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Don’t Touch Me There by Michael King

There is a place where I would warn anyone thinking about touching me there; that would not be wise. My history of experiencing touch has changed throughout the years. I don’t remember even getting hugs as a child. I had little to no body contact until the girlfriend and occasional boy get together days. Even then my experience was rather measly.

When the kids came along I made sure they got hugs and affection. All the affection and body contact I remembered getting when I was young was from the dog. I didn’t even have much experience with handshakes. They were even rare.

In about 1977 I attended a study group and as I was leaving the host gave me a hug. I think I must have been in a state of shock as it was for me totally unexpected and I didn’t know what to think. I attended other study groups and realized that hugging was the way some of the people said hello or goodbye. I was probably 36 or 37 and this was new to me.

Now, I am known for giving hugs. I am often asked for a hug. I, however, am seldom in situations where there is touching otherwise except in the bedroom or at home in every room and then, often. I doubt anyone thinks about touching me there and it doesn’t matter because it’s nice being touched everywhere else.

As I said usually I could be touched there, but on that rare occasion when my body reacts automatically and I can’t endure being touched there the potential isn’t pretty. So, I’m warning everyone who might now know my secret that they could be putting their life in danger. Don’t ever tickle my feet. If you do when I’m unaware, beware.

This could be genetic. My uncle got his nose broken when he tickled my mother’s feet when she was a little girl. I think I have the same instinct. “Don’t touch me there!”

© 21 April 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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All My Exes Live in Texas by Lewis

[Disclaimer:
I sincerely hope that I do not offend anyone by what I am about
to say.  If Texas is the state of your
birth, please forgive me.  I understand
that you had no choice in the matter and would naturally feel somewhat defensive.  I apologize in advance for my unbridled
antagonism toward your home state.  If
Texas is your adopted state, however, then we must simply agree to disagree.  Since you are gay and because Texan’s in
general are about as homophobic as you can get, I have no desire to add to your
mental anguish. I hope you can get some help.]
 It’s safe to assume, I
suppose, that by the term “ex” is meant “erstwhile”.  It would also likely be safe to assume that
the “erstwhile” refers to lovers. 
Since I have had only two lovers in my lifetime and one of them is dead
and the other lives in Michigan, there is very little I can say about this
subject directly.  However, I do have a
few things to say about the state of Texas in general.
If I ever have a lover who
says to me, “Let’s move to Texas”, the next words out of my mouth
will be, “So long, pardner. 
Remember to roll your pant legs up so they don’t get in the horse
shit”.  I hate Texas so much that,
whenever I think of the Alamo, I’m overcome not with pride but with
regret.  My most hated actor, John Wayne,
not only directed the movie, The Alamo,
but cast himself in the role of Col. Davy Crockett.  As fate would have it, I had been planning to
watch the movie the very evening the call came that my father had died of a
massive stroke.  That was not the cause
of my regret, however.  No, that was
because the wrong side lost.
My daddy had a brother–the
youngest of four–who moved his family to Austin.  He was a high muckety-muck with the state
school Board.  When I say
“high”, I mean tall–he was about 6 foot 4.  He was also the first of the four brothers to
die.  I’m not going to say that Texas
politics killed him but the Texan he married might have been implicated had
there been an investigation.  Not only
did she have a drawl that would have shamed the two Andy’s–Devine and
Griffith–into going back to acting school, she had a temper that had me hiding
beneath the dining room buffet in abject fear.
Oh, they sure do take their
football serious down there.  I once attended
a game between the Texas Longhorns and the Aggies.  It was the only time I saw a referee get
knocked out.  I think the crowd made more
noise over that than any of the scoring plays.
During the OPEC-induced
recession of 1984, I and several of my co-workers at Ford Motor in Dearborn,
MI, were laid off.  One of them moved to
Texas looking for work.  He stayed less
than a year due to culture shock.
And what’s the deal with
“The Lone Star State” as their motto? 
According to Wikipedia, “Texas
is nicknamed the Lone Star State to signify Texas as a former
independent republic and as a reminder of the state’s struggle for independence
from Mexico”.  Sounds like a lot of
“Texas hooey” to me.  I think
the motto is a way to remind the other 49 states how special Texas is and that
they just might secede at any time.
Secession is no idle threat,
coming as it did from Texas’ governor himself. 
I would humbly suggest that the U.S. cede Texas to Mexico in exchange
for Tijuana.  Not only would this overnight
raise the cultural and political intelligence of the United States as a whole
but also cure a good bit of our problems with border security.
As a boy, I was enamored of
the Lone Ranger.  As a man, I’ve learned
that the real Texas Rangers used to take Mexicans out into the desert and shoot
them, leaving their corpses to rot, just as I’ve seen John Wayne do in the
movie, Red River.
Well, I don’t want this to
turn into a rant.  If you’ve ever been to
Amarillo, you’ll understand why I think that the people of Texas have suffered
enough already.  I’m just biding my time
for the day when the brown-skinned immigrant voters outnumber the knuckle-heads
that control the politics down there today. 
Better the state turn purple than my face.
© 13 January 2014 

About
the Author  

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

Long ago and far away, I lived in paradise. It was quiet and peaceful, a land of green farm-studded hills comprised of green sheep-studded fields. No-one locked their doors. There were few cars. A tiny tinny church bell rang one monotonous note every Sunday morning. No peels from bell ringers here, just one old farmer pulling on an old frayed rope, and we all answered it’s call; not from religious zeal but because we wanted to chat with our neighbors, who lived many stones’ throw away.

