores were inoculated onto sterilized rye in quart size mason jars and then coaxed to grow under artificial light in a warm dark closet in his apartment. A much safer and environmentally friendly endeavor than cooking meth would have been. After several unsuccessful attempts, one of which involved an exploding pressure-cooker being used to sterilize the rye, he was able to inoculate the spores into the grain and was able to grow quite a nice large crop. I imagine that apartment may still have remnants of dry rye on the ceiling despite our repeated attempts to get it all off. The harvest was nicely dried in a toaster oven. We never sold any of these but they would make nice stocking stuffers.

Our maiden voyage with these mushrooms was a few weeks before my infamous bathhouse experience and involved a quick trip to the Grand Canyon. There, while hiking to the bottom of the canyon on a full moon night, we nibbled a few each and were as high as kites for the next 24 hours with no sleep that night. We were I think hiking the Bright Angel Trail and our destination was a waterfall that begged for nude moonlight bathing underneath it. Photos were taken but it was only moonlight and we were totally fucked up so little good evidence remains. I relate this merely to establish that the mushrooms were pretty good and not apparently one of the poisonous psilocybin varieties. Our drive back in his little sporty Volkswagen mostly at 100 miles an hour with obnoxious disco music playing was uneventful and for some inexplicable reason I was still very smitten with the guy.

My rather voracious sexual needs at the time were certainly not being met by Hank so a week or so after our return to Denver I decided that a trip to the bathes was in order and it would be nice to do a few shrooms to enhance the whole thing. Now being at the tubs in an altered state was not new to me though I tended most of the time to be a more utilitarian user often going at noon on no substances whatsoever to catch the butch middle age, often married guys, who could be great sex if the stars were right. I was looking for tops so spreading HIV to unsuspecting suburban women never really entered the picture and of course was not on anyone’s radar at all in 1979.

Shortly after arriving, I had dosed before leaving the house on my bicycle, things started to get strange. And to paraphrase the Grateful Dead things only got stranger as the evening progressed. Freaking out while tripping was something totally new to me. The bathes were busy that night and the potential ripe for some great fucking. I was quickly over come though with great anxiety and a sense of dread, my death seemed immanent. I left the cozy, moist and sexy confines and ventured outside to the pool. It was a cool night in late October so no one else in his right mind was out there. I of course was not in my right mind and soon felt the concrete gargoyles on the surrounding walls were threatening me and urging me to get out of there as soon as possible or I would surely die.

I left the bath on my bike in a frenzy to get somewhere to tell anyone I was sure I was dying. Long story short I ended up in an Indian boutique on East Colfax where the family running the business was cooking a curry dish in the back. I was unable to eat any sort of curry for years. Things kind of got lost in translation with the proprietors of the shop. How does one say I took a hallucinogenic mushroom, went to a gay bathhouse to fuck and proceeded to freak out? So when they kindly called me an ambulance they related that I had food poisoning from a bad mushroom.

The ambulance drivers soon discerned this was not food poisoning and that I would be OK soon. In fact they offered, since it was apparently a slow night, to take me home and they would love to buy some of these mushrooms from me. I was incredulous at this and insisted on being taken to the nearest E.D. There I received a lecture from a rather judgmental physician on duty about growing up. I wasn’t sure if the message was to quit taking drugs or quit fucking my brains out in gay bathhouses – probably both.

Dear friends soon rescued me from the E.D. and delivered me safely to my soul mate Don. Don was an expert at helping people calm down in general so he put me in a warm corner with a couple of oranges and told me to peal and eat them and I would soon be OK. About two hours later and only one orange gone I was good enough to leave and head home.

Just to wrap up I did get my bike back the next day from the wonderfully kind folks at the Indian store who kept an eye on it for me. For some inexplicable reason I had been able to securely lock my bike up before entering the store and announcing to all that I was about to die. I also have often thought that the Universe aided by a bit of psilocybin was alerting me that night to the impeding AIDS nightmare and that a gay bathhouse even as early as 1979 was not the best place to be, certainly not with one’s legs in the air. I of course did not heed that advice but doubt I was infected at the bathes but rather in the rectory of a Protestant church in Aspen Colorado about a year later but that’s another story.

