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I Never Knew — Mutable Facts by Carlos

Did he remember me as I remembered him?

A couple of summers ago, playing on my computer, I typed in his name in a people search website, curious as to where the years had taken him. When his obituary of ten years earlier emblazoned my screen, a darkness of grief blotted out my emotions. I felt a suspension of thought, a resurgence of memories. I never knew.

I didn’t know he had died ten years before. After all, the last time I had seen him was at a very awkward, unexpected encounter where he had paid his respects at my father’s funeral twenty years earlier. I don’t remember what we said, only that I spoke his name for the first time in years; I did, however, recognize the gulf that divided us as he hurriedly walked away.

Interestingly, to my observant eyes, the obituary made only cursory mention of his wife with whom he had shared his final decades, yet it emphasized his ever-loving daughter and even more interestingly, his life-long allegiance to the church where he had served as sacristan, eucharistic minister and lector. How strange it was that as I read the obituary, memories of our shared pasts deluged my mind, memories of love in all its many and varied guises. Since we lost touch after I left Texas thirty years before, I often wondered if he remembered me as I remembered him. And now as I re-read the obituary, I concluded that death had finally effaced the irrational love that had since withered like a spray of once fragrant violets. I pondered whether over time I become nothing more than a sepia memory or whether I had the right to suspect that he had finally won the battle fought over a lifetime to obliterate me from his mind.

We had once shared secrets together, secrets of young love and hopeful futures over several years, as with needle and thread we quilted a covenant we trusted would last a lifetime. But I went away for a span of time and journeyed to foreign shores in distant lands as I fulfilled my obligations to my country. We wrote religiously in the interim, breathing life into our discoveries, distilling hopes like rain water percolating through layers of limestone. And when I returned, we tilled the earth in the backyard, determined to transform a plot of calcified soil into a reawakened garden of erotic extravagance. And for a while the bulbs and rhizomes we planted in the fall greeted us in the spring with rainbows of irises and ranunculi, tulips and daffodils. The sweet scent of arching peace roses and tender green grass enveloped us like a capsulated chrysalis. But he had changed; I had changed. Our improvised dance now seemed staged and amateurish. All too soon, we recognized we had miscalculated our misadventure as we pirouetted in our macabre ballet of fate. He wanted to be a father, dreaming of a little girl to whom he would build palaces of spun filigreed gold topped with silver moon beams radiating outward. I wanted him to love me with a love that was dawn and twilight and everything in between, no longer being satisfied with the love of first sight. Thus, he sent me away; I walked away. Nevertheless, even as I ascended into the skies far from him, I looked behind, hoping against hope that he would restore the primal cord that had been cut with a whetstone-sharpened steel blade.

He married within weeks, to what I believe was a wonderful woman he had known for years, a woman who was able to give him what I could not. Asking me to be his best man, I stood solemnly but tormented at bride and groom shared sacred vows. I wanted to give flesh to our sin before man and God lest we lose each other in the maelstrom of time. But I silenced my voice; I carved a smile upon my polychromed mask, and again, I flew away into the clouds. Nine months to the day, he sent me a letter informing me of the birth of a daughter hours earlier, a daughter he wrote who uncannily had my eyes, my skin, my mouth. Days later, he sent me a picture of him bathing the child, a look of sublime joy on his face. I realized he had discovered the treasure after which he had quested. I returned back to him not long after when he asked be to be the godfather of his beloved…his two beloveds joined in a momentary gasp of suspiration, the child holding her breathe as the pure water dedicated her to God; me gasping with unanswered questions.

And I walked away. Because the cicatrice in my heart kept opening and spewing molten pain that could not be cauterized, I again walked away, but this time I never returned. The moments became eons, and the eons coalesced into eternity. As I re-read his obituary, I hammered nails upon the entombed gyrations that had decimated with finality. I hoped that over time the church that he had so openly shunned when we were one offered him solace. I knew the beloved daughter he had birthed certainly did. I suspect he spent a lifetime trying to deny me, yet I retain a romantic hope, maybe even a vain hope, that maybe, just maybe, he experienced moments when he exalted me, when he honored that part of me that he carried in his heart forever.

And I wondered if he had remembered me as I remembered him.

© Denver
June 2, 2013 



About the Author 



Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

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Cities of My Heart by Betsy

Denver is where my heart is. That’s because the love of my life lives here–with me. I love Denver and Colorado. I have been living quite happily here since 1970. This is where I came out. This is where I met the love of my life. I have many friends here both straight and LGBT. My three children grew up here and call Denver their heart home. There is much to be said about Denver but not here and not today. So…….

Since my three children have a place in my heart also, I suppose I can say at least part of my heart is in those cities where they reside.

