Slippery Sexualities, by Will Stanton

When it comes to sexuality, both Mother Nature and
many humans have a peculiar way of dealing with it.  Starting with non-human animals, there are
several creatures that display surprising characteristics.
For example, male mourning-cuttlefish actually display
male or female physical characteristics depending upon which cuttlefish are
beside them.  Males can appear to be male
on one side and female on the other when next to another male.  The other male thinks he’s seeing two females
but no rival male.  Clown anemonefish all
start out life as male.  If the female
dies, the dominant male can change sex and become female.  Another male will become the dominant
male.  Parrotfish start out as male or
female but have sex organs of both sexes. 
They are protogynous hermaphrodites, meaning they can change from female
to male.
Human beings’ screwing with the environment is causing
some unexpected and potentially serious problems among the animal kingdom.  A common pesticide called atrazine has been
found to induce sexual changes in frogs. The pesticide affects the frogs’
production of estrogen, transforming males into successfully reproductive
females. Scientists are working to find exactly how atrazine causes this change,
since it could become an issue with other animals as well.  Maybe that accounts for, when I am attending
adult swim, my seeing so many man-boobs.
Complete hermaphroditic humans are very rare, although
perhaps one baby in 2000 is born with some degree of intersex
characteristics.  Sometimes the organs of
one gender are visible on the outside of the body, whereas the opposite gender
organs are inside.  Some medical
researchers believe that the famous Joan of Arc was, in fact, an intersex male.
By now, most people are fairly familiar with gender
reassignment for those individuals whose psychological and emotional nature are
at odds with their physical forms. 
Currently, a surprising number of people choose surgery to approximate
the opposite gender.
What is hard to explain, however, is that there are a
small number of males, including here in America, who have a psycho-sexual
compulsion to have themselves castrated. 
If any behavior can fit into the category of “slippery sexuality,” I
think this might be.
Of course, that is the perfect segue to the
Far-Eastern tradition of Hijra, sometimes known as “the third sex,” and
otherwise recognized as eunuchs.  India,
with its ancient culture and religions, is so complex that one would have to be
a scholar to even begin to understand that part of the world.  In India, the hermaphrodite, the homosexual,
and the transvestite have a symbolic value and are considered privileged
beings.  Ample examples of this are found
in Indian religion, mythology, and folklore, which are replete with traditional
religious narratives such as in the Mahabharata, and the Vedas in the Puranas.
For example, Ardhanarishvara, “The Lord whose half
is a woman,” is said to have been created by the merging of the god Shiva
and his consort Parvati.  This form of Shiva is said to
represent the “totality that lies beyond duality.”  A similar merger occurs between the
beauty-and-prosperity goddess Lakshmi and her husband Vishnu,
forming the hermaphrotitic or androgynous Lakshmi-Narayana.
Consequently, and for hundreds of years, literally
millions of young boys and men have chosen to totally emasculate themselves in
rather lengthy, traditional ceremonies in order to dress and to live as the
opposite gender – – an extremely bizarre phenomenon to us here in the West but
quite common in India, Pakistan, Thailand, and, to some extent, Singapore.

Real Hijra
Hijra Illustration
Mid-Eastern cultures have had similar polysexual
myths.  And of course, Greek culture
includes the god Hermaphroditus.  Actual
intersex individuals were considered to be special.
Hermaphroditus
Mr. Horsley’s first girlfriend.
Apparently, sexual
compulsion is so irresistible in some people that they sometimes engage in
peculiar sexual aberrations that might be described as “slippery
sexuality.”    Bestiality, having sex
with animals, is one example.  I spoke
once about Republican Congressman Neal Horsley. 
He is the man who, among other things, called for the arrest and imprisonment
of all homosexuals.  I assume that he
felt that sex among same-gender persons is disgusting.  He admitted, however, in an interview with
Alan Colmes on the Fox News Radio, to having engaged in sex with a mule.  He tried to excuse his behavior by stating,
“When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend is a mule.”  In an attempt to prove to his constituents,
however, that he really is a decent man, he quickly went on to say that Jesus
had forgiven him and cleansed him of his “sin.”   How convenient.
Then there was
that young Georgia redneck who became
so drunk one night that he pulled his car
over at a pumpkin patch and was arrested
for copulating with a pumpkin.  That sounds pretty slippery.  He was taken to court, but most of the charges were
dropped because the judge and whole
courtroom broke out laughing when the
arresting officer related the incident.  She testified that she had approached the defendant
and asked, “What are you
doing with that pumpkin?” whereupon he
responded, “Oh shit!  Is it midnight already?”  This story was not made up.  It actually happened!
Well, I’ve arrived at this point only to realize that I
have barely begun to mention human urges that may be regarded by some as
“slippery sexualities,” such as sadomasochism, bondage, necrophilia, compulsive
onanism, hebephelia, ephebephilia, and even the opposite of the desire to have
sex, genophobia, the fear of having sexual relations.  Maybe I will write about these later.  As it is, I already am becoming confused by
all of this.
© 9 January 2016 
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.