What a wonderful life!

What claptrap!

Nostalgia, it has been said, is the longing for a place and time you couldn’t wait to get away from. I do have wonderful memories, real or imagined, of that past life, but I do not want to return to it. It did not encompass the GLBT world I am now able to inhabit. I was condemned to act a part on reality’s stage rather than live my real life. I couldn’t be who I really was. I couldn’t even know who I really was.

In High School English class, two of the works we studied were Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Ernest, and Alfred Lord Tennyson’s In Memoriam. These days we all know about old Oscar and the troubles he got himself into, but all that study of his wonderful writing never once led us to any discussion of his personal life. My elderly Welsh teacher would not have had a clue how to deal with any of that; nor would she have wanted to. Oscar himself had been well out of the closet, but we had booted him back in and slammed the door.

Tennyson is not as well known today as Wilde. His writing has never been interpreted on stage or screen, though In Memoriam has given us that familiar sentiment that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

As with Wilde, we spent endless school hours analyzing and dissecting the writing; the four line ABBA stanzas of iambic tetrameter. But never the man. Nothing was up for discussion on the fact that Tennyson spent seventeen years of his life writing this poem of love for, and in grief over the death of, another man. In doing that, he certainly came well out of his closet, but again society had shoved him back in.

I sometimes fear that all these English Lit. studies gave me was the ability to trot out endless quotations to fit just about any given situation, and wonder why memorizing everything was such a large part of our education. But in fact these lessons gave me much more; the very special gift of a love of literature.

Tennyson still brings tears to my eyes, and when I return to In Memoriam I find he speaks to me so clearly after all these years, and perhaps even more clearly to the lost soul I was then, in that closeted world where I studied his words.

So runs my dream, but what am I?

An infant crying in the night

An infant crying for the light

And with no language but a cry.

How better to describe me, in that cold dark closet, long ago and far away?

The past is another country, and, in the way of other countries, a great place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

© September 2013 

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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Mirror Image by Betsy

My partner Gill and I often inadvertently have interesting discussions at tea time. Someone makes a statement and before we know it we find ourselves delving deeply into one subject or another.

Just a couple of days ago we got into a discussion about growing up female in the United States in the 1940‘s-50’s vs. growing up female in the U. K. in the 1940’s-50’s.

The thought that triggered this conversation had to do with confidence, rather the lack of it, in women of our generation. I am suggesting that certainly not all women but many American women raised in the 30‘s and 40‘s are more likely to lack confidence whereas British women do not. How and why did this come to pass?

I speculate that as I was growing up in middle class America I was expected to become some man’s wife and my role would be to facilitate his career, be his support staff, and to raise a family. This may not be the same for all women, but this is the message I received in some form every day of my life as a youngster. Certainly my development was not focused on learning a particular skill, pursuing a talent, or being exposed to a profession, or even learning professional behavior, or how to be assertive. Nor did I have the role models for such behavior or for such an attitude. The ultimate outcome for me was to be a wife and a mother. Mind you, there is nothing wrong or demeaning about this particular outcome, if a woman is given the choice and chooses it.

The college I attended for four years, Wells College, was founded by a man in 1868 for the purpose of providing suitable wives for the men of Cornell. This is the stated purpose of the institution, the assumption being at the time that men wanted educated wives–not so their wives could develop their own careers, of course, but so they could have intelligent conversation and have their children cared for by an educated mother.

That was the 19th century. After World War II women realized that there might be more for them than kitchens and nurseries. After all, they had had to go to work during the war to produce guns and tanks while the men were off fighting. Many women realized life might offer some choices for them. Maybe there was a life outside of the home–an interesting life. After all, raising children does not last forever–actually only a few years when taking an entire lifetime into account.

By the time I attended Wells College attitudes had become much more progressive and women were encouraged to develop a profession or a career if they so chose. So I was exposed to this attitude as a young adult in the college I attended and sometimes from other sources. I remember clearly my grandmother, whom I called “Abita,” encouraging me to think about a career in math or science. She had clipped from the paper an article pointing out the surge of interest among women in careers in science and the opportunities that were coming available, suggesting that I might be encouraged to fly in that direction. This was a brand new idea to me–something I had never considered.

By the time I graduated from college, I no longer saw myself as a wife alone, but perhaps as a wife and a member of one of three professions which by that time had been assigned to women: nursing, teaching, and social work. In 1957 it was quite acceptable, even promoted, that a woman could have a career and a husband. However, despite the changes in the attitudes and the social norms of the time, the message I received from the adults in the early years of my life were a part of my psyche.

Listening to partner Gill’s description of growing up female in Britain, I realize there is a contrast, but at the same time, the image is the same–much like a mirror image.

In Britain, at least in Gill’s experience and the experience of most of the females she knew, girls grew up with the expectation that they would be independent, able to take care of themselves, if needed, and it turns out that it was needed thanks to two world wars. Girls would marry and raise families, and they would be making choices for themselves all along. British women, according to her story, were raised to be strong and independent–in contrast to American women who were supposed to be happily dependent and at least appear to be the demure little wife sitting at home taking care of the house.