Decatur, Georgia is a small city completely surrounded by the city of Atlanta. From my several visits there it appears that Decatur is young, relatively progressive, and gay friendly. This is where my oldest child, a daughter, lives. This daughter is a professor on the faculty at Emory University where she teaches in the Women and Gender Studies Department. Lynne has been in academics for about 20 years. In that time I have learned that her community of friends and associates is not usually representative of the area in which she resides. I learned from her partner Tamara that The Women Studies Department of Emory University is the oldest (and best) in the United States. Who would have guessed that this, one of the most conservative states and cities of the country is the original home of such a progressive subject as Women Studies. Suffice it to say that academic communities bear no resemblance to the states or regions where they are located.

Before moving to the Atlanta area around 2005 Lynne and Tamara lived in Houston, Texas–another conservative hot spot. I imagined a very difficult time for the couple when I heard in 1998 they were moving from New Haven to Houston. Never mind a lesbian couple living together in Texas, but an interracial lesbian couple. However, I was surprised to learn from my visits there that Houston is in fact a fairly cosmopolitan city–at least for Texas. Even though Lynne was teaching at Rice University, my view of Houston was not distorted by association only with the academic community. Tamara started out working as campaign manager for a city council candidate bent on ousting an incumbent. Lynne was of course somewhat involved in the campaign as well. The incumbent opponent was well entrenched, so the campaign would be hard fought. In the end the campaign was successful, Tamara’s candidate was elected to the city council, and Tamara became her Chief of Staff. Needless to say, the scenes and experiences we heard about during this time gave a very realistic, true vision of the city of Houston as opposed to the college professor’s perspective. We saw a liberal candidate oust a well entrenched conservative. But that was not the only surprise. During their stay in Houston, we saw many other unexpected changes. At the present time the mayor of Houston is a lesbian woman–a former acquaintance of Lynne and Tamara’s. I was pleasantly surprised that Houston was so good to my daughter and her partner.

My second oldest child, a daughter, lives in Baltimore. The nation’s economic problems have badly effected Baltimore–by appearances, much more so than Denver. However, Baltimore has always had a large population of struggling workers.

On one recent visit we found ourselves in the very worst neighborhood of the city. Gill and I were traveling in our camper van from Denver to the east coast with a planned stop in Baltimore to spend a few days there with my daughter Beth.

Beth works in the area of artificial intelligence. Currently she is working for NASA’s Atmospheric Science Data Center. She is a logician and applies her knowledge and expertise as such in her job developing ways to access past meteorological data.

In giving us directions to her home in Baltimore she did NOT apply her knowledge and expertise as a logician. Approaching her area of Baltimore, and carefully following the directions she had sent via e-mail, at a crucial point we made the turn to the left as instructed. Within two minutes we found ourselves in a very seedy neighborhood. Realizing surely something was wrong we pulled over to get out the cell phone. We needed to turn on lights as it was dark. Some unsavory looking characters gave us the once over and approached the van whereupon we locked all the doors and windows. No, we were not in the right neighborhood. We were supposed to turn right back there, not left, Beth admitted. In another five minutes we were in the correct neighborhood of Patterson Park. Not a swanky place, mind you. A very middle class, working person’s neighborhood in transition where we felt ever so much more comfortable and safe.

Beth now works from home and could live anywhere she wants, but chooses to stay in her neighborhood in Baltimore close to her D.C. contacts.

By the way, have you ever driven on the D.C. beltway? One of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

My youngest, a son, lives in Fairbanks, Alaska. Often I hear friends and acquaintances say, “Oh, yes, I’ve been to Alaska.” Almost inevitably it turns out they have been to Anchorage or the coastal area or perhaps Denali National Park. Fairbanks is not typically a tourist destination. I have only been to Fairbanks twice and those visits were in the summertime. It is not an easy place to get to even by plane.

My son John started his practice as a urologist in Fairbanks. Instant success as there are but four urologists in the entire state. Three of them practice in Anchorage.

The city of Fairbanks sits in the interior region of the state. Googling the list of rivers in Alaska did not help when trying to recall the name of the river that flows through the city. There are 9728 rivers in Alaska. Other methods of investigation including my failing memory yielded the name: The Chena River.

A drive from Fairbanks to the nearest city Anchorage is a day’s drive on a highway running mostly beside the rail route of The Alaska Railway. This rail system boasts punctuality and comfort. The dome-topped train offers incredible scenery on its route from Fairbanks to Anchorage with a stop at Denali National Park, home of Mt. McKinley, and fist-clenching run along the edge of the spectacular gorge carved by the Talkeetna River to mention only two of the numerous, magnificent, unforgettable, and interesting sights.

Further on about an hour out of Anchorage the train stops at Wassilla–Sara Palin’s home.

On my first visit to Fairbanks John rented an RV and off to Denali the five of us went–three adults and my two very young grandchildren. Our three day visit was memorable to say the least. Denali is a place of indescribable pristine beauty and awesome vastness.

Anyone wishing to travel east out of Fairbanks will be disappointed. If one travels in any direction other than south to Juneau, southwest to Anchorage, or north to Prudhoe Bay, one is liable to run out of highway. The roads simply stop. Beyond is wilderness. Of course the lumbering and mining operations abound in that state, but the place is so vast it appears to be endless and untouched. It is not hard to understand why half of the population are licensed pilots. Many people live in areas accessible only by plane. Many of these people live on islands off the coast.

Fairbanks is a growing city, currently at around 35,000 residents. Seemingly unaffected by the economic disasters taking place in the rest of the country, jobs are available. Students with a taste for adventure and perhaps the promise of a summer job are drawn to the University of Alaska’s Fairbanks campus.

I have not been to Alaska in the winter. When I checked the January 14 weather report, the expected high for the week was -32 with fog and mist resulting in a “feels like” temperature of -47. Does it really matter which it feels like: -47 or -32?

I do know that in the winter months many Alaskans–the more fortunate ones–fly to Hawaii where they spend a couple of weeks. A veritable exodus takes place in the dead of winter when those Alaskans who can afford it decide it is time for a good dose of sunlight and it’s mood-enhancing effects.

Here is a place where much attention is still given to the magic of the winter solstice. After December 21 it can only get better.

Atlanta, Baltimore, Fairbanks–wonderful places to visit. But I’m glad I live in Denver.


© 14 January 2012 




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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Marriage by Will Stanton

“Ah am again’ a man marrying a man or a
woman marrying a woman.  It ain’t right;
it ain’t natural.  Marriage should be
between one man and one woman, just as it always has been for thousands of
years!  Ah believe in traditional
marriage!”    

At least those people who hold such beliefs and who make such statements are consistent : they generally are ignorant of the facts concerning most things.  Facts mean nothing to them.  Throughout history, so-called “traditional marriage” has not been anything like what these people say.  On the contrary, usually marriage has been quite different.

In most early societies, marriage was a private agreement between two families.  Neither the Church nor the State had any say in the matter. Of course now-days, a bride’s family is shirking its duty if they do not provide the groom’s family with a number of sheep or horses.

Often, not even family-consent was necessary for marriage. Two people who simply regarded themselves as being married were viewed by the Church as having a valid marriage, provided neither one was a slave of course.  It was not until 1754 that England preferred to have couples obtain a marriage license, although that was not regularly enforced. Even in socially backward countries such as America, authorities initially simply inferred marriage from a couple’s behavior rather than requiring either a license or a church wedding.  Just living together was all that was needed.

Considering that so many “good Christians” would like to alter civil law to conform to their religion, they would be upset to learn that the type of marriage most often mentioned in the first five books of the Old Testament was not one-man, one-woman, but instead was one-man, several-women.  So, in today’s “traditional marriage,” how many women should a man be allowed to marry?

If a man chooses only one woman to marry, then he is allowed to either divorce his first wife or add another wife or concubine if the first wife does not produce a child.  After all, producing offspring is the only reason to marry; no one else should want to marry.  

Early Christian records document some same-sex marriages.  It is said that, in the 4th century, Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus were united in a church service.  They even are portrayed close, side-by-side in a religious icon.  

When the Church later promoted two-person marriages, the Church would nullify a marriage if the man was impotent, but not if one of the spouses was sterile.  One wonders to what extent the Church went to determine which was which.  In 18th-century Ireland, one aristocratic lass insisted upon marrying the great castrato singer Tenducci, only to employ the law of the time to divorce him when she discovered the greater pleasures of a fully intact man.  The New York Court ruled in 1898, however, “It cannot be held, as a matter of law, that the possession of the organs necessary to conception are essential to entrance to the married state, so long as there is no impediment to the indulgence of the passion incident to this state.”  So apparently, two guys who are partners don’t have to keep trying to make babies.

Only in more recent times have American legislatures and courts felt obliged to intrude upon what has been, in truth, real traditional marriage.  Black slaves in America could marry, but only with the permission of the slave owner.  By the 1920s, thirty-eight states had laws prohibiting marriage between whites and blacks, Mulattos, Japanese, Chinese, Indians, Mongolians, Malays, or Filipinos.  Twelve states prohibited marriage to a “drunk” or “mental defective.”  There even was a prohibition to marrying any  (quote) “drunkard, habitual criminal, imbecile, feeble-minded person, idiot, or insane person.”  If we adhered to this “traditional” concept of marriage today, that would eliminate the right to marry to most members of the GOP and all of Fox News.

In conclusion, and to paraphrase conservative pundit George Will, what is the cost / benefit of so many Americans believing in, and subscribing to, the hate-filled, irrational rantings of so many so-called “good–Christian” politicians, voters, and  preachers?  The cost to American society, and especially to the civil rights of GLBT citizens, is clear.  But, I see no true benefit from having millions of Americans standing foursquare with bloviating ignoramuses. The recent statement  by  a  North-Carolina,  Baptist  minister who said, “Ah could just puke!  Can you imagine kissin’ a man?” is redundant proof that high authority allows for someone of extremely low IQ to insert himself into the debate concerning human civil rights.

© 01 June 2012 


About the Author 


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





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Filing through the Files by Terry

In
the effort to avoid a depressing subject, I am sharing my little adventure in
going through my files to find the title of my car. It took me twice through to
locate the title. I traveled a territory spanning at least three decades. I
searched through three different files.
The
largest, looming at a full page, officially stamped, was my marriage
certificate. Could not for the life of me remember what I’d needed that for.
Ahh
the receipts.  For someone who doesn’t
itemize, I have a lot of receipts!  Everything from ice cream shops to body shops,
not to mention movie tickets (remember Back to the Future?)
For
some reason, I had tucked a bunch of poetry and letters written many years ago,
under, for some reason, letter H.  I read
through several letters written to someone named Nancy. Unmailed, Passionate,
that professed undying love, please don’t leave me, that kind of thing, for
pages and pages!
I
was stunned. I had no idea who this Nancy was.  Had I been in an imaginary relationship?  Or, had I actually been writing letters, at
age thirty or so, to an imaginary lover?  Was this a half-finished narrative from a
short story that I forgot I wrote?  Who
in the Hell was Nancy?  I don’t know any Nancy,
or any Nancys.  The handwriting looked
like mine.  It took a good twenty minutes
of staring into space before it dawned on me; the woman I thought I would
never get over, over whom I had been devastated and bereft; I must have been
chuckling to myself the rest of the day and into sleep over that one.
The
other find was the roster for The Denver Golden Girls, my wonderful Lesbian
rugby team.  I had started out just to
take part in practices to get into shape. But that game just sucked me right in.
 I remembered practice, breaking through
tackles, when Harpo (her real name) tied to catch me by the waist band of my
shorts which were of a stretchy material, and more than my athletic talent was
revealed, however briefly.  Though we
beat the women of The Air Force Academy I remembered only Harpo from that
roster.
Ultimately,
of course, there were receipts from doctor bills and shrinks and surgeons, but
I said I wasn’t going to get into that.  Suffice
it to say that some things just are bound to be forgotten.  After all, isn’t that why we have files?
  
© 23 June 2013 

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

Beginning in August 1972 until July 1976, I worked as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County, Arizona. August through November consisted of training at the Southern Arizona Law Enforcement Institute [commonly known as the Tucson Police Academy]. My father and future wife attended the graduation ceremony. After the ceremony, I patrolled out of the substation located in Marana, which at that time was a small unincorporated community located 24 miles north of Tucson along Interstate 10. You might say I was involved in several adventures during those years, but to me it was just keeping the peace.

As a little boy in Redondo Beach, California, I would watch the Sheriff John cartoon TV show each day. As I grew and moved to different homes, I began to watch the current popular western TV shows of the time featuring characters such as Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Matt Dillon, Paladin, Lucas McCain, Johnny Yuma, Wild Bill Hickok, Annie Oakley, Zorro, Lt. Rip Masters, The Lone Ranger, Davy Crockett, and probably more, which I do not recall now. Thus, these characters became somewhat of role models to me and created a desire to become a “lawman.” But then again, I also wanted to be a teacher, a military officer, and a farmer. Strangely enough, I did actually did accomplish all four of those juvenile desires, not by proper planning, but by taking advantage of opportunities that sprang up unexpectedly.

During my younger preteen years, I read many comic books. However, those cartoon “heroes” did not create any desires in me to become them. They were “unreal,” completely fake, unlike the “real” people playing the characters of heros I watched on TV. Sure, I would imagine or fantasize what it would be like to have super powers or abilities, but I also knew that even though they were fun stories, such things did not exist in the real world. However, it was fun to dress up as Superman at Halloween.

While still in a K-8 elementary school, I wrote a book report using the autobiography of Wyatt Earp. This really cemented the subconscious desire to follow his example. Sadly, my real life, the Vietnam conflict, and the “draft” teamed up to cause a temporary blockage to that desire when I joined the Air Force to avoid being drafted into the Army upon flunking out of my first year of college.

Upon my discharge from the Air Force, I returned to college life this time at Brigham Young University for one semester before moving to Tucson. During the Christmas break, I had gone to Tucson to visit an ex-military family that had been my “adopted family” while I served in Florida. One day, while stopped at a traffic light, I saw a billboard that read, “Support Your Local Sheriff.” I thought it was an advertisement for the James Garner movie by the same name. When I glanced at the sign again, I noticed the rest of the message, which read in its entirety, “Support Your Local Sheriff, Get a Massage.” As it turned out, the local sheriff owned the massage parlors in Tucson.

A day or two later, I was at my adopted family’s home when some ladies from the church visited and I overheard one of them telling how the “crooked” sheriff had recently resigned rather than face prosecution and the department was hiring because about half of his deputies resigned at the same time. I saw an opportunity because at the time, police officers were not very popular, much more so than nowadays. I returned to BYU, took my final semester exams, then returned to Tucson, and submitted an application.

Eventually, I entered the police academy. On the first day of class, I learned two important life lessons. The first one is that an electric shaver does not shave close enough and I have used a razor ever since. The second lesson involves what we were all told. The academy commandant informed us that for each of the 23 deputy sheriff cadets in our class, they had interviewed 10 applicants; 230 in all. If I had known in advance that the odds of selection were 1 in 10, I never would have applied. I learned to try in spite of the odds.

One of the questions asked of me by the selection board was, “How do you see this position; as a police officer or as a peace officer?” I answered, “peace officer.” I have always believed that it is better to solve a problem than to simply treat the symptom by taking the easiest solution (i.e. arrest someone).

Thus, during my time as a deputy, there were two cases that I consider my best work.

The first case involved a “runaway” boy from one of our church member families. While the other deputies working in the substation, would have waited until they spotted him, arrest him, and deliver him to the juvenile authorities, I took a different approach. I went to a convenience store where kids of his age would visit and spoke to several to see if they knew the boy. To those who said they did know him, I asked them to give him a message if they were to see him. It worked. The boy came to where I was waiting one day and I spoke with him about how his parents were worried about him and how much trouble he would cause the family he was staying with, if any other deputy should find him. I explained to him he needs to go home before he causes a problem. I phoned his parents and informed them the boy is okay and would return home in a day or two. He went home the next day. Case closed with potential problems avoided.

The second case also involves a boy, also about 12-years old. This boy was repeatedly cutting through a neighbor’s property, taking a shortcut to the school bus stop after being told not to trespass by the property owner. This was a big deal to the owner as he and his wife were building their house and all the walls were not up yet, specifically the bathroom walls.

When I arrived at the boy’s home one afternoon, the “runaway” boy from the previous story was also there. I explained the situation and the trespassing law to the boy and asked him what we should do about it. He had a small “chip-on-his-shoulder” and told me that he did not know. So, I told him that I should probably take him to Tucson and let his parents come there to get him. (I can be mean when I have to be.) The boy immediately burst into tears. I cannot stand it when kids cry and my heart melted. I had not even planned to carry out my statement but only intended to place some major psychological pressure on him. I gave him a reasonable alternative just between us with no report to his parents. 1.  Go and apologize to the owner, 2. explain about the school bus shortcut, 3. promise not to use the shortcut again, and 4. ask if after the house was finished, he could use the shortcut again. I told the runaway boy never to tell anyone that the first boy had cried. I drove to the owner’s house and reported on my conversation with the boy. I explained that I don’t want a neighborhood feud and was giving the boy a chance to redeem himself. At first the man was a little unhappy but he came around to my view. As we were talking, I saw the boy walking towards where we were, so I told the man that they could work this out and I left. We never got another call from that man concerning the boy and no feud developed.

That is what “keeping the peace” is all about.

My Childhood TV Heros

Annie Oakley
Annie Oakley TV Show Opening Theme

Bat Masterson
Bat Masterson TV Show Ending & Theme

Davy Crockett
Davy Crockett TV Show Theme
Matt Dillon played by
James Arnes
Gunsmoke TV Show Theme

Johnny Yuma played by
Nick Adams
The Rebel TV Show Theme
The Lone Ranger played by
Clayton Moore
The Lone Ranger TV Show Opening & Theme

Lt. Rip Masters played by
James Brown
The Adventures of Rin-Tin-Tin Opening Theme

Paladin played by
Richard Boone
Have Gun Will Travel TV Show Theme

Roy Rogers & Trigger
Roy Rogers TV Show Opening

Sheriff John played by
John Rovick
Sheriff John Cartoon Show Biography
Lucas McCain played by
Chuck Connors
The Rifleman TV Show Ending & Theme

Wild Bill Hickok
James Butler Hickok
Wild Bill Hickok TV Show Opening (and one episode)

Wyatt Earp
Ballad of Wyatt Earp TV Show Theme

Zorro played by
Guy Madison
Zorro TV Show Opening & Theme
© 9 June 2013 

About the Author 

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA
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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One Summer Afternoon By Ray S

“What are you doing, father?” It isn’t quite summer, but almost. And this afternoon the question was voiced by one of a couple of gay revelers passing by as I waited for the next #10 bus.

“Waiting,” I replied and then quickly added, “for the next bus.” Then it struck me, the title by which I had been addressed and then my prompt reply.

First, I am a father and today is the national holiday honoring fathers. Just coincidently Denver’s Gay Pride Sunday. There certainly are statistics establishing how many gay fathers there are. Guess this is our special day as well. One never knows who will turn up a father; do you?

Second, I thought after the boys passed by that the word “waiting” looms either ominously or in joyful anticipation for all of us, and in my case—for what or whatever the future may hold.

Besides the initial carnival character of the setting at Civic Center and then the Pride Parade, I was aware of the general ages of the celebrants. Don’t gay men grow beyond downy-faced Peter Pans that will never grow up or full-blown bronzed Adonis’s with such an abundance of self-confidence and arrogance? This question was haunting and even more so after countless hours of observing the beautiful, bizarre, minimally-attired populous. Was this whole charade dedicated to the Fountain of Youth and the exciting discovery of carnality? Here is a parody of the song. “Old Soldiers never die,” etc. that goes “Old Trolls never die, they just fly away.” Is there nothing to look forward to besides a good book, getting fat from countless dinner parties, recounting lost opportunities with other disappointed brethren, indulging in the occasional gay porn DVD in the lone comfort of your bed, and on and on, so be it?

Then like the first blush of the sunrise my eyes were opened wonderfully to the real world of beautiful, crazy, happy, gay attendees of this huge street party celebrating many other positive aspects of the right to be who we are and equal to all the rest of the seemingly God’s chosen.

The exterior physicality has a way of transforming. The ultimate result is the chance for a real inner beauty to emerge, if it hasn’t been there already . The value of friendship, companionship and love beyond the flesh core. The truly life-sustaining elements of all GLBT relationships. And of course human nature will see to the sometimes overarching flesh thing.

Waiting one summer afternoon. Well just relax, breathe deeply, look around you, see the beauty and love in all of us, and eventually that bus will come.

© 19 June 2013

About the Author

  
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Casual Sex by Phillip Hoyle

Sex has never felt casual to me. Some have suggested that because of this I am not really gay, like the drag queen who claimed to my ex-wife that I wasn’t gay because when I had his beautiful body on my massage table I didn’t have sex with him. He echoed the complaint of much of the gay liberation movement that grew up during the time of free love and open relationships. The early gay movement presented these opening salvos of value to gain attention in order to gain civil rights for yet another segment of American people. They championed free-love among other rights. Still, even the most cursory look at “out” GLBTs reveals a much more complicated world of relationships, sexual practices, and preferences.

I really have no problem with the idea of casual sex. It’s fine with me although I have never been truly casual. When I came to Denver to live, I had sixteen different partners in my first sixteen months. The meetings began as casual pick-ups in bars. “Let’s have sex,” one smiling man at Charlies night club suggested. I agreed, and off we went to my apartment. The casual got a little more complicated when we negotiated what to do. It turned out we both wanted to do the same thing to one another but eventually found a mutually agreeable compromise and the once-again-casual fun began. Afterwards we talked about our backgrounds and found similar experiences, and in the exchange he emerged as a complex person, as much as I. Casually or otherwise, I liked him, his body, his openness, his personality. The several times we got together were great fun with vigorous sex, but I felt responsibility towards him and myself. Sex has always been like that for me. I feel like Johnny Carson, who said the reason he had so many divorces was that when he had sex with a woman, he thought he was supposed to marry her. When with men I don’t think in terms of marriage, but I may as well. If I’m casual in the initial act, I’m not casual in the aftermath when a real person emerges. Perhaps I was too long married, too long a pastor in churches. I just can’t maintain interest to an unattached sex organ.

Casual sex is probably the wrong expression for what I have observed in bars. There are forms for seeking to get laid that include pick up lines, banter, back-and-forth exchanges of glances, words, drinks, dances, kisses, and sometimes introductions. Even getting casual sex relies on long-established rules of communication. It’s rare to find it any other way since communications have to be understandable. 

I seek mental and emotional accord as well as sex. I want real, lively people in my life. I’m just that way. So… I’m a certain kind of gay person. I love sex but always lean towards complex relationships with complex personalities. That’s how it is for me: not too casual.

While I protest my interest in casual sex, I freely admit I have had sex outside of a committed relationship. I had sex in addition to a committed marriage, and in these variances I am not alone. In general, men seem happy to engage in casual sex even though there are social strictures against it. They do so in war; they do it when away on trips; they do it at home even with the possibility of getting caught and charged. The care of children and their mothers is a societal concern that has tended to limit the number of wives and keep men in control. In addition, control of family lineage and the distribution of wealth have long been preoccupations among the powerful. Societies don’t want to get out of control just because their men have too much testosterone, so they have developed standards of faithfulness within human marriages.

Men having sex with men don’t have to worry about pregnancies, so when Gay liberation became an issue, gay’s fought for sexual freedom as well. Gay men felt free of relational obligations until the discovery of the deadly STD HIV, then the co-infections such as hepatitis C, and then the re-emergence of syphilis. Then gay men had to calm down, refocus their attention, be less casual about it all, but they still wanted to suck it, still wanted to stick it, and still wanted to feel it buried deep inside and often with lots of different people. They (we) wanted the fucking intensity, and the rubber made it possible.

The accusations I have heard that I was not really gay, seem to point to an established form of free love, meaning casual sex within gay meanings. I am even more casual. No. I’m not. Nor am I particularly hung up. I want sex within friendship’s larger possibilities. I’m not interested to simply play out someone else’s fantasies. I want to relate at some more complex level. So I think in terms of sexualized friendships, something more akin to fuck buddies with the emphasis placed on buddies. This institution provides more than sexual release. As a form of friendship, it bows somewhat to the terms of contractual relationship. It certainly is more complex than John Richey’s young protagonist in the novel Numbers, much less goal-oriented than his adding notches to his whatever or adding variety to his numbering. It moves away from such quantitative goals to supplement them with a quality experience that I believe can only come with repeat performance. At least that’s my fantasy.

The current interest in establishing gay marriages by law seems to move the emphasis away from casual sex, but we must also remember that men who have been married to women all their adult lives still want and often get casual sex. The same surely will be true with gay men who seek formal, structured relationships, yet they seem willing to do so for financial, personal, control, romantic, or other reasons. Also they want it as a civil right and surely will win in this confrontation with general society.

© 17 February 2011

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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What is the Real Spirit of Stonewall? by Pat Gourley


Stonewall Inn (Then)
Stonewall Inn 2012

White statues in park across
 from the Stonewall Inn








“Despite his enduring
commitment to gay rights and lifelong dedication to queer scholarship, Duberman
is deeply disappointed in the contemporary LGBT movement, noting that for the
last 20 years it has been focused on marriage equality and repealing “Don’t
Ask, Don’t Tell”. In Duberman’s view, the gay agenda is grossly myopic and its
goals of assimilation counter the spirit of Stonewall and Gay Liberation, which
sought to affirm, rather than obscure gay differences.”
http://slanthere.com

The above quote referenced from the online entity The Slant is from an interview done recently with Martin Duberman. Duberman for those perhaps unfamiliar with the name is a queer, radical activist with a very long and impressive academic background and the author of numerous books and countless articles. He is on faculty as a professor of history emeritus at the City University of New York. The interview was published online June 5th, 2013 and is commemorating the 44th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. His most recent book is titled The Marin Duberman Reader.

In reading the Duberman interview I found myself hearing similar ideas I was frequently exposed to in the late 1970’s as a result of my budding relationship with Harry Hay, life long gay activist and founder of the Mattachine Society in 1950 and very instrumental in birthing the Radical Fairie movement. It was through contacts at the Gay Community Center of Colorado in 1978 that I was able to connect with Harry and his partner John Burnside who were living in northern New Mexico at that time.

An activity I was involved in during the spring of 1979, through The Center for the week of activities commemorating the Stonewall Riots, was the 3rd annual Lesbian/ Gay Symposium held the Saturday before the Sunday March. We were still marching back then rather than having a pride parade or at least still hotly debating whether it should be a “March or a Parade”.

The symposiums were part of Pride Week activities starting in 1977 and continuing into the early 1980’s working with the support of the Center. They consisted of a single daylong program of workshops. Presentations and discussions were of topical interest to the LGBT community and often fairly broad in scope. Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell was of course not even on the distant horizon yet and marriage equality not even a figment of anyone’s imagination. For many early LGBT activists participation in the military was not consider a desirable pursuit for anyone gay or straight, and marriage was thought to be a rather unsuccessful heterosexual construct meant to primarily control women and property, definitely not something to strive to emulate.

Since I had gotten to know Hay and his loving companion John Burnside in the previous year the awareness of his rich queer activist history led me to pursue him as a keynote speaker at the 1979 Symposium. They were at that time both heavily involved in the planning for the first Radical Fairie gathering that was to take place in the Arizona desert outside Tucson later in the summer. In personal correspondence dated 6-11-79 in typical Hay fashion he agreed to come up for the event. Written letters in 1979 were a viable and frequently used manner of communication and Harry was a master at writing long letters. Regarding my request that he and John be keynote speakers he wrote: “…being ‘keynote people’ scares us. We love to rap with people but we don’t take kindly to the old hetero-imitating formalisms of speeches or addresses.”

Though I have many pages of personal correspondence with Harry in particular I unfortunately never saved my responses back to him. I apparently responded that that would be fine and they came to Denver for that Lesbian and Gay Pride weekend of 1979 and participated in several workshops at the Symposium. He spoke briefly at the rally at the end of the Pride march that Sunday in Civic Center. Harry with bullhorn graces the cover of the July 6, 1979 issue (Vol. IV, #7) Of Out Front Magazine. I do not remember any of his remarks at the rally but the theme of the march that year was “We Are Family” so I suspect he spoke to that.

Much of Hay’s thought on queers at the time focused on the three questions originally raised by the Mattachine society; who are we, where do we come from and what are we for? If we were to be pursuing these questions in earnest at the time, and they are still quite relevant today, assimilation into the larger hetero society with marriage equality and open military service were unlikely to facilitate that exploration.

In the Duberman piece referenced earlier he describes the current “gay agenda” focus on marriage and the military as very myopic and Hay would certainly agree. In fact I heard Harry dismiss both as sadly hetero-imitative and nothing we should be serious about pursuing if we were intent on getting to the root of our difference and bringing our unique gifts and contributions to the larger human banquet.

When Duberman was asked specifically about the influence of queer culture on mainstream America he responded in part: “So far, I don’t think the effect of mainstream culture has been significant, and I think that’s the fault of both the gay movement and the mainstream, which is willing to accept and tolerate us to the extent that we act like good middle class white people”.

If I can be so bold I would say that both Hay and Duberman firmly believe that our real strength comes from being “outsiders”. Perhaps the potential for at least some of the change humanity desperately needs at this juncture can come from queer folk and that will only come about if we relish and explore our differences as possible keys to viable solutions to our immense problems today. Not to throw too much of a burden on us but we really do need to be in the vanguard of a radical restructuring of the entire social order or we are pretty much screwed both as a species and a viable planet.

How wonderful if every June we could renew out commitment to being “other” and recommit to using our unique worldviews to tackling some of the greatest issues we will face in the coming year.

© 30 June 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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The Strangest Person I Ever Met by Nicholas

One day she walked into my office and sort of collapsed down into a chair and said, with a mixture of patient weariness and eager anticipation, “I just can’t wait till I get my tits.”

Rebecca (not her real name) was a volunteer at the GLBT Community Center where I worked and she frequently tossed off quips about where she was in her transition.

“You’ll get them,” I assured her, “and they will be beautiful.” Like, what do I know about boobs, I thought.

I really didn’t think it very strange that Rebecca would announce to me such a private anatomical detail. We were always chatting about something at The Center. This was just real life the way real people lived it. No more “strange” than if she’d said, “I need to buy a new car.” Though a good deal more personal. But then one cannot transition in private so why be secretive about the process.

That was her attitude and I was always impressed by Rebecca’s ability to be open and light hearted about her life and its changes when so many others seemed to carry theirs around like a heavy stone on their backs. Rebecca seemed not only determined to make her life her way but to enjoy it along the way.

I didn’t find that so strange—actually, more admirable than strange. But it occurred to me that there are people in this world whose eyes would have bugged out at a statement that, to them, would have been as strange as if saying she was from Mars.

I don’t really know strange people. At least I don’t think so. I once knew a guy whom I would call strange, as in weird. I assume he’s long dead since he looked like a walking corpse when I knew him in San Francisco in 1969—where knowing strange people was a daily occurrence. Frank lived in the flat below me and his full time and sole occupation seemed to be smoking pot and doing probably any other drug he could find in the dark confines of his room. One day he emerged into the sunlight and showed the most sallow and droopy skin I’d ever seen on a body still alive. Now, that’s strange, I thought, and not very appealing. I stayed away and always have from “strange people.” Weirdoes just don’t interest me.

But then some people would say that my life is pretty strange and full of weirdoes—faggots, dykes, radicals, mystics, people of integrity and ethics, animal lovers, even. I know a woman who once took a squirrel she’d hit with her car to a vet to try to save it. Now, that’s strange. I’d never do that.

One of my best friends is beyond the beyond, as the Irish say. He’s intersex. Now, we’re totally outside the binary, as he puts it. Pronouns don’t even apply here though, since you have to check one box or the other, David has always identified as male. With intersex people we have not just men, women and those transitioning, but suddenly the biological permutations are near endless. He used to have tits but lost them when forced into more male-inducing hormone treatments as an adolescent. He tells me he misses his tits and the fine soft skin he once had. He’s taught me a lot.

So, no, I don’t like “strange.” But in a way I require some strangeness in my friends. Strangeness is, after all, a very subjective judgment. What some call strange, I call interesting, unique, human, being alive, maybe even fun. Life is strange enough all by itself. And if you’re not even a wee bit strange, you need to fix that. Take a flight on the astral plane, listen to those voices in your head, drop everything and go on a meditation retreat, paint your toe nails purple, sit down and read a book. You know, weird stuff.

To some people, I suppose, I might be the strangest person they’ve ever met.

© 22 July
2012

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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Details by Michael King

Last night we were on our way to a party. On the way we wanted to go to a hardware store to pick up several items. When we looked up the address I thought it was only a few blocks from the Home Depot on Colorado Boulevard.

Leaving the parking lot, I told Merlyn to turn left. He couldn’t understand why when he knew that we needed to go north, not south. When he mentioned Colfax, I asked what Colfax had to do with anything? He said that where we are supposed to go would be only a couple of blocks off Colfax. I realized that I was thinking the address was on South Madison. It never dawned on me that we were over two miles south of our destination because I was only familiar with Madison Street near where I used to work and didn’t consider that it runs all the way through the Denver Metro area far south and far north.

This is an example of not paying attention to the details. We didn’t need to have gone the five or so miles extra just to get things from a hardware store. Merlyn thinks I know what I’m doing and sometimes I blow it. On the other hand sometimes I let him know that he needs to go right rather than left or vice-versa. It works out eventually and neither of us gets overly excited as we accept each other’s occasional imperfections and we let tolerance take over.

To begin to list all the times I don’t pay attention to details would totally destroy the image of always being perfect in my wonderful world of rose colored glasses and fuchsia accents. On the other hand I do get to give little touches of fun and perhaps a little uplift when I add a few details to enhance a plate of food, a conversation or maybe the way I give someone a special hug.

The details can give each day a little more meaning and joy, or if we let them a little disappointment. I try to avoid the latter. So I can now be the silly person that I sometimes like to be. The question is; are the details dehead, delegs. debelly, dearms, defingers or detoes the ones that are debest?

© 9 December 2012

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.