Any Writing Is Experimental (Attack of the Giant Cootie), by Ricky

As
one of our group members stated in his writing to this topic, “all writing is
experimental.”  The Muse finally struck
me upside my head and so, what follows is her experimental writing.  She hopes you will find this, amuseing as this story is based on an
actual event I witnessed while my family was visiting a close friend in Tucson
a few years back.
Attack of the Giant Cootie
“Daaaad!
Someone just drove into our driveway.”
[I wonder who that could
be.]
“That’s
my friend Rick and his family.  They’re
from South Dakota.” 
  [He doesn’t like to meet strangers so I
didn’t tell him to forestall any whining.]
 “Didn’t I tell you they were coming for
dinner?”
“No you
didn’t.” 
[I don’t like to meet strangers.  That’s probably why he didn’t tell me.]
“Don’t
worry son.  This fact is
interesting.  We have two boys, a girl,
and another boy in our family.  They have
two girls, a boy, and another girl in their family.  The oldest girl is your age—10.”
  [Hmmmmm. 
Wouldn’t it be interesting if their girls married our boys and their boy
married our girl?]
“Yuck!  Girls! 
I’ll get cooties and they only play with dolls and dress up.  I hate that stuff.”
[I
am going to be sooooo bored.  I need to
find a hiding place until they’re gone — even if I miss dinner!”]
“You’ll
be fine.  Don’t make a fuss, and make them
feel welcome.”
  [Just
don’t embarrass me in front of Rick.]
“Will
they be staying the night?
 
[I’m not sleeping on the couch or floor so THEY can use MY bed.]
[Silly question.  We don’t have room for 8 kids and 4 adults.] “No.  Just for a
visit and for dinner.”
“Ok
Dad.  I’ll be good.  Wait! 
Is that their oldest daughter? 
She’s huge!”
  [A
giant cootie.]
“Yes.  That’s her.  She is rather tall for a 10-year old.  Her mother told me that she is as far above
the normal growth curve for girls as a girl’s normal growth curve is above a
boy’s normal growth curve.  Since you’re
short for your age she will appear quite large next to you.  But, she is also a tomboy, so she’ll probably
like the same things you do.”
 
[I hope they get along.  I can’t
stand it when he whines about anything.]
“Yeah,
but her size bothers me and she still has cooties.”
  [What’s a tomboy?]
Now
listen!  These are my friends and I
expect you to be nice.”
 
[I hope he obeys me this once.]
“Okay,
I’ll do my best.”
  [Dad
can’t see that I have my fingers crossed behind my back].
“Uncross
your fingers and let’s go meet our guests.”
…..
“Glad to
meet you too, Mr. Dawson.”
 [What
happened?  He shook my hand then my tummy
feels funny and it’s harder to breath.  Why
do I feel this way?]
“Nice to
meet you, Mrs. Dawson.”
 [I like her smile.  She seems friendly enough.]
“Hi.”  [Ugh!  I’m shaking hands with a giant cootie.  If she were any taller my neck would break
from looking up at her.  I gotta get away
from her and wash my hands.  I think I
might pass out.]
“Are you
okay?”