Interesting mirror image! The same, but turned around. But why not, I say. Look at the role models the British women have: Elizabeth, Victoria, the current Elizabeth. The kings, with a few exceptions, messed up. But the queens–just look at them. And what did our ancestors who were British do with that heritage? They chose to leave the country and sail across the ocean and start a new country where there would be no monarchy–no role models.

Besides that, two world wars in Europe had taken out a huge chunk of the British male population. World War I in particular. It was not a given for a woman in 1930’s Britain that she would become someone’s wife, she knew that she would very likely soon become someone’s widow. Men were in short supply during both wars. The women had been left at home to run the household and to continue doing so when their men did not return from war. It was the women who raised the next generation of adults in post war Britain. These adults certainly did not grow up with a vision of females as being anything but strong and self sufficient.

This topic can certainly stand on its own as an opportunity for further consideration, writing, and listening, or another discussion at tea time. But in this case I will leave it here with the two similar and opposing images to contemplate.

©18 March 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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Discovery by Ricky

I am not famous or even infamous, nonetheless, I made many discoveries in my life. As an infant, I discovered that I did not like being tossed into the air and then caught by my father. Of course getting caught was much preferred to hitting the floor unhindered. My father always caught me, but I never liked or enjoyed the falling feeling.

As a 1st grader, I discovered, but did not understand, that I could not trust my mother and I feared my father and yet I still loved both of them dearly. Perhaps children are ‟hard-wired” to be that way or maybe it was the unconscious realization that they provided everything I needed to survive—a juvenile Stockholm Syndrome as it were.

As a pubescent 5th grader, I discovered the initial pleasures of male genitalia and the physical differences between boys and girls. Boys were more ‟interesting”. I also discovered ‟responsibility” while caring for my younger siblings. It wasn’t something for which I wanted to be responsible.

As a 6th grader, I finally discovered all the pleasures that male genitalia can provide and that there were other boys who liked rediscovering those pleasures with me. During the school Christmas presentation, I discovered stage fright when I saw my parents sitting in the second row. I also discovered that it is much more fun to play sports than to watch from the bleachers.

In the Boy Scouts, I discovered the pleasures of belonging to an organized group of boys having fun camping, learning new games and skills, and performing campfire skits. Because I was the oldest boy in the troop and held the position of Senior Patrol Leader, I was always ‟responsible” for everything boy related and sometimes other things. As a result, I was always on my best behavior trying to be the good example. While my time in the troop was very enjoyable and fun, the boys had more fun than I.

As an 8th grader, I discovered the first pangs of being different as all my friends began to favor girls while I still wanted to be with boys. From this point forward my interests began to diverge from the mainstream interests of other boys until in my freshman year of high school, I began to wonder if I was a ‟slow developer” or something else altogether.

Increasingly throughout high school, college, and into mainstream adulthood, I discovered I was growing more comfortable around groups of females and more estranged from and apprehensive around groups of men, lest they detect that I had no interest in their primary topics of discussion. Groups of women did not make me uncomfortable in the least. Nonetheless, I crave male companionship.

In the first semester of college, I discovered that I would never be a high school chemistry teacher.

In the military, I discovered self-discipline. Unfortunately, when I left the military, I also left behind nearly all traces of self-discipline. Fortunately, I also discovered the pleasures of heterosexual relationships and in separate events met my future spouse.

After being married, I discovered that I liked it and also discovered the joy of being present at the birth of our four children.

Upon returning to military life, I discovered I am still a child psychologically. I found this out while in training when I read in a manual on how to set up an “L-shaped” ambush. Specifically, where to aim the machine gun to inflict the greatest damage if the bullets fall short or go past the aiming point. I actually realized that the military was no “game” like I played as a little kid.

I discovered that I rather enjoyed being a military officer and also a deputy sheriff both of which were childhood desires.

I discovered that I am a child of God and that most people are good, although many are misguided.

I discovered just how devastating it is when one’s soul-mate passes on leaving one behind.

I discovered the importance of being around family and friends and to keep lines of communication open.

In 2010, I finally admitted to myself that I am sexually oriented towards males and discovered just how liberating the admission was to my psyche.

Lastly, I discovered The Center and SAGE’s Telling Your Story group and the wonderful people who attend. I am looking forward to next Monday’s get-together for conversation and, of course, food with ice cream.

© 22 December 2013 

About the Author  


I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Elder Words by Phillip Hoyle

I read this somewhere:

When I turned forty I knew a lot about life.

When I turned fifty every new experience reminded me of a story from the past.

When I turned sixty I thought I was supposed to tell the stories.

Now at sixty-four with croaky voice I say:
Bah humbug.
The next generation is going to the dogs. (Quoting Ovid)
I’m feeling passé.
Moan, groan.
Youth is wasted on the young.
The food here used to be better.
Today I feel like Grandpa Grunt.
Their prices sure have gone up.
I really miss the good old days when things made sense.

Elder words are not new to me. Any number of times I heard them proffering advice, insight, and hope. My folks wanted me to have a good life and somehow to learn from their experience, so I ask you to listen while I tell you their good words.

Words my elders said to me:

Earl Hoyle, my dad: A kind man who wanted his children to have meaningful lives helping other people, Dad was spare in his advice giving. He didn’t select any of his children’s life-work or push them towards a specific career. Yet he did give me two words of advice concerning what I might seek for myself. “For a career,” he advised, “do something you really like to do,” and “Don’t be a musician.” My settlement was to work as a minister in churches leading their choirs and music programs.

Professor Joe Secrest: My main music teacher in undergraduate school, Mr. Secrest encouraged me in many ways providing varied musical resources and experiences. He liked my musicality and dedication to music, and he may have seen that my path into pastoral ministry would be wrong for me. He also may have understood more about my personality and potentials than I ever imagined; after all, he was a musician. At the end of my junior year he proposed: “I’ll stay here another year if you’ll change your major to music.” That was all I needed to hear. I changed my major. It cost me an additional year of schooling but was worth every hour, every book, every measure of music, and every dollar spent.

John Conroe: This handsome and kind man worked in the oil business encouraging folk to sign mineral rights leases. He and his wife lived simply although they had loads of resources. At the church where I had my first full-time job, she greeted at the door and he ushered the center aisle for the eleven o’clock service. They accepted Myrna and me and eventually our children into their lives like they were our parents. One fine day John said this to me: “They should never say of either of us: he worked himself to death.” I agreed with the sentiment and have lived into its easing wisdom.

Rev. Ed, mentor: When I began graduate study at Wichita State University and took on a part-time youth ministry at Broadway Christian Church, I shared an office with a retired American Baptist minister. On occasion Ed and I talked. He seemed interested in my ways of thinking. We read and discussed books on theological and psychological themes. I was amazed at his elder mind, for although the conversations sometimes lagged due to his slower come-backs, he several times recalled the outline of books he had studied thirty years before. I learned from him and was acutely aware of the irony of heeding the advice of a Baptist minister who said: “Go to seminary.”

Dr. Beckelheimer, professor of homiletics: In seminary, at the first meeting of a social ethics graduate seminar, “Strategies for Change” (a kind of Saul Alinsky community organizing course), I realized my real motivation for taking the course was my anger—at the church, at the need for credentials, at the whole world, and at the upset I had caused my family by moving to Texas. I was just plain angry and realized I needed to study something harmless, so immediately after that first session, after I had lied about why I was there, I went to the seminary office to drop that course and sign up for “Principles of Preaching.” The class would be my third three-semester-hour course in homiletics. I’d had two as an undergraduate student and already had discovered I’d be happy to live the rest of my life without preaching another sermon. I took Dr. Beckelheimer’s course and was the first student he ever he gave an “A” to on every sermon submitted. I didn’t like his course, but later in my effort to get out of seminary one semester early, I signed up for another one that sounded better to me, “Experimental Preaching,” a two-hour course in summer school. Again I did superior work that deeply impressed my unimpressive instructor. When I was almost done with my seminary education, Dr. Beckelheimer stopped me in the hallway. In his over-serious although sincere manner, he said: “Be sure you preach.” I did preach some for the next twenty years. As an associate minister I covered vacations and other times away for the senior ministers in several churches. I must have preached about one hundred fifty sermons—addresses I made sure my senior ministers understood I didn’t want to deliver. They liked me for that since I seemed no threat to their position.

Dr. James Duke and Dr. Cy Rowell: In seminary two other professors gave me identical advice. Both seemed impressed by my scholarship. Dr. Duke said: “I’d encourage you to do post-graduate work in church history except there won’t be any jobs.” Dr. Rowell said the same about religious education except that he explained, “There won’t be any jobs; too many people are already lined up getting their degrees.” I appreciated their advice that correlated well with the decision that had landed me in seminary anyway. I had chosen seminary when I realized I didn’t want to pursue postgraduate work in music history.

Rev. Kathryn Williams, a regional associate minister, friend, and mentor: I appreciated many things about Kathryn besides her enthusiasm. She had served as a missionary in the then Belgium Congo and from that experience had unusual views on culture and educational process. She helped me gain a particular approach to childhood education in a church setting, one I employed often in planning events and writing curriculum resources. Besides all that, I just liked her, her accessibility, humor, sharp insights, and constant encouragement. Sometime during the last year of my seminary education, Kathryn said to me: “I know a hundred ministers in their fifties and almost every one of them is bitter at the church. I don’t want that for you.” I thanked her for the wise advice and pledged to quit before I grew to hate my work. Eventually her observation led me to leave ministry.

Geraldean McMillin, school teacher, now retired: Geraldean and I started talking years ago. She taught economics to high school students and so her insights often related to her theories about economics. Growing up in the Missouri Ozarks, she also reflected an earthy common sense. We talked and talked and still do. She asserts it’s the job of elders to be wise. Among many wise sayings she has taught me, I most appreciate this one: “You can’t get a job without experience; can’t get experience without making mistakes.” Her practical approach has helped me deal with my own faux pas and snafu’s.

Ronnie Montoya, friend: I learned sage words from the mouth of a younger person, words that reflected his greater experience, talk that always combined humor and wisdom. He served me as a singular friend, a gateway into Hispanic experience, and a sexual playmate. This short, chubby, cute guy entertained me in Albuquerque. I had met him through my wife who worked with him. The three of us started going out to dance. Ronnie and I started doing more together—playing pool, kicking around, driving here and there, and eventually having sex. A few weeks into our affair, Ronnie warned, “If you get enough man-to-man sex, you’ll want a lot more.” Such truth! I became one of his best-ever students and continued my studies after moving to two other cities. I’m still studying.

Winston Weathers, writer, literary agent, and professor of writing: This elder statesman of creative writing invited me to his apartment several afternoons when I lived in Tulsa. With his partner of forty years we shared wine, snacks, and talk of art, literature, and writing. I didn’t know much about Winston except that he was a retired university professor and that his published poetry and short fiction had gained critical attention. He knew writing and one day told me: “Gay fiction needs more than drugs, dancing, and wild sex.” I am seeking to follow his advice.

Words describing an elder ideal:

Wisdom is knowing what to do with knowledge
Adages distill wisdom
Stories tell the truth
Poetry reaches deeper

© 23 November 2012 

About the Author  

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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For a Good Time by Pat Gourley

If I were to take the high road with this topic I suppose I would explore my options for a “good time” by discussing my friends and time spent with them sharing a movie or a meal I have prepared especially to accommodate their particular dietary idiosyncrasies. Or perhaps relate my anticipation for seeing a couple of Furthur shows next month at Red Rocks with 10,000 of my closet associates. Prowling a Farmer’s Market, taking in the latest vegetative creations at the Denver Botanic Gardens or curling up with my kitties, a good book and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s are also things that work for me when it comes to a good time.

I will dispense however with the “high road” for the remainder of this piece and look at the tried and true completion of the phrase which would be “for a good time and hopefully a happy ending” call 555-5555. In decades gone by this exhortation was often seen scrawled on public toilet stalls along with the requisite phone number. For the extremely bold the phrase might appear in a personal print ad, though the “good time” was often just implied as was the “happy ending”.

Throughout the 1970’s a “good time” for me involved heading out to the bathhouse. I do believe that as gay bathhouses evolved in that decade they were a truly unique space created by gay men. There certainly had for millennia been public bathes that often had a homosexual cruising element but the gay bathes as manifested in large American and European cities largely after Stonewall had no pretext or subterfuge about them. They were gay male space created for the express purpose of getting laid in a relatively safe place often catering to and facilitating a variety of gay male sexual fantasies.

The amenities were simple but plentiful including safe lockers, clean towels, private rooms, slings, suitable lengths of plastic douching hose with hookups right next to the toilets, orgy rooms, steam rooms, lots of hot water, reasonably priced poppers and buckets of free cheap lube, usually whipped up like cake batter in big batches by the employees. This lube was often a mix of baby oil and Crisco or some other vegetable shortening on sale that week at Safeway I expect. Johnson & Johnson was almost always the source of the baby oil. Condoms were certainly not readily available and if so their use was at best frowned on.

Though in hindsight the baths may have initially fueled the AIDS epidemic after that horse was out of the barn I always felt they were more a form of quarantine for the already infected than really significant vectors. Certainly before AIDS the tubs were I think overall very conducive elements to the building of the potent queer liberation movement of the post Stonewall era. I mean what could go wrong in these ultimate palaces of testosterone fueled gay male bonding where fucking with as many or as few men in a single visit as you could accommodate was easily facilitated, the ultimate male fantasy.

Some unfortunate drawbacks did exist and in some forms persist today. Many bathes were mob owned and often enforced very racist and ageist door policies though in their heyday there was a variety of establishments that accommodated nearly everyone.

The tubs still exist today but after a severe curtailing in the 1980’s due to the AIDS epidemic they have never fully recovered to their 1970’s glory. Perhaps though even more significant than fear of disease in their decline has been the Internet. In case one forgets for a moment the importance of this when you type “Internet” and neglect to capitalize the “I’ it spells checks to remind you to do so.

For myself personally as having been a child of the tubs decades ago and fortunate enough to have had a couple of relatively good long term relationships, I now am occasionally at a loss really as to where to go for a sexual good time. I do though rely on my left hand (I am right handed but go figure), a tube of Vaseline and my computer. And FYI the word Vaseline also insists on being capitalized on my Apple product.

Gay men though being the masters of the “hook-up” that we are have evolved quite well with the times. An example of this would be Grindr – spelled G-r-i-n-d-r – which is a geosocial networking application available for download from the Apple App Store and Google Play. This can best be described as making use of GPS and your computer, tablet or iPhone to find other men near by specifically for sexual hook ups. This can happen in an instant of course and eliminates the tediously time consuming efforts involved in the past for meeting up with partners at bars, parks, parties etc. and very little social chit-chat is required. Simply to initiate a “good time” text to xxxxxx.

The Grindr app provides an interface that displays photos of men arranged in order of proximity to your current location. Tapping on a photo of interest will provide you with a brief profile hopefully not a total pack of lies. Needless to say this award winning social networking tool has been a wild success all over the world. And thanks to Edward Snowden we now know that all of the personal information provided on this platform is and will be carefully stored for possible future retrieval at the large and ominous NSA facility nearing completion in neighboring Utah. The old vice squad of yesteryear must just be wetting their pants with jealously.

Again for me personally I must confess that Grindr is not an option I am willing to explore and not for any fear of the NSA though it is none of their fucking business and a violation of my 1st, 4th and 6th amendment rights but I digress. Rather it is difficult to teach an old queen new tricks or how to find new tricks. I am for the most part quite content with my computer and a couple dear old comfortable and reliable (and I use the phrase with the greatest of love and affection) fuck buddies. In a concession to the times though they are contacts on my iPhone and I call them with a simple touch most likely unable to actually dial their number form memory.

© August 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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Still Learning – Just One Nugget by Nicholas

When I feel I need a little break and need to see a little craziness, I hop onto an express bus to Boulder to spend a day in a place just different enough to be interesting. Boulder reminds me of a mini-San Francisco. Good restaurants, intriguing food shops—like the well-scented spice shop—a really good bookstore, and street people who don’t seem so desperate as they do in Denver.

What really draws me to Boulder is the labyrinth in a downtown church. I love walking labyrinths. This one is a copy of the Chartres cathedral labyrinth in France dating from the middle ages when labyrinth walking was used as a substitute for making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. This is an 11 circuit labyrinth, meaning you walk 11 circles in fragments, winding up eventually at a center.

A labyrinth is not a maze. You don’t have to find your way or figure out anything or make any decisions. You just follow the path as it winds its way around and through the quadrants to the center. It’s a walking meditation. In the Christian sense, the path, which is laid out for you, leads to God at the center. You only have to follow. I’ve never met God at the center and I don’t know what I would do if I did. Probably ask him to move so I could get on with my walk. Labyrinths pre-date Christianity, having been used in many forms by pagan religions for eons. The Christians just glommed onto a good thing when they saw it.

And as I’m slowly walking, I’m wondering why am I doing this, what can I get from it. Just one crumb of understanding, I say, give me just a little nugget of wisdom in this calm place where all I have to do is follow the path to the center and back out again. The slower the better. I’m not looking to understand everything, the whole enchilada, just a bit here and now. And the answer came: I’m doing this because walking the labyrinth is comforting. Its stillness, its calm, its reassurance give me a stillness, a calm, and a reassurance. Just follow the path, you don’t have to find it, it’s there at your feet. Keep your eyes open and follow. One step at a time.

So, I’m still learning. Still trying to figure it out though that’s something I don’t really expect ever to do. I suppose, maybe I even hope, my last words will be “What’s going on here?” It’s not the answer but the question that truly counts. Not the accomplishment but the wondering.

Yes, still learning. I just learned a whole lot about the writer William Faulkner, enough to realize that I knew nothing about an author I thought I did know something about. And I learn more yoga every week and sometimes everyday. And I’m always learning about loving and being loved. And I just got a new I-phone which offers me more to learn than I ever knew I needed to know. It’s not a phone or a device; it’s an extension of my brain. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. My brain could use an extension but I’m not sure I want it to be in an Apple computer.

I heard a saying recently that I think everybody in this room will like and feel free to adopt as your own. It goes: It’s not how old you’re getting; it’s how you’re getting old.

I hope I am getting old with wonder and openness and a desire to learn more because there is so much more out there to learn and experience. Like walking the labyrinth to discover that I need to walk the labyrinth. And maybe I’ll learn a little something, just a crumb, just a nugget. Not God.

Keep your eyes open and follow your path.

© 25 November 2013 

About
the Author 

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

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Dresden by Will Stanton

The fire-bombing and destruction of Dresden happened close to seventy years ago, in another era, another country, with other people. In raising the subject, many people might respond by saying, “Why should we remember? Why should we care? That was a long time ago and has nothing to do with me or today.”

George Santayana is credited with saying, “Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.” And, “Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

By nature, I am a very empathetic person. Hate and violence perpetrated against others, present or past, disturbs me greatly. Also, I have a great appreciation for the good works of humanity; and when they wantonly are destroyed, that, too, concerns me.

Before World War II, Dresden, the capital of German state of Saxony, was known as “The Florence of the Elba” because of its extraordinary beauty. Elaborate Baroque stone architecture was expressed in its churches and cathedrals, its opera house and symphony hall, its university and museums, the choirboys school, its grand manor houses, and in its middle-class homes and shops. This peaceful city was built for living, not for war and destruction. There were no military facilities or industries in Dresden. For that reason, Dresden remained untouched until almost the very end of the war…almost.

In a statement by J.M. Spraight, Principal Secretary to the Air Ministry, he stated the following: “Charles Portal of the British Air Staff advocated that entire German cities and towns should be bombed. He claimed that this would quickly bring about the collapse of civilian morale in Germany. Air Marshall Arthur Harris agreed, and when he became head of R.A.F. Bomber Command in February 1942, he introduced a policy of area bombing where entire cities and towns were targeted. We began to bomb objectives on the German mainland before the Germans began to bomb objectives on the British mainland… Because we were doubtful about the psychological effect of…the truth that it was we who started the strategic bombing offensive, we have shrunk from giving our great decision of May 11th, 1940, the publicity it deserves.”

Ironically, an in-depth study after the war indicated that, had the Allies concentrated strictly upon military-related targets, the war could have been ended several months earlier, saved thousands of lives, and avoided the devastation of civilians’ towns and cities. Despite these facts, Harris was convinced that bombing civilian populations was the best way to win the war.

The bombing tactic developed by the Royal Air Force and the United States Army Air Corps was the creation of fire-storms. This was achieved by dropping incendiary bombs, filled with highly combustible chemicals such as magnesium, phosphorus or petroleum jelly (napalm), in clusters over a specific target. After the area caught fire, the air above the bombed area, became extremely hot and rose rapidly. Cold air then rushed in at ground level from the outside, and people were sucked into the fire. The Allies first tested this concept over the city of Hamburg. The resulting fire-storm created tornadoes of fire. Even the civilians who jumped into the river burned. Harris considered the test to have been a success.

By February, 1945, the war was almost over. The Allies were closing in from the west and the Russians from the east upon what remained of Germany. So far, the non-military city of Dresden was untouched.

It was at this point that Winston Churchill, the British Air Marshall (who became known as “Bomber Harris),” and his staff, decided that the Allies should make, shall we say, “a statement” by demonstrating their power to obliterate an entire, previously untouched city. It has been said that this decision so near to the end of the war was based partially upon revenge for bombing the British munitions-producing city of Coventry. Perhaps more importantly, it was to choose a previously undamaged city to demonstrate to Stalin and the Soviet armed forces, who rapidly were moving west across Germany, that the western contingent of the Allies was very powerful and could obliterate an entire city. The Soviet Union, therefore, would see the West’s determination to finish off Germany and also that the Russians should think twice about occupying lands too far to the west.

David Pedlow, in a letter to The Guardian (14th February, 2004), wrote about a rather revealing scenario supporting the fact that the bombing of Dresden was no militarily strategic objective. He stated, “My father was one of the…R.A.F. meteorological officers (who) finally sealed Dresden’s fate…The Dresden briefing was only one of many that he routinely attended, and even before the crews left the ground, he was troubled because of one notable omission from the routine.

Normally, crews were given a strategic aiming point – anything from a major factory in the middle of nowhere to a small but significant railway junction within a built-up area. The smaller the aiming point and the heavier the concentration of housing around it, the greater would be the civilian casualties; but given that the strike was at a strategic aiming point, those casualties could be justified. Only at the Dresden briefing, my father told me, were the crews given no strategic aiming point. They were simply told that anywhere within the built-up area of the city would serve.

He felt that Dresden and its civilian population had been the prime target of the raid and that its destruction and their deaths served no strategic purpose, even in the widest terms, that this was a significant departure from accepting civilian deaths as a regrettable but inevitable consequence of the bomber war, and that he had been complicit in what was, at best, a very dubious operation.”

The British Royal Air Force, with the assistance of the United States Army Air Corps, chose to bomb the historic Dresden in six raids over three days and nights [13th, 14th, and 15th] during February, 1945. The four British raids over Dresden, followed by two American raids, consisted of 3,600 bombers and other planes, 650,000 incendiaries, plus over 6,000 tons of explosives. The high explosives and incendiaries resulted in a raging firestorm that sucked all the oxygen out of the city, suffocating the citizens hiding in basements. Those above ground were incinerated or crushed by falling buildings. The bombing completely destroyed seventeen square miles of the historic city and damaged many additional square miles surrounding the city center.

At first, apologists for the bombing claimed that the obliteration of Dresden was a “navigation error” – – over a three-day period. Later, some claimed that the bombing was necessary to take out military targets, although the only minor, war-related facilities were far from the city. Those facilities remained untouched by the bombing and are intact to this day. They also claimed that “only 50,000 civilians” were killed in the bombing and resulting firestorm; however, this figure ignores the fact that 300,000 refugees recently had fled to Dresden for safety, knowing that the city was a non-military location and that the war was almost over. More accurate estimates range far higher with additional tens of thousand of souls lost in the devastation. This included eleven of the church choirboys and their school.
Dozens of photographs were taken of the aftermath of the firebombing, many of them, such as mountains of dead being burned in the streets, too horrifying and gruesome to view without being emotionally shaken. The most poignant, haunting picture that I’ve seen is the charred remains of a nine-year-old, blond boy clinging to his dead mother.

Ironically, there were American prisoners of war in outlying areas of Dresden at that time. Fortunately, some of them survived the bombardment by taking refuge in the basements of homes. My family had a friend who had been an American POW and survived the bombing in that manner. He mentioned that, by the end of the war, Germany had lost so many adult soldiers that mere boys had been assigned to guard them. Also held with him and the other soldiers was Kurt Vonnegut who, as a now-famous author, wrote about his Dresden experience in his 1969 book “Slaughterhouse Five.”

American soldiers were recruited to carry the dead to the burning grounds. Many were found seated in basements and shelters, dead from carbon monoxide and lack of oxygen. Many others were burned beyond recognition. Kurt Vonnegut later reported, “American prisoners, at first, were ordered to move thousands of bodies to pyres for burning (of which there are photographs); however, there were so many bodies that they were provided flame-throwers to burn the bodies just where they lay, turning them into ash and, therefore, no longer identifiable as human remains. Thousands of the dead likely were refugees and not listed on resident rolls, making almost impossible estimation of the final tally.”

Otto Sailer-Jackson was a keeper at Dresden Zoo on February 13th, 1945. He recalled being at the zoo when the bombing occurred. “The elephants gave spine-chilling screams. The baby cow elephant was lying in the narrow barrier-moat on her back, her legs up in the sky. She had suffered severe stomach injuries and could not move. A…cow-elephant had been flung clear across the barrier-moat and the fence by some terrific blast-wave, and stood there trembling. I had no choice but to leave these animals to their fate…We did what we had to do, but it broke my heart.”

The famous stone-domed cathedral Frauenkirche stood for just one day after the bombing; however, the heat from the fire-bombing was so great that it turned the stone porous. The cathedral collapsed the following day.

Because Dresden had no food and little shelter, our friend and the other Americans were marched north, out of the ruins of Dresden. Years later, our friend returned to Dresden and found the very same house in which a German lady had protected him. He knocked upon the door. An elderly lady answered, looked at him, and then broke into a broad smile. She remembered him.

In addition to the destruction of the city itself, great works of art and other prized creations made by human hands were destroyed. Also, sitting on a railroad siding was a whole train-load of valuable artwork that had been brought there for safe-keeping. The “Florence of the Elba” was no more.

After the war, Churchill began to back off from previous statements about the supposed necessity of bombing Dresden, whereas Harris continued to defend the decision. Suspicion concerning that decision grew even among the British public. Partially for that reason, Harris moved to South Africa and lived there from 1946 through 1953. No special medal was offered to the crews who flew the Dresden missions. Whereas a statue of the war-time supreme commander of the R.A.F. was erected soon after the war, no such statue of Harris was considered until several decades later.

Despite protests from Germany as well as some in Britain, the “Bomber Harris Trust” (an R.A.F. veterans’ organisation formed to defend the good name of their commander) erected a statue of him outside the R.A.F. Church of St. Clement Danes, London, in 1992. It was unveiled by Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, who looked surprised when she was jeered by protesters, one of whom shouted, “Harris was a war criminal.” The line on the statue reads, “The Nation owes them all an immense debt.” The statue had to be kept under 24-hour guard for a period of months because it was often vandalised by protesters. Apparently, some people do remember, and they do care.

© 21 December, 2013

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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Remembering by Michael King

Since I have now been writing stories based on the topic of the week for about 3 ½ years, I have had a variety of insights relating to today’s topic “remembering”. Each topic seems to force me to examine my memories regarding the particular topic. When I first started it became very painful as I had so many of my life’s experiences so deeply buried in a hidden place somewhere to never be thought about again.

My lifetime of forgetting and going ahead had worked well up until I started thinking about the topic for rhe week. Some topics brought forth a tremendous surge of past hurts and disappointments. Others gave me the opportunity to see parts of my life more clearly. It didn’t seem to matter what feeling and memories I had. What I did begin to notice was resolve. I allowed myself to sincerely assess each group of experiences that came into my mind as I pondered the possible truth of these memories. Surprisingly, I realized that for the most part I didn’t at the time have the skills or the experience to handle whatever situation in a manner that met my high standards. I had often felt that I was a failure and incompetent. Now I can see that I simply didn’t know how to meet some of these challenges with any real level of maturity as I had not yet developed any coping techniques to address most of the painful disappointments and betrayals that always surprised me and my overly sensitive ego had no calloused self-protective armor. I so much have always wanted to live in a wonderful world where I was also wonderful and efficient, respected and loved, skillful and wise, happy and humorous, brave and self-sufficient, intelligent and knowledgeable, and on and on and on.

So, I must now take responsibility for having seen the world of my past as one that of course I couldn’t be comfortable in since I didn’t have the knowledge or understanding to be the person that I thought I should be. I didn’t allow for mistakes, ignorance, self forgiveness, nor did I allow for those in my environment to be less than honorable, trustworthy, mature, etc. Not only was I a disappointment to myself, but that was often reinforced by the way others treated me. I felt alone, that I couldn’t trust anyone including myself.

This was the frame of mind I had for the first 17 years of my life; I often focused on the negative and placed little attention on the positive. Now I see that there was much that I could have appreciated that I didn’t.

I am also aware that I can now review much of my life from a much clearer perspective since I have by now finally had the experiences and developed the coping skills and insights that allow me to put all those dreadful feeling and disappointments in a more realistic and understanding perspective. Yes, if I had been in a different environment and had mentors and so on it might have been different. Then I probably wouldn’t have the insight and compassion for understanding other people.

From 17 on, my world changed when I went to college and for the first time in my memory I didn’t have to feel on the defensive. I began to be more and more like I thought I should be and feel.

I continued to have some difficult periods and many challenges, disappointments and failures which I still considered unacceptable, but I also had many really wonderful happenings and wasn’t always waiting for the other shoe to drop. There were plenty of times that it did. I was caught off guard or betrayed or deeply hurt either because of my own doing or someone else’s.

I’ve been doing a lot of self-forgiveness and a lot of forgiving since I started the “Telling My Story Group” and I realize that we rework our memories. We see them from different perspectives. We sometimes make changes in our thoughts, our behaviors, our emotional selves and we can rework our memories. We can also do as I did for years and bury them.

Some of the memories that I like best are the ones where I have been outrageous, funny and got the reactions I wanted and the times when I felt loving and loved, sensuous and sexy, accepted and appreciated, when I was admired and agreed, and when I felt secure that I was thick skinned enough to withstand anything that comes my way. Being so prepared after 73 years of being defensive seems to have eliminated being caught off guard. When I am, I almost always can turn the situation into something humorous. I love a good laugh and usually don’t wait till I’m challenged. I especially remember when something’s funny.

© 11
March 2013

About the Author  


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