December 2013

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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Gay Music by Nicholas

I don’t know what gay music is. In a narrow sense, gay and lesbian music is that music composed or performed by gay or lesbian musicians presumably for gay or lesbian people. There’s quite a lot of that. In a wider sense, gay music is what makes me feel gay, i.e., in the old sense of happy and inspired. There’s quite a lot of that music too. Then there is the music by which I became gay identified or queer (i.e., disco and such) and there’s plenty of that.

If gay music is that music by gay song writers, composers and performers then that can include Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey and many others singing the lesbian blues about how they do not need a man and want to find a good woman. In contemporary times, this category includes k.d.lang, Melissa Etheridge, Joe Jackson and others singing their love songs to their own kind. Then there are the Kinsey Sicks and Romanovsky & Phillips, et al. singing their musical parodies. And the musical Fairy Tale of Zanna Don’t, the gay musical that made it to Broadway (or somewhere near).

I have to mention the many choruses of men and women, sometimes together, sometimes separate, who perform a wide range of choral musical styles in nearly every large city in the country for the benefit of lesbian and gay communities.

Does gay music include composers Benjamin Britten, Aaron Copland and Leonard Bernstein (more or less openly gay), Chopin and Tchaikovsky (probably gay), and John Cage and John Corigliano (totally out and gay)? And everytime Michael Tilson Thomas steps onto the podium to conduct—whether he’s wearing his leather or not—does that make it gay music?

And there’s Liberace. Nobody knows what to do about Liberace.

There’s also music that brings out my gay identity, or memories of that, from those wild disco days. Abba (definitely not gay) was great to dance to. Sylvester (very definitely gay and no relation to our own Mr. Silvester) practically invented disco music. And Madonna—everybody knows what to do with Madonna.

There is also other music that sometimes makes me gay for no apparent reason like Beethoven (rumored to have had an inordinate interest in a nephew) and his 7th Symphony or his Emperor Concerto for piano. And the whole world of opera, though relentlessly heterosexual, just drips drama and costumes fit for any queen.

So, it seems there’s gay music all over the place, in all genres and in every era. From Bessie to Beethoven, from zany to somber, we love to listen, play, sing, dance and are probably responsible for much of the funding for whatever orchestras and opera companies are surviving in the U.S.
Gay music—there’s just no end to it.

February, 2014

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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Exploring by Michael King

In my fantasies I perceive myself as one who would explore places, ideas and experiences. Then I remember being in the Amazon and knew that without a guide I would get hopelessly lost. With that in mind I realize that in most areas except in reading books, checking out Google or in conversation I probably need a guide. Merlyn is the perfect guide and has had phenomenal experiences, is knowledgeable in computers and anything mechanical and has traveled and lived all over the mainland 48 states. I on the other hand was (and mostly still am) computer illiterate, non-mechanical and have no idea geographically the distance between one city and another or even the configuration of the states east of the Mississippi. I guess I’m not much of an explorer when it comes to even looking at a map. However, in areas of the spirit, aesthetics, design, color, cooking, feelings and ideals I have a world of my own and explore where few have or would even be interested.
For the most part I don’t even think in a language and probably wouldn’t be able to effectively communicate my inner world to another person nor can I imagine anyone even being interested.

The first time I traveled outside the western United States was when I was in the military. I took photographs while I was in Thailand. They were really excellent and I was so proud to show them to my family both as images representing where I had traveled and as artistic photography. I never did get anyone to even look at them. They weren’t interested. From that time until Merlyn insisted that I use his camera to take a few shots of my paintings and my apartment did I ever use a camera again. Looking back I realize that in Thailand, in the Philippines and in many other places around the world I have done a lot of exploring, especially if I thought I could ask directions if I got lost. I didn’t feel that way in the Amazon or in parts of Africa where I felt I needed a guide. I feel I also need a guide with the computer and not just once but repeatedly.

Exploring the inner world there is a kind of guidance but I only realized that after many years. In research I often find that I am limited by the authors of the material that is either in the library or on the internet. The key there is figuring how to locate what I’m looking for. These days I’m too occupied with activities and relationship to do much serious exploration using books or even the computer.

We spend most of our time exploring antique and junk stores. I am surprised at what one can find in a thrift store. We check out museums, places of interest as we travel and we explore each other’s memories and experiences.

The attitude I have now is to fully experience today and explore the possibilities that exist in the moment. Sharing that with someone makes each day a process of discovery, freshness and exploration.

April 29, 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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Revelation by Gillian

I do believe that our socially conservative friends, well actually I don’t have any but you get the drift, must be having a bad time lately. There have been a couple of revelations which doubtless crowded right into their worst nightmares.

Jonny Weir

First, we have the Winter Olympics. Much of what was shown on TV was ice skating. Fine and dandy, but,

“Why oh why,” moans my imaginary friend, and I’m sorry, but, yes, he does have a Southern accent, “Did they have to ruin every moment of it by having that dreadful Jonny Weird as a commentator?” 

Yes, I have returned to my childhood ways, or perhaps gone into my second-childhood ways, and created for myself an imaginary friend with whom I can discuss these things, as I lack a real-life socially conservative buddy.

“His name is Weir,” I correct.

Jonny Weir and Friend

“Whatever, he sure as Hell is weird. Dresses like a goddam woman, for Christ’s sake. Lace blouses and all covered in jewels. Jesus! If they must have him do that job they don’t have to show him do they? His hair all primped and curled and piled on top of his head. Shit! It’s indecent. I sure as Hell hope his broadcasts don’t go outside of this country. He’s an embarrassment to this once proud nation of ours. What in Hell would the rest of the world make of us? Is this what we fought for?”

Oh, that’s using we a little loosely, I think. He’s too young to have been in ‘Nam; I know because I created him. By the same token, I know he has never defended his country in any war, much as he encourages everyone else to do so. Were he a Vietnam vet., I would have too much sympathy for him, so I took that crutch away.

“Perhaps not a great shocker to much of the world,” I shrug. “Most of Europe for a start would probably not think a whole lot about it.”

“Yurp. Who cares about Yurp? Bunch of socialist lay-about faggots themselves. This was once a God-fearin’ respectable country. I just don’t get why that goddam NBC allows that guy to dress like that, makin’ a laughing stock of hi’self, preening in front of millions of people. Why ain’t he made to dress right like everybody else? All th’other commentators wear suits and ties and look like men. I mean, for the love of God, if NBC won’t do it then they should be be made to. I never did believe that I would live to see days like this. This was once a law-abiding country. Now anybody can do any goddam thing. We need laws and we gotta to enforce them.”

This, I think, but don’t say, from a guy with a bedroom full of repeating rifles and sub-machine guns or whatever the mass destruction weapons of choice are these days. A guy who thinks the ‘gubmit’ should stay out of his life.

“And then,” he’s on a roll now, and yes, sorry again, but my conservative buddy is definitely a man, “they got all that women’s hockey hoopla. Ice hockey yusta be a man’s game for God’s sake. Now they got women. And we’re supposed to be proud of ‘em with their medals. Be the day when I let my daughter do somethin’ like that.” As I have provided for my imaginary friend with a relatively independent, politically middle-of-the-road, daughter, I smile to myself at his illusion of a power over her which he has long ago lost, if indeed he ever had it. Which, of course, is fuel to his general anger and resentment.

“Shit, they all covered up so you can’t even tell what they are. They ain’t women and that Weird guy ain’t a man. Jeeeesus!”

“Soccer,” I offer, unable to resist the temptation, “Used to be just for men. Now women and girls everywhere play it.”

He snorts in disgust. “Another bunch of lesbians! Don’t fool me if they talk about husbands and babies. They nothin’ but lesbians!”

“Some of them,” I shrug again, “but all those husbands and boyfriends supporting many of these women are, what? Hired actors?”

“Maybe they jus’ fools who think they married real women who fake it for them. Thinka that?”

What I think is we’ve exhausted this topic. Usually I listen rather than talk with my imaginary bud, after all his very purpose is to help me get inside the heads of people who think like him, as best I can; to try to comprehend their thought processes, what drives them.

So sometimes I just cannot resist egging him on, for that very purpose. “There was that college football player last week too ….. Michael Sam …” 

He spits.

“What in all Hell’s wrong with that guy? Apart from being a queer, I mean. Football’s one place left where no sissy-boys allowed. What on God’s green earth he trying to prove? He coulda been drafted pretty high and had a good career ahead and he just shoots hisself in the foot. No NFL team going after him now. Wouldn’t you think being a ni…. bein’ black makes him different enough without he gotta be more different. Not that being black is any problem in the football world. But being gay sure as Hell is. Why didn’ he just keep his mouth shut? Why do they always have to be in my face with that crap? I don’t wanna know. Being gay is nothin’ to do with how he plays football!”

And that, I think to myself, is indeed a revelation. But did he get the irony of what he just said? Sadly, I doubt it.

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.

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One Monday Afternoon by Betsy

When I retired I was quite elated that I would no longer have to do any work. That is work other than the menial chores of maintaining a household. The rest of the time I would play–perpetual play for the rest of my life. This attitude only lasted for about the first week of retirement. I soon found myself redefining what for me was work and what was play and just exactly what was rest and recreation anyway? Since I did quite a bit of writing in the last 10 years of my job, it seemed like writing was work.

I soon adjusted to retired life. The only writing I did was in our travel log as we journeyed here and there in our beloved VW camper van to many different parts of the U. S. “Mileage today was 350. Spent the night at Frigid Frosty Forest Service campground. Woke up to snow and froze our butts,” would be a typical entry into the journal.

Then one day about twelve years into retirement my partner Gill and I were presented with the opportunity to join a certain writing group at the LGBT Center. Currently I was told the group is made up of about 10-15 men–zero women, but surely more women would be joining the group. Well, that’s okay I said. I like men. But do I want to do the work of writing?

How often does the group meet, I ask? Every week. Surely, I say to myself, we don’t all write something every week. Probably we take turns so that each individual ends up writing something maybe once a month. I suppose I could try this out. When I learned that there is an assigned topic about which every one writes and shares with the group, it did seem for a moment like this would be burdensome. But Gill was enthused about doing it so why not give it a try. After all, I could pass or just not attend when I had nothing to share.

I must confess. The fact that this group was made up of men did get my attention. I had always had men in my life. I was close to my father and adored him. I was married for 25 years to my best friend, and I have a son and grandson whom I love very much. Life as a lesbian leaves little room for men and I had missed the contacts.

I made some close male friends years ago when I answered an announcement in the LGBT community for anyone interested in forming a tennis group. I showed up on the appointed day at Congress Park tennis courts with 20 men–no women. Our group maintained the same twenty-something to one gender ratio for several years. I became very good friends with some of these men and consider a couple of them still my friends although the group broke up several years ago after about 7-8 years of tennis and friendship.

But a writing group? Creating a piece of writing EVERY week. Telling my story. That sounds like work to me. I’ll have to exercise my brain and delve into memories and emotional stuff of the past and present. Do I really want to do that? Writing. Much harder than talking or thinking or imagining. After all, I thought, writing my story I will have to finish my dangling thoughts as well as correcting my dangling participles. Do I really want to get into that?

That was two years ago. Here I am cranking out the words to share just about every darn week. I feel deprived if I miss a week. I had no idea I would get so much out of being a part of this group when I was considering whether or not to join.

I have learned more than I can measure from the stories I hear from others on Monday afternoons. Sometimes funny and entertaining, sometimes heart-wrenching, sometimes informative, sometimes insightful, sometimes inspiring. I believe these Monday afternoons hone not only my writing skills, but also my listening skills. I don’t want to miss a word most of the time.

Furthermore, there is tremendous value to me in documenting experiences I have had, feelings I now have or have had in the past, beliefs I hold dear; ie, documenting who I am. The process of telling one’s story is not always easy, but with practice it gets easier. How much value the stories have for anyone else I will never know. But I find it oddly comforting knowing that I am leaving them behind when I depart this life.

Finally I believe this Monday afternoon activity of telling our stories gives a broader perspective on our own lives–a perspective perhaps not otherwise attained and certainly a perspective not easily attained.

March 3, 2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.
 

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Endless Joy by Will Stanton

This selected topic “Endless Joy” puzzles me. Why was it chosen? What could it possibly mean? After all, for any human being to experience endless joy rationally seems to be an impossibility. No one experiences endless joy unless he either wishes to arbitrarily interpret his life that way or if he is delusional.

The human condition does not allow for endless joy. We are born mortal, already flawed, and vulnerable to a myriad of trials, tribulations, disappointments, and sorrows throughout life. I realize that some people apparently are blessed with a generally positive attitude, whereas others are plagued with doubt and pessimism. Each may view conditions and events differently; however, neither is slated to be gifted with endless joy.

Perhaps if a person compartmentalizes his life into a variety of conditions, experiences, and activities, one might suggest that one or more of those categories presents endless joy. Taking myself for an example, I have learned over the years that I have an especially deep understanding and appreciation of truly fine music. Such superlative music never fails to provide me with joy, passion, and solace. So, separating out those moments when I either hear or play such high-quality music, they cumulatively provide me with endless joy.

By nature, I also especially appreciate and respond to true love, friendship, and camaraderie. It is a rare person who claims not to require the companionship of fellow human beings, but I do sense that I especially am sensitive to such human gifts.

Admittedly, my appreciation of Mother Nature is very selective. I am a romantic and idealist. So, there are seasons and locales to which I respond deeply, whereas there are others that I feel to be far less inviting, less aesthetic, perhaps even harsh or dangerous. For those ideal aspects of nature, they, too, provide me with great joy. To, again, express such experiences cumulatively, Nature can provide me with joy.

Because none of us is in the springtime of our lives, we generally are suffering a variety of afflictions to our health along with daily concerns and trials. I pity those who may have bowed under the weight of elder life and have lost a sense of joy. Instead, we might regard being alive each day as joy, at least in some aspects of our lives, no matter the difficulties or pain.

I see no viable alternative. Wishing is unrealistic and impractical, although we may engage in it from time to time. I am aware that in some Greek plays and Baroque operas, when some problem has become overwhelming and unsolvable, the authors often employed (as expressed in the Latin phrase) deus ex machina, meaning that a divine power spontaneously intervenes with a device that solves the problems. For example, the lonely and unfortunate cyclops Polifemo, blinded and desperate, pleads with Jove for intervention, who does respond and grants Polifemo the gift of immortality. We might envy Polifemo’s great good fortune.

On a more realistic plain, finding joy in life may be a real art, an acquired skill, a consistent philosophy. So, it is important for each of us to seek and experience a variety of joys, great or small, each day. For me, Story Time, and its members, has become one of those joys.

December, 2014

About the Author

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

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To Be Held by Phillip Hoyle

If “to be held” is a goal, my relationship with the goal was one of slow, slow discovery. I have no memory of being held by my parents. I slept alone throughout my childhood since I was the only boy in the family. When as a little boy I went to my grandparents’ farm, I slept with Grandpa in his big Mission-style oak double bed. I recall he kidded me about having to build a wall of pillows to keep me from kicking him. I now wonder if he built the wall because I wanted to snuggle up to him, something he was uncomfortable doing. I’ll never know. One could say I am from a home in which touch was not withheld; it just wasn’t much of a factor, at least for this child.

In my early teen years I asked girls to school dances. I asked them because I liked to dance having been taught by my older sisters. In the junior high gymnasium we danced the Bop with its spins and fancy steps, the Twist with its aerobic benefits, and sometimes slow dances based on the Fox Trot. My favorites were several line dances the teachers taught us. I liked slow dances, too, for the holding and being held. Sounds pretty normal I guess. Anyway, as we danced, my ninth grade girlfriend rested her hand on my lower back, a fact that others noted and commented on. She was very short, and we danced very close. I had no objections. So we danced a lot that year hanging onto one another. Although at that time I wanted to dance with African American kids in line dances, it never occurred to me to dance with another boy. I had engaged in sexual things with grade school friends but none of my friends danced. I had never heard of boys dancing together let alone seen it. But had I imagined it, I’m sure I’d have wanted to dance with a boy, black or red, brown or white, or any other color of the rainbow.

In my mid-teens a new friend introduced me to a new kind of male-to-male sex that included the intimacy of kissing. I’d never been able to get myself to kiss a girl. I suppose I was still under the influence of my childhood groans during movie love scenes. I had no idea that the fact the hugging and kissing was between a female and a male could have anything to do with my lack of interest. Of course since I am music-sensitive, the introduction of sappy-sounding orchestral strings in such scenes may have really repelled me. But I readily took to kissing with my boyfriend. I didn’t realize that my kissing relationship with him was the kind that felt just right. I didn’t think in terms of either/or, either girl or boy. I just enjoyed what we did together and kept open my search for a girlfriend. In high school I dated several girls. We danced but didn’t fall in love.

Then I met a girl who with my grandmother was visiting our family. We attended a dance together. I danced close with this very sexy and enthusiastic young woman. In the car after we drove back home we held and kissed one another hungrily. She seemed to enjoy that I knew how to kiss even though I hadn’t been able to practice it for over two years, ever since my kissing boyfriend had left town. The next day she returned to her home a couple of counties away. I went off to college. I never saw her again.

I didn’t find anyone I wanted to kiss again for about a year. Then I met Myrna. We held hands. I put my arm around her. On the third date (the appropriate time according to discussions in the 1950s youth group I had attended) I worked up my courage to kiss her. We were parked late at night in the city zoo parking lot watching the lights caused by military maneuvers at nearby Fort Riley. The light show was nice, a novelty for her. Then I kissed her; she bit my ear. I thought, ‘This is something new,’ the effects of it shooting like lightning right down to my groin. I assumed she liked my kisses and maybe me. As it turned out she liked me just fine, but the bite was not a tease or a love bite; she was nervous. She would rather have only held my hand and continued liking her boyfriend back home (whom I never even heard about until years later). She’d rather have gone bowling, played volleyball, and skipped all the sexual, romantic things. But later, when I kissed her in front of several other students, right there in public, she opened herself to feelings she’d heard of in fairytales and assumed she had met her Prince Charming. In short, we married, had kids, and as a couple enjoyed living together with great intimacy—including a lot of touch, kisses, and sex—for years and years.

Still, I sought intimacy with a man. Ten years into the marriage I fell in love with him and basked in our occasional touch, our holding. Twenty years into the marriage I learned much more about my need to be held. My work partner, the senior minister with whom I’d served as an associate for seven years, died a sudden death early on a Sunday morning. I organized elders of the congregation to be at all the doors to greet folk and tell of the death as they arrived at the church. I was cast in the pastoral role for the congregation and realized that all I had learned about grief should be heeded for the whole group as well as for individuals. I didn’t have time to grieve for my personal loss. I bore the heavy responsibility, but I needed desperately to be held.

During the ensuing weeks, my wife and I kept to our normal patterns of intimacy. I held her. That was good. She remained responsive but somehow our pattern didn’t meet my needs. I eventually realized what I needed was to be held by my male lover, a man I’d been in love with for nearly a decade. He called by phone. I was pleased, but he did not come to the funeral. He didn’t come to see me in the following weeks. I didn’t think much about it at the time being too busy tending others. Still, I didn’t get held like I needed to be held. I seemed unable to ask anyone for what I needed. Eventually I did find a man to hold me. In receiving his fine care, I realized I had sought it because I was unwilling to call on my friend whose responses to me had always been unpredictable. I was needy beyond my past experiences.

I survived. I realized I needed a man-to-man relationship that would provide me more reliable and accessible contact. Eventually I found it. Then another. My needs pushed me into behaviors that spelled the ends of my marriage and career. I don’t say this as an apology for my behaviors or as an accusation against anyone. I tell it as description. I don’t expect other people to be more able to respond to life’s challenges any better than I. So I describe these experiences because the events and my responses revealed to me just how strong a need can be and how strong a pattern of behavior can be to prevent one from getting the need met.

I finally realized I needed to be held by the people I loved and who I knew loved me. I’m an old man now having entered a gay world where one can get sex rather easily, but the habits still restrict me; and of course there are the habits of other men as well as my own, habits that define asking and getting. They clarify experience, feelings, fears; mine and theirs. Sadly and stupidly I again find myself getting less holding than I believe I require.

I cannot write an ending to this story; I’m not yet dead! Who knows what the coming years may yet teach me about my need to hold and to be held?
Denver, 2012

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen practicing massage, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists and volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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The Accident by Michael King

I’ve had so many accidents that I don’t know which single one stands out or has most affected my life. One was the first pregnancy that was unexpected and changed the course of my life. Knowing that I was to become a father guided all my decisions and thwarted opportunities but also provided some of my most rewarding experiences. Probably the other most life changing accident was getting my little finger nearly cut off.

I was working as a mold maker for fine arts bronzes and doing catering on the side. I got a call from a nurse in the lock-up psychiatric ward a St. Luke’s Hospital. It was her turn to do the annual Halloween party and she needed to do something with her mother so decided to hire me to do the party.

I had too much stuff to carry over to the hospital in the car so I borrowed a friend’s new pick-up. All went well. I was an interesting experience very different from any other as the behaviors of the patients were anything but normal. After returning home I was carrying the last load into the kitchen. Apparently the weight of my walking across the floor was enough to cause a mixing bowl to fall out of the dish rack and hit the sink breaking it into many pieces. One of the pieces wrapped around my little finger and severed the tendons and nerves. I knew I had to go to the emergency room, grabbed a towel, wrapped my hand and drove to St. Anthony’s. Blood was everywhere including on the leather seat of the pick-up. I felt myself losing consciousness and didn’t park very straight in the lot. I managed to get into the reception room dropped my billfold on the desk and fell into a seat letting the towel drop. It shot blood across the room. Almost immediately they were there to take me into ER. After about 1 ½ hours they got the bleeding to stop. I was weak and hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was around 7 PM, I’m guessing. I hadn’t had a cigarette for hours.

I was going have to wait for surgery and even though I knew there were probably rules I lit up a cigarette and settled in for what became a very long wait. Of course I was told I couldn’t smoke there and I demanded they tell me where I could smoke because I sure as hell wasn’t going to go without a cigarette. This was in 1979. I was on a gurney and they rolled out into the hall where I was allowed to smoke. I’m sure that they knew that no matter what I would have gone outside or something and they had me pegged as a trouble maker and a number one asshole. Smoking in the hall would never happen today since there is absolutely no smoking in hospitals. There was no food available but at least I could smoke.

About five or more hours later I was finally taken into surgery. They tried to put up a screen so I couldn’t see the surgery but finally let me since I wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was so strange to see my arm devoid of blood and only the size of the bone. Each nerve and each tendon had to be reconnected by using magnification and miniature stitches. It took an incredible skill and was fascinating to watch.

Immediately after surgery I was taken into my room and the poor nurse’s aide was told in no uncertain terms that I was to have a steak immediately. She left the room shaking and I didn’t know if I would get food or not. It really wasn’t that long until someone else brought me a Salisbury steak. I still remember how delicious it was. I’m sure I must have felt a little guilt for having yelled, demanded and intimidated so many people, but I was also appreciative that it was over or so I thought.

My daughter was able to clean the blood off the leather seat of the pick-up. The following week was not comfortable keeping my hand above my heart and I was limited in doing anything while experiencing a great deal of pain. My mold making days were over. Catering was out of the question but I was optimistic and did the therapy and all seemed well. I had great movement with my finger as if the accident had never happened.

In December my mother-in-law came for Christmas. As I was setting up her room I lifted the night stand to move it a couple of feet when a tendon popped. I think it was Friday and since I was not in pain I decided to wait till Monday to call the doctor. I was in good spirits and figured it could be fixed. The next day I was horsing around with my son-in law when I caught my finger somehow I think on his shirt, another pop.

I was in no pain, and with the holidays we decided to schedule the next surgery in early January. We had a wonderful Christmas that year and I don’t recall being that concerned that I had no job and no plans. Somehow things would work out so I enjoyed the holidays.

The plastic surgeon wanted to do the repairs in his office. He had told me I had three options; cut the finger off, leave it dangling or redo the surgery. I felt that repairing it was the only choice. I didn’t think to question the decision to do it in his office and proceeded to have the microsurgery there only to find out that it was not covered by my insurance. If it had been in the hospital it would have been covered. Therapy was not covered either and I ended up with a crocked finger that constantly felt like it was asleep as it tingled for the next dozen or so years. I told the doctor that he would receive $25 a month for the rest of my life as I didn’t have access to the many, many thousands of dollars that I was billed for.

I had been studying The Urantia Book since 1975 and found out that they were opening a school in Boulder for students of the Urantia Book. I didn’t know how I could swing it but typed out the application with one hand and was accepted. 

That experience is among the best things that have happened in my life. If I had not had the accident I would not have gone to the Boulder School and I have no idea where my life would have gone. I found part time work and managed to graduate with the first class in 1984.

About the first week in December, 1982, I got a call from the surgeon’s office telling me that the doctor was cancelling my debt, “Merry Christmas.”

I don’t like to be superstitious and feel that it’s more that that. It’s more than coincidence, but a kind of guidance when my life has been turned upside down through happenings like the accident with my little finger which made an opening for a new direction and life changing events.

Denver, 7/22/2013

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.