 [He looks pale like he’s going to
faint.]
“Excuse
me; I need to use the bathroom.”
  [She
sounds sincere, but…]
“Are you
okay, son?”
  [I
hope he’s not getting sick.  He looks
pale like he might pass out.]
“Yeah
Dad.  I’m okay.”
 [Just a few more feet to safety. Okay. I’m
locked in the bathroom.  I’m safe.  Just splash a little cold water on my
face.  Ahhhh that feels good.  I’m breathing easier.  A bit more water should do it.  Oh yeah. 
Now I can breathe okay.  Even my
tummy is feeling better but is a bit tingly. 
I wonder what happened.  It
started when I shook hands with Mr. Dawson. 
Why did that make me feel funny and not be able to breathe easy?  Did the giant cootie have anything to do with
it?  Did she make it worse?  Uh oh. 
It’s all starting again.  Maybe
more water in my face…Yeah.  That’s
better.  Mr. Dawson is a good looking
man.  Oh no.  Here it comes again.  I need more water.  Ahhhhh.  That did it. 
I’m alright again.  I guess I
should not think about Mr. Dawson.  Oops.  More water. 
Who’s that knocking on the door?]
“Are you
okay in there, son?”
  [I
wonder what’s taking so long.  Maybe I
should have THAT talk with him after our guests have gone.]
‘Yeah,
Dad.  I’ll be out in a minute
.”  [Out,
but hiding somewhere else in the house.]
…..
[Ahhhh.  They’re all in the livingroom.  I promised dad to be good and make them feel
welcome so I can’t hide in my bedroom they’ll find me and dad will be
angry.  Where can I hide?  Hmmmmm. 
The kitchen? No, it’s too open. 
The hallway?  No, that’s even more
open dummy.  The closet?  No, I’m already in there.  The attic? 
That’s dumb.  We’ve been told to
stay out of there because of the spiders. 
I hate spiders worse than cooties. 
I know!  I’ll hide under the
dining room table.  That way I can hear
the conversation in the livingroom but not be seen so if I’m questioned later I
will know what was said.  Yeah, that’s a
great plan.  I’ll just crawl under the
end nearest the window and they won’t be able to see me from the livingroom or
the kitchen.  Owww!  Gotta remember not to raise my head too much
or I’ll hit the table again.  Now, I’ll
just relax and wait.]
“Hi
whatcha doing under there?”
  [Is he
playing at being a spy?]
“Owww!  Just looking for a nickel I dropped.”  [How did she find me?]
“Oh.  Sorry I startled you.  Do you want me to help look for it?”
“No.  I just found it.”  [Lucky for me there really is a nickel
under here.]
  “Owww!” [Dang it!]
“Did you
bump your head again?”
  [What
a klutz]
 “Your name is Jason, right?”
[Why is she standing so
close to me?  I’ll get big cooties.]
  “Yes.  And your name is Suzie.”  [’ll just backup a step to get more
space between us.]
 “No, my name is Susan. 
No one calls me ‘Suzie’ except my grandmother.” 
[Why is he backing up?  Is he going somewhere?  I’ll just follow him.] 
  “Oh, sorry.  Are you
really only 10 years old?”
  [She’s
coming closer.  Danger! Danger, Will
Robinson!    I’m being attacked by a giant cootie.  I’m going to backup two steps this time.]
“Yes just
turned ten last November.  I’m very tall
for my age.”
 [There he goes again.  I’ll just follow his lead.  My dad said not to make fun of his size but
I want him to say it before I believe it.]
  “Are you really 10,
because you look younger?”
[She’s closing in for the
kill.]
  “Yes I’m 10 and I can’t help that I’m short for my age
right now.  Dad says that I’ll grow like
a weed in a year or two.  I can’t wait
for it to happen.”
 [Okay
this time back up THREE steps.]
[Wow.  He sounded irritated by my question.]  “Do you get picked on
by bigger boys?”
 “Yes I do.”  [I
move back THREE steps and she follows keeping one foot between us.  She is scaring me.
 I’ll back around the table this time.]
[He’s backing away again
like he’s afraid of me.]
  “Well, in my class, I don’t let any of the bigger
boys pick on anyone.  When they tried, I
made them back down.  If you were in my
class, I would protect you from them.”
 [I
like this little guy.]
[I like her attitude but…] “If you did that, it would be worse for me after
school.  The bullies would pick on me
even more whenever you were not around.”
  [Ooops.  The wall is at my back.  I can’t back up any further.  What can I do?  Wait. 
There’s a chair.  I’ll drag it
over here and stand on it.]
[Now what’s he up too?  Standing on a chair so he becomes taller than
me?  Because I’m so tall does he think I am
going to pick on him?]
  “At recess at my school, I play baseball, football, and
basketball.  Do you play any of those?”
[She likes sports?  Weird.]  “I’m too small to be much good at any of them but I do like
to play them.  Do you want to go into the
backyard and play catch?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll go
get my glove and ball and another glove for you too.”
…..
“Well son
they’re all gone now.  What did you think
of them?”
“I liked
the family.”
“The whole
family or just Susan?”
“All of
them.  You were right, Dad.  Susan was okay and does like the things I
like.  We played catch and other games.”
“And what
about the cooties?”
“Well.  Susan is okay, but all other girls have
cooties.”
“Even
your sister?”
“No.  She is okay too.  But all the others DO have cooties.”
“Hold
that thought, son; at least until you are 18.”
© 7
September 2015
 
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 was sent to live 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 9-11-2001
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.

True Colors, by Ray S.

Long ago in the days of
Tin Pan Alley—that was when popular music lovers were still buying sheet music
and the latest 78 RPM records. Our subject “True Colors” reminded me of a song
titled “The Night that You Told Me Those
Little White Lies
.”
Here, today we have been
able to hear your thoughts (and/or maybe confessions) about True Colors.
Certainly there may be a
liberal (no pun intended) number of patriotic red, white, and blue references
as well as our tribe’s Rainbow flag palette.
Shame and guilt-ridden as
I am, my dominant thoughts promptly unearthed a lifetime of lots of little white
lies and a few under the heading shady black. So many that it is very difficult
to recall when and if any true colors of virtue stand out. I can’t recall when
I had occasion to show those True Colors. I don’t believe I am alone in this
category.
Think which were the true
colors when you were confirmed in a faith and didn’t really know what all of
that stuff was about, but maybe you were cleansed of everyone else’s sins, or
swore secret allegiance to some quasi lodge, fraternity, sorority, high school
clique. Mind you, I do not disrespect the various Orders’ goals; it is just the
way we obey. True Colors where are you when needed?
Of course true colors are
always subject to slight adjustments or reinterpretations as the times and
circumstances demand.
Did you have your fingers
crossed way down deep at your wedding? True colors prevailed with pride
(depending if it was unintended) and love upon the arrival of the baby girl or
boy. Color me pink or color me blue—lavender came later.
Final reason for the
showing of true colors, one of celebration and liberation, after a long
struggle finding our way out of the blackness of many closets, the Coming Out
we all rejoice in, with the True Colors of the beautiful rainbow.
© 29 February 2016 
About
the Author
 

True Colors, by Pat Gourley

“You with the sad eyes
Don’t be discouraged
Oh I realize
Its hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside of
you
Can make you feel so small
But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that’s why I love you
So don’t be afraid to let
them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow.”
Lyrics from True Colors
by Billy Steinberg and Tom Kelly.
Once you read the lyrics
to the song True Colors made a famous
hit by Cyndi Lauper back in 1986 you can see why it has been adapted as a Queer
anthem and especially by certain LGBT youth groups. A great coming out song if
there ever was one.
Steinberg originally
wrote the song about his mother. Later modified by Tom Kelly and picked up,
when offered, by Cyndi Lauper. At the time she apparently felt drawn to it
because of the recent death of a friend from AIDS.
All the gains made by
Queer people in the past 50+ years or so can be laid squarely at the feet of
our being willing to let our true colors shine through. As has been mentioned
many times in this group and then powerfully validated by our personal stories
it is the individual coming out process that is such a very powerful
change-creating phenomenon.
It is this act of true
self-expression that sets us apart from all other minorities and gives us such
power. Also the fact that we are part of and transcend all economic, class and
racial groups gives us a leg up. We are everywhere.
The AIDS connection to
the song brought to it by Lauper has made me wonder about the reason and
implications for recent data on new HIV infections just released last week. In a
story from the Boston Globe published on February 23rd, 2016 they
broke down recent CDC data on projected lifetime risk of HIV among gay men by
race.
The data was sobering to
say the least. Overall risk for HIV infection among Americans as a whole has
decreased. The risk of infection was 1 in 78. It has now decreased to 1 in 99
for the U.S. population. However, per the CDC report the lifetime risk for
queer men is 1 in 6, overwhelmingly greater than for the population as a whole.
That is amazing enough but where it gets truly shocking is in the racial
disparity for gay men. The lifetime risk for black gay men is 1 in 2, for
Latinos it is 1 in 4 and for white gay men 1 in 11.
WTF! I guess not
surprising the greatest risk for black gay men is in southern states but the
highest risk is in the District of Columbia. As depressing as this news is it
actually reflects an improvement over the past but still unacceptably bad.
In the actual CDC report
certain prevention challenges for the gay African American community were
identified. These were: socioeconomic factors, smaller and more exclusive
sexual networks, sexual relations with older men, lack of awareness of HIV
status and stigma, homophobia and discrimination.  I would hope that these “prevention
challenges” are ones that have been identified by community-based black gay men
themselves and not pronouncements that have come down from on high by CDC AIDS
specialists.
So I’d ask what we as the
broader queer community can do to help reverse these dismal statistics? A first
step might be taking a hard look at how significant racism is still a reality
within the queer community particularly and what am I doing personally to
address any latent racism I may harbor.
Does the safe space exist
in a non-threatening manner for the queer black community to develop and thrive
and what is needed from the broader queer community to facilitate this happening?
Perhaps this just involves our ongoing participation in the struggle for peace
and social justice.
We must guard against a
cop-out response to these stats by saying well it is the homophobia within the
broader African American community that is responsible for this. Most of us
have come out of families and communities less that welcoming of our queerness
if not out right hostile. Something else has to be going on here. At the very
least these extremely sobering AIDS statistics need to be a reason for pause
and sincere soul searching certainly by gay white men looking sincerely at how we
might be part of the problem too.
The best HIV prevention strategy
is the creation of a society where everyone’s true colors can shine
through from cradle to grave.
© 25 Feb 2016 
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.

Patriotism, by Phillip Hoyle

Last
weekend while travelling south along I-25, we approached the Broadway exit. A
large American flag held aloft on a sturdy pole sunk in concrete and sitting at
the top of a rampart flapped in the breeze. “I’ve never noticed that before,”
my friend commented.
“Nor
I. Must be new,” I responded.
Her
next comment was about how good it is to live in America. I agreed with my
rather minimal statement that I, too, was happy to live here. I believe for her
the sentiment is rather standard fare formed from listening to too much
conservative talk radio. We don’t talk about that. For me the issue of being
“proud to be an American” is something quite different. She seems some kind of
absolutist while I am surely a relativist. So are we philosophers? Since we
spotted the flag on I-25 I’ve been thinking about patriotism—perhaps that does make
me a philosopher of sorts.
I
believe patriotism most dramatically relates to an image of heroes who put
their very lives on the line for their identity as part of a particular people.
The history of any Fatherland or Motherland obviously has its origins in the
LAND. For me the land is always the Flint Hills of Kansas. I grew up in wide
open spaces with a broad river valley and low bluffs nearby. The landscape was
further defined by creeks: so grassy highlands and wooded valleys with stretches
of plowed fields in the bottomlands of waterways are all a part of my
fatherland. Agriculture abounded there.
In
my particular patria a military
presence with a long history lent gravity and opened me to a larger society and
world. I grew up around the U.S. Army’s Seventh Cavalry; Custer was once
stationed at Fort Riley just across the river from our town. The presence of historic
stone buildings that housed both the officers and the fine horse stock of the
cavalry, of wooden barracks for the enlisted men, of parade grounds, of rifle
ranges, of helicopters coming and going in the air around the base’s heliport,
of convoys made up of personnel carriers and artillery, jeeps and guns, trucks
and heavy machinery often impeding traffic on highways, and of our lively
community that entertained GIs provided endless variety for a Kansas town me.
Then there were the children of Army families in our school population, and for
me, the family-owned IGA store providing groceries for families of GIs, Civil
Service employees, as well as the townies like me.
Thus
my patria was racially mixed, with
multiple languages, mixed-race families, and people who had lived all over the
world—especially Germany and Japan as I recall it. Soldiers marched in local
parades and cannons and other Army equipment impressed the youngsters and brought
tears to the eyes of elders.
My
fatherland was rather new by world standards yet as a youngster I felt
connected to the antiquity of the place by the presence of an old log cabin church
and by stories of my ancestors who had long lived in the area. Still the Hoyle
and Schmedemann families arrived only three generations before my advent. My
great grandparents came to Kansas to homestead. Some may have come to help
assure that Kansas would be a free state in the political heat up that
eventuated in the US Civil War. Yet in my family there were no ultimate
patriots—those who made the ‘ultimate sacrifice’ for their country—in any of
the stories I heard.
Growing
up I heard lots of talk of such sacrifices of life, but most of them were in sermons
not about the country but quoting a “no greater love” value as applied to the
ultimate vicarious death of Jesus as the Christ. Religion figured heavily in my
fatherland.
I
became aware of the country as something much larger than my state when I heard
my parents talk about the differences between Ike Eisenhower and Adlai Stevenson, then when I met men who had served in the Korean conflict, when I
further realized just what the US Army did besides entertain us with wild
stories and exotic tattoos, when I became aware of missile crises, the Cold
War, the building of the interstate road system, the anti-communist diatribe,
the deaths of national leaders, the threat of the draft, the Vietnam non-war,
the peace movement, and the growing realization that our USA motivations
idealized in myth and PR announcements didn’t well match my own vision of reality
or basic values.
Welcome
to thoughtful adulthood, Hoyle.
AND
EVEN MORE THAN THAT, THERE WAS ALWAYS THAT NAGGING REALIZATION THAT IF ANYONE
REALLY KNEW ME, THEY CERTAINLY WOULDN’T LET ME BE A PATRIOT IN ANY SENSE OF THE
WORD.
But
I am a patriot who feels a deep sense of meaning in being American. I love it
but not in an exclusivist, better-than-any-other identity or country.
© 25 Sep 2013 

About the Author  

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

The First Person I Came Out to, by Louis

A couple of years ago, I
did a story on my unsuccessful transgender friend. He/She had his male organ
removed in a premature sex change operation; he missed his organ so much that
he committed suicide. This was in the 1960’s. His name was “Romain”; well his
given name was Richard. I met him in the 7th grade. Romain was the
first person I was truly honest with. But it was more like he read me – what
they call nowadays “gaydar”.
Romain had an IQ of 160,
he was technically a genius. Geniuses see things, relationships that ordinary
people cannot. He was a year younger than I, but he had developed a significant
number of friends in West Greenwich Village, in poetry clubs and art studios,
that sort of thing. Sometimes I would tag along to meet them. So even in the 7th
grade I had a sort of reasonably gay-positive social life.
For a while I even lived
in an apartment on West 14 Street. In those days, gay men were so “unspeakable”
in the early 1960’s that we sort of did not exist. It was a kind of repression
I guess. But the positive side of not existing is that we had a certain kind of
freedom. We could cruise in Washington Square Park, and no one would notice.
Mostly if cops saw us, they would not put two and two together if two guys
winked at each other. If two men held hands, which happened occasionally, the
public would assume they were cousins from a Hispanic country.
In a word, at an early
age, I learned about the dangers transsexuals face when it comes to the
question of deciding yes or no to the surgery; I appreciated the nascent gay
culture coming alive in Greenwich Village, New York.
© 27 Apr 2016 
About
the Author
 

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

Moving, by Gillian

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines the adjective as
“having a strong emotional effect: causing feelings of sadness or
sympathy.” So what is it within us, we humans, that draws us to stories or
places or events which we find moving? I know that is true for myself. I also
know the memories of such places or events, whether I have purposely involved
myself or simply stumbled into them, way outlive many other memories.
In high school I went to France with three other girls. It
was the first time any of us had been out of Britain and I’m sure we saw it as
some wild adventure. We stayed in the picturesque town of Annecy, and from the
warm glow which accompanies thoughts of it, I’m sure we had a good time there,
though any details escape me. This is supported by a few faded old photos of
happy, giggling, girls. But I remember only one thing. Our train, heading
south-east from Calais through rich farmland, suddenly entered fields growing
nothing but crosses; small white crosses which in my memory numbered in the
thousands, stretching to the horizon and continuing for endless miles. They
reside so solidly in my mind that I can feel the swaying of the train and hear
the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails as I write. Even as a silly
giggly schoolgirl I recognized the crosses as commemorating the dead of the
First World War, while France still reeled from the Second. They moved me to
tears. They are as clear in my mind as if it were yesterday.
Years ago, I have little idea when it would have been, I was
for some reason in Washington D.C. with time on my hands and went to see the
Vietnam Memorial Wall. With almost 60,000 names, the gold lettering seemed to
go on forever, like those white crosses. The weather was windy and wet and
there were few people there. I became mesmerized by one old woman who stood,
the rain mixing with her tears, silently caressing each letter of one name. Her
wrinkled old fingers gently traced the name from beginning to end and back from
end to beginning, over and over and over. I couldn’t stop watching. I wanted
badly to put my arms around her but could not intrude on her obvious grief.
Whose name was it? She seemed pretty old for it to be her son. Grandson?
Granddaughter? Why was she here all alone? My heart felt that it would break for
her.
I remember nothing else of that visit to D.C. I don’t even
know why I was there though I suspect a business trