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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Cleaning as Metaphor by Nicholas

The winter was long and dark with many days overcast with clouds that looked like they’d been beaten up and bruised. Little snow came to cover the frozen dust. Some days the only good news was that there was no bad news.

But then fresh green sprouts began pushing their way through the winter muck. Small yellow and purple blossoms appeared. Spring happens no matter what. And with spring comes cleaning—cleaning house, cleaning the yard, cleaning up my life. 

I like to clean. There’s something about cleaning and being clean that says to me “fresh start,” “things are under control,” “I actually can do something about something.” Dust bunnies be gone, I am in charge. House cleaning is a metaphor for getting life in order and I like order. I can’t say when the next dash to the Emergency Room will be but, damn it, I can keep the bathroom clean. House cleaning is really about power.

I also like cleaning house because I have a fondness for stupid little busy work, i.e., chores. Chores take up time, distract one from whatever you need distracting from, and give one the illusion of meaningful activity, of doing something that, really, after all does have to be done. Chores are an existential act, a sign of being, or, if you’re a philosopher, being-ness. Cleanliness may or may not be next to godliness, but it is right up there with human-ness. It’s like your mother used to say about your room: “Does some animal live here?”

Cleaning house is important. It is so important that I am willing to pay someone to do it for me. After all, the exchange of money is the highest form of activity in American society, so it is fitting that this noble endeavor should be further honored by the payment of cash to another to do the actual cleaning. 

I keep a pretty clean house and since we don’t have kids or dogs, our house does not collect inordinate amounts of dirt. But still, dirt does accumulate and there are some things that I just won’t do. I will vacuum the carpets but I hate dusting things. I almost would rather throw them away than dust stuff. So, I pay someone else to dust my trinkets and souvenirs. 

House cleaners come into my house and make my little house cleaning busyness look like actual work, like a science. I know I can trust these professionals. They know how to tackle a project like dusting wooden slat venetian blinds. I would just slap the things around and get fed up, say it looked good enough and quit. But cleaners take to it like a surgeon doing an operation on a vital organ. They have a plan of attack and follow it. I figure, it’s knowledge and skill I am paying for, not just relief from drudgery. I admire the professionals who actually do take house cleaning far more seriously than I ever do.

I used to be one of those professionals making my living for a time cleaning up other people’s messes while I struggled to make a living as a freelance writer and journalist. It is work cleaning a house and that’s another reason I don’t begrudge someone what I pay them to clean up my dirt.

But sometimes I just let the cleaning go. Today, for example, I did not get around to cleaning the bathroom which does need it. Instead I spent the morning finishing this story. Some things trump even house cleaning. 

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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Multi Racial by Michael King

Diversity is the characteristic of life. This is true of humanoids as well as all other life forms. Creatures that are similar tend to group themselves and are often defensive or even hostile toward beings that are different. The early humans dating back a million years seldom came into contact with the various subhuman groups that hadn’t developed the brain capacity to express wisdom and forethought and eventually became extinct. It is the focalized bones of these subhumans that have been found and incorrectly labeled as ancestors. Present day humans are in the ape family as were the various groups of unrelated subhumans.

The true humans continued slowly to evolve for about five hundred thousand years when the racial diversity occurred. There were the primary colored races, red yellow and blue and the secondary colored races, orange green and indigo. When the colored races mated with the precolored peoples the dominant genetic makeup of the colored parent was always passed on to the children. Only one group of the precolored peoples still exists as the Eskimos of northwestern North America.

The natural animosity toward beings who are different kept the racial groups somewhat separated and often in conflict when small bands encountered each other. Intermixing was rare but did occur. The half-breeds were usually discriminated against as were the captive slaves from warring groups. Trade brought together dissimilar peoples more peaceably and when the differing humans were in close contact interbreeding occurred more frequently.

Over the last five hundred thousand years the green and orange races were wiped out or to a minor extent absorbed into the more blended groups. The indigo race for the most part became isolated in sub-Saharan Africa but in northern Africa and around the Mediterranean there has been much intermixing of most of the colored races

The red race settled in northeast Asia until somewhat displaced be the yellow race, although many remained in what is now Mongolia. The Japanese is a blend of red and yellow and some of the red peoples migrated to North America. Most of the blue peoples settled Europe with considerable blending. Around thirty eight thousand years ago the violet race emerged and became blended with all but the red peoples of the Americas and the Indigo peoples of sub-Saharan Africa with the majority in northern Europe.

There are mostly multiracial peoples now on the planet and the blending of races is increasing at a rapid rate. Differences in skin color still bring about conflict when ignorance, prejudice and hatred is taught to children who pass it on to succeeding generations. In recent history there have been many examples of ethnic cleansing, vicious slaughtering and gross mistreatment of fellow humans. Greed, power and prejudice pathetically have not diminished.

I am probably as multiracial as anyone however since my more immediate ancestors came from Europe the mix of red, yellow, blue, violet and possibly orange and green mixed with the precolored peoples is also the multiracial blend of most European peoples and a large percentage of immigrants in North America. New DNA testing is showing that besides the red race there are traces of most of the colored races in the indigenous peoples of South America precluding the arrival of the Spanish five hundred years ago. The Cherokee have some of the same DNA as the Hebrews and the Incas contain DNA similar to northeast Asians. Only a small percent of DNA can be presently understood. We will have a much clearer perspective when the other ninety some percent can be analyzed and so much erroneous theories can be corrected. Most of my encounters with follow humans have been cordial and I have had warm friendships with the individuals from most racial and ethnic groups. It has been a joy to travel and in the process connect with people from a different culture and racial blend.

It is my hope and the hope of most people that we can learn to accept, respect and enjoy one another. No matter how diverse we appear we all share some of the same ancestry and exist on the same planet where we can still become ecologically kind and appreciate the magnificence of all existence.

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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Writing by Merlyn

I have never been and will never be what I consider a good writer.
Most of my life I made a real good living fixing things
The only writing I needed to use until story time was filling out the work orders,

I was real good at writing the three C’s. (Complaint-Cause-Correction)
I never wanted the people that approved paying me to question what I did to fix whatever I worked on.
I used the least amount of words possible and used just the facts that I knew they needed to know.

I enjoyed working on something that no one else could fix. 
Everyone likes a challenge. Some people like to work on crossword puzzles. I loved to work on the unfixable. I would get so wrapped up in what was causing the complaint that the day would fly by until I found the cause.

I had to help a new kid fill out the three C’s once after he had turned in the paperwork.
(Complaint: won’t run. Cause: broke. Correction: replace broken part). He used 6 words but left out all of the facts.

I have been coming to the Telling My Story group every Monday afternoon for almost two years, most of the time I do have a story to share but the words don’t flow from my thoughts to the keyboard. When I first started I would peck away at my keyboard for hours till I had about 900 words in the Document, then I would I edit all the crap out of the story and end up with a round 300 words. I’m getting better, I find it a lot easier to get what I’m feeling into my stories but I can’t honestly say that I don’t enjoy the writing part of Telling My Story. This story has 381 words.

I really come to story time to hear everyone else tell their stories. Almost everyone in the group has been writing all of their lives. When I listen to them tell their stories I can feel the emotions they feel about the subject. I can tell how much thought they put into each sentence as they wrote it and I think they have a lot of fun writing their stories.

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.

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The Rise of the Guardian Angels by Louis

From September 1962 to June 1966 I attended Flushing High School in Flushing, Queens, NY. There were 3 types of preparation regimens one could follow. First there was the academic or college preparatory. I was in that group. Most of my classmates were Jewish. Then there was the commercial course, consisting primarily of teenage girls preparing to become secretaries. The boys in the commercial course studied woodworking and some English. The commercial course people were primarily white. Then there was the General Course leading to a minimal type of high school diploma. This was almost exclusively black and Hispanic.

The first year I attended, I was assaulted a few times by some white gang members. Even back then they called themselves the “Aryans”. They were mostly Germans from my home town of College Point. Then there were the Amazons, the girls’ gang. They invited me to join their gang. I agreed. They knew I was gay and said I was their type of client. They attacked members of the Aryans, and I was never bothered again. Once the Amazons wanted to attack a certain girl named Monica. Monica was very refined and soft-spoken. The Amazons were heavily made-up and somewhat aggressive. I beseeched them not to beat up Monica. So they spared Monica. Once the Amazons wanted to attack a small-statured Jewish boy, Charles, who read a lot of books. I again beseeched them not to attack him. So Charles was spared.

Once, before I went to high school, I was in the local park, Chisholm Park, in College Point, and I was sitting with my brother Wally, who was reading The New York Times. For some reason this enraged one of the local Aryans, who came over and set fire to the paper with a cigarette lighter. We were more amused than intimidated. We also had an Italian-American friend, Patsy (at home Pasquale), and he liked to read books and poetry. So the Aryans used to bully him too. I guess College Pointers were expected to stay away from books.

Although I was spared being bullied any more, the gangs still made life unpleasant in High School. One of the Aryans told me that, in their meeting, they really wanted to attack the black gang, the Panthers (or what have you), but they couldn’t because the Panthers were too numerous. So they decided to attack the Hispanic gang, well more precisely the Puerto Rican gang, the Borinqueños. Gradually, Flushing High School became a police state. Sections of the school were separated by large metal gates manned by policemen sporting well-displayed pistols.

The friction between the Aryans and the Borinqueños intensified, and a “rumble” was declared. The rumble or “armed” confrontation was planned for a summer evening on Main Street of College Point. The Borinqueños had machetes while the Aryans had heavy-duty chains. The rumble started by both gangs breaking out the front windows of almost all the stores on our Main Street. No gang member got killed, but many were injured and hospitalized. When the police first showed up, they could do nothing because they were outnumbered. Reinforcements did not show up for another couple of hours. By then most of the gang warriors had disappeared. They were particularly proud of the damage they had caused and of the injuries they had inflicted on members of the opposing gang.

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.

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Being Held by Will Stanton

It was a balmy evening, and the scent of tropical flowers permeated the air. Through a gap in the high jungle canopy, distant stars twinkled in the dark sky. Parrots, macaws, and a myriad of mammals sang their evensong, the music of jungle depths. I lay dreaming in my hammock, drink in hand, and with a sense of contentment.

Andy joined me, sensuously sliding into the hammock with me. I’d known Andy since he was little. It was a curious relationship over the years, Andy and I; at least, some people thought so. Actually, some people worried that Andy was not very trustworthy and said so. Joe, the guy who brought provisions to me from the village, frequently looked askance at me and made critical comments. I knew that he genuinely was concerned, but I grew tired of it; they didn’t understand. That’s why I moved way out here so Andy and I could be pretty much alone.

Andy certainly was affectionate, though. He snuggled against me for warmth and gently flicked his tongue in my ear, giving me a slight, chilled shiver. Andy could be rather dominating at times, but I had to be careful how I responded. If I rejected him too abruptly, he could become rather temperamental. So, I usually let him go ahead, wrap himself around me, and hug me. He was strong, but that was not surprising. He was grown now.

That night, Andy seemed more interested in me than usual, and a little rougher. He gave a little squeeze, and it left me breathless. “Not so hard, Andy,” I said; but Andy’s hug grew stronger. Was he trying to engage me in a little sadomasochism, or what? He brought his head around to face me. I didn’t like the look in his eyes, cold and determined. I actually began to be rather frightened. Was Andy as dangerous as some people said? A hug is one thing, but making my ribs ache was quite another.

“Don’t move! I’ve got him!” came a familiar voice. I caught a glimpse of Joe running up to where I lay with Andy. A loud explosion shattered and pained my ears, followed by a loud ringing. Blood splattered across my face. Horrified, I wrenched myself away from the bloody mass that used to be Andy’s head. His body loosened, and I scrambled out of the hammock. Gasping, I lay on the ground. “Are you alright?” asked Joe. Still out of breath, I nodded.

I gradually gathered myself up and stood there with Joe, gun still in hand, and looked down at what once was my friend Andy. I was in shock, but I also could feel a sense of relief. Joe had been right all the time; Andy could not be trusted. He might have been cute when little, but it was downright foolish to keep him around after he had grown so big. Forty feet is pretty darn big, even for a green anaconda.

© 08 October 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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Keeping the Peace by Ray S

Maude and Emily, nee Clyde and Frank Le Clerke, they were married in Canada and Frank took Clyde’s surname in preference to his own Germanic Danglebunger.

They have a long history together, now in their late sixties they are the epitome of ideal monogamous married folks. Oh once in a while they were known to stray from the straight and narrow but just for an occasional fling—nothing more than a brash alcoholic one nighter when one or the other was away on business, and later in life the excitement of some mutually arranged three-ways. But, enough of the intimate details.

The two had met soon after the Stonewall period in a rather select hotel bar, not the usual black hole of Calcutta with a key to the back room. At the time they were two butterflies emerging from their constrictive cocoons. Clyde was a wanna be theatrical producer whose primary occupation was assistant to a well-known stage costume designer—until retirement recently.

Lt. Col. Frank Le Clerke, nee Danglebunger, Retd. had enjoyed a carefully closeted military career with the aid and cooperation of his lovely wife, now moved on to greener pastures. It had been a rewarding-in-so-many-ways period in his life, even with the 2.4 children and a choice dictated by a good WASP family life and successful entry to the military academy. You had to do what formulas and middleclass America required then, and other possibilities were unheard of, replete with influences leading to a reward of hell and damnation. Thus knowingly or unknowingly he sought the cozy confines of the nearest closet.

Since all of that water passed over the dam, the “girls” have led a relatively peaceful and comfortable gay life. They are now rewarded with five grandchildren, courtesy of the younger Danglebungers, and the acquisition of an early twentieth century brownstone overlooking the city’s downtown. Needless to say, Clyde supervised the interior makeover of the old house. Frank saw to the bills and supervised the various young sub-contractors.

As described in the preceding information, all was harmonious at 6969 Oak Avenue until several months ago when the subject of the approach of the annual Gay Pride events and especially the grand parade on the last day of Pride Week came up.

For as long as they care to remember they had entered into the parade plans with enthusiasm verging on manic. Each year their entry and participation had to outdo that of the last. Hadn’t they won first prize seven odd times and become known as the Queens of the Floating Prides? These two were committed, this time of the year preempted all other yearly celebrations including birthdays and holidays. Each had his just due by the Pride Parade, and their own entry took the lead.

But this year try as they may the two couldn’t seem to agree on a theme and subsequent design and costumes. Was there anything in the way of stories and guises that the city’s drag queens hadn’t used before? The answer was of course NO, but there had to be something different this year.

What about a miniaturized replica of the Stonewall on the float with the two of them dressed as a drag queen and a New York cop? Frank said yes, and he could even wear his old Army sidearm. Clyde responded that Frank was too old to expose himself, when Frank then corrected Clyde explaining sidearm was a common term for a pistol in a holster, not an anatomical part.

Clyde had his own grand vision of the two of them presenting themselves as models in a 1920’s fashion show descending a circular staircase built on the float. Turned out to be too high to clear the utility lines across the parade route. What about a Broadway Ziegfeld follies theme, lower stairway with them costumed in Clyde’s own designed follies gowns. Frank didn’t like the stairs in any case because he no longer was as steady as he used to be in those six-inch stiletto heels.

Alas, the time was growing shorter and neither could agree; keeping the peace was to be a lost cause.

It was three weeks to go and a Saturday morning. Frank had suited up for his early run in the park. Clyde had accompanied him, only to find his usual park bench close to the running path so as to enjoy viewing all the naked boys, well at least stripped to their waists. Springtime in the park turned out to be inspirational in so many ways.

Frank enjoyed the respectful, admiring and acknowledging similes of some of the naked boys as they passed him. He visualized how these men would appear dressed or undressed as Athenian athletes racing each other in an Olympic marathon. He was glad he had his loose fitting running shorts on.

Clyde was distracted from his studies by the nearby cackle and proud array of one of the park’s peacocks in full plumage display. “That’s it,” the light bulb shown brilliantly in his creative imagination. He hadn’t been a producer in show business, but he had produced some great costume designs. Hope springs eternal!

Sunday morning, the parade’s designated meeting place has been accomplished and the show is well on its way. Weather is cooperating, the girls’ pancake and mascara isn’t running. The bands are playing loud and noisy. Then to the tune of the familiar “Moaning Low” the contingent of “Floating Prides” arrived at the reviewing stand.

Oh, so many beautiful, bizarre, horny queens in full array and display. It was a wondrously true sight to behold.

But what of our girls? Where were the perennial prize takers?

Seems that Saturday afternoon after the park, Maude and Emily, nee Clyde and Frank, had a nice al fresco lunch and bottle of bubbly to discuss some brand new float designs gained as a result of their morning’s exertions.

Then as so many old queens tend to do, they went antique store browsing. Nothing in particular in mind when both were struck by a really cheesy style gold guilt pharaoh-like throne, replete in leopard print upholstery. Ta-da.

OMG—look at that! Here comes a team of four sort-of-white horses with applied zebra stripes drawing a float complete with a temple of Karnack backdrop; raised dais for that chair now elevated to a throne for none other than Cleopatra dressed in shimmering gauze revealing her tasteful black lace lingerie and fish net hose. All of this crowning her black Egyptian wig with a full peacock crown. I swear it could have been Claudette Colbert in the DeMille Cleopatra, or maybe even Liz.

And at her side in full man-tan stood as naked as he was allowed due to children attending the parade stood Frank, nee Emily—this time doing his damndest to recreate the fit Frank Danglebunger of past times. Marc Anthony would have looked half as good if he had lived long enough to qualify for various military benefits and Social Security, or whatever.

The horse-zebras drew our two Pridly Queen’s float past the dignitaries on the reviewing stand (one of the animals couldn’t hold it any longer—must have been all that music and cheering) and left a respectable deposit for the occupants of the reviewing stand, as well as the rest of the parade. Oh shit! But they kept the peace in the Le Clerke homestead for another year.

Denver, June 2013

About the Author

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The Great State of Gay by Gillian

A Limerick

A lightning bolt hit me one day,
It left me with nothing to say.
You’re gay, don’t you know? How can you be so slow?
So I checked out the gay state of play.

Caught up on a runaway train,
I hurtled through darkness and rain.
I had to come out, not a whisper, a SHOUT.
I could not, ever, go back again.

I came out to them, young and old
I don’t know what made me so bold
I stood tall and proud and I shouted out loud.
The spy coming in from the cold.

This action might not have been wise,
I took it against some advice
But there’s nowhere to run, and it’s all been such fun,
Just go with the roll of the dice.

So here I am every Monday*
Caught up in the gay state of play,
I live a great life – even took me a wife
Here in the great State of Gay.

*Monday is the day we have our storytelling group.

The Wisdom of GLBT Identity    11/26/2012

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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Details! by Donny Kaye

One of the first television shows I really enjoyed as a kid was Dragnet with Sgt. Joe Friday and his partner, Frank Smith. One of his iconic lines for which I remember him most is, “Just the facts ma’am, just the facts!” My formative years were influenced by Joe Friday especially living with a mom who seemed to be able to find objection as details were shared. When I stuck to the facts I was more inclined to be allowed to do what I wanted to do than if I embellished at all with details. It seemed that the details of who I heard something from or where I heard it often resulted in restrictions that weren’t at all favorable to the interests of a young eight, nine, 10-year-old boy. I remember being banned from Jimmy because I attributed my use of SOB to him when questioned by my mother as to “where had I heard that language,” totally disregarding that my father used it frequently. Plus absolutely no credit was given me when using the term appropriately, in reference to my male dog. Our clubhouse was suspect, as was the far north side of our neighborhood where my friend Eddie lived and where I first tried puffing on a cigarette, not fully. Appreciating how detectable the smell of smoke was! I also learned that there were times when I could embellish with details, often which were made up, and I might receive favorable judgment and consequently, allowance to do what I wanted to do. What I realize now some 55 years later, is that those formative years and ability to stick with the facts as well as to embellish with detail when thought necessary became a way of life for me especially as a closeted man with stories that couldn’t be told without, what I presumed, severe implications and consequence. Leaving out the details of one’s life makes for a rather bland and unremarkable life experience. While at the same time trying to keep straight all of the embellishments thought necessary to cover that which seemed so necessary along life’s way, make for an interesting dilemma when trying to recollect the stories of the past. The experience of Storytime at the Center each Monday has helped me to reconnect with the richness of who it is that I am as a man who has recently come out of the closet. Beyond the opportunity to reclaim the stories that are my past, this experience is helping to create an attention to life’s details that is unparalleled.

Increasingly I am in a state of wonder and awe not only at who I am but who it is that journeys with me in this experience called “MyLife.” The details of my life are rich, exciting and inspired. My life is the unfolding experience of grace and passion. The details making each moment beyond what I could’ve imagined. I pay attention to the details not in a perfectionistic kind of way which I had refined over my lifetime but in regards to the quality that is brought to each of life’s moments as a result of being present to the detail if each moment. Just the facts? Awe, come on and tell me a little bit more of the juicy stuff that makes one squirm!

About the Author

Donny Kaye–Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

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Breaking into Gay Culture by Phillip Hoyle

I didn’t break into Gay Culture but rather carefully walked in prepared for my entrance by my good friend Ted. Over many years he had coached me, revealed the ins and outs of much of the culture by taking me to gay bars, introducing me to gay people, teaching me the language both spoken and unspoken, introducing me to gay novels, showing me more of his life than I really asked to see, and talking endlessly with me about gay experience. His tutoring took on a different seriousness when in my mid-thirties I told him I’d made it with another man, a friend of mine he’d met years before. From that point on, Ted simply assumed I was gay whatever non-gay decisions I made. His assumption led him to open even more of himself to me rather than shield me from realities that would certainly become important should I leave my marriage and go gay full time! Ted was my effective educator.

About two months after my wife and I separated I made my entry into a world I had only studied. Three blocks from my apartment I entered a bar named The New Age Revolution, a bar I had seen while walking with my wife and had wondered if it could be gay. Why else would it have such a name in Tulsa, Oklahoma? I had thought about when I would be ready to go alone to such a place, thought about when I’d go there as a gay man. Would I be courageous enough to do so? Of course, I would. After all, I didn’t separate from a twenty-nine-year-long, perfectly fine marriage to an understanding and lively woman whom I adored without intending to live a fully open gay life. I had already begun preparing to leave my profession of thirty-two years, one in which I realized I would not be able to live openly gay. So I glanced in the mirror, took off my tie, straightened my clothes, walked out the apartment, descended sixteen floors in the elevator, waved at the security guard, exited the building, and walked those three blocks down to the bar. I went early, way too early according to Ted’s instruction. He taught me never to show up before ten. I’m sure I was there at 9:00. I suppose it was a weeknight; I had to work the next day. The place was nearly deserted. There was music. A few people stood around talking to one another. I went up to the bartender, said “Hi,” and ordered a beer; I don’t recall what kind of beer but it was in a bottle. While I slowly sipped at my drink, I looked around at the decorations. This place just had to be gay. I couldn’t imagine any other saloon that would display a decorated dildo on the wall behind the bar. I was pretty sure I had made it to the right place.

This was not only the first time I had been alone in a gay bar; I’m sure it was the first time I’d been alone in any bar. I grew up in dry state with a prohibitionist mother and had married a tea-totaller. I had drunk beers on occasion, but had never gone to a bar before I was in my thirties and living away from Kansas. I had rarely even paid for a drink. I thought about a gay friend of mine who said he sometimes went to gay bars simply for the spiritual aspect of it, as a point of identity, participation, and presence. I stood in the bar that night not talking to anyone, thinking about how being there certainly was a kind of spiritual experience, one of great importance to me. I was finally present publicaly as a gay man. There I was beginning my future life as openly gay.

I drank another beer. Finally I nodded to the bartender, left a generous tip (changes must be commemorated with great generosity), and exited the door. I walked thoughtfully up the hill all the time watching peripherally for anyone that might have seen me leave the place; after all I was in Oklahoma. I entered the apartment building and returned to my home. I suspect I played music and messed around with some art project. I thought about making gay saints for my next series of mixed media works. Would I become one I wondered?

That evening I walked into a bar but wasn’t breaking into gay culture. Actually I was breaking out of several important, long-standing straight relationships. My entering gay culture passed as quietly as that first night in a gay bar by myself, and I’ve never regretted that short walk some fifteen years ago.

Denver, 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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Weather by Ricky

When I came up with this response to the topic “weather,” there was a large heat wave in Colorado and several major forest fires burning out of control throughout the state.

Oh the temperature outside is frightful,

And the wildfires are so hurtful,
And since there’s no cold place to go,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

The heat shows no sign of dropping,

And I’ve brought some corn for popping,
The shades are pulled way down low,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!
When we finally wave goodbye,
I’ll be going into hot weather!
But if you’ll give me a ride,
We can beat the heat together.

The fires are slowly dying,

And, my friends, we’re still good-byeing,
But if you really love me so,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! Wait! 
 I don’t want snow. I really want Baseball Nut ice cream and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.*

Baseball Nut Ice Cream

*Lyricist Sammy Cahn and the composer Jule Styne created Let It Snow in 1945 and is used here under the fair-use provisions of copyright law. Baseball Nut ice cream is a trademark flavor by Baskins-Robins. Dr. Pepper is a trademark drink by Pepsi Co. 

© 1 July 2012

About the Author

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while his parents obtained a divorce; unknown to him.

When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he 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, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

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

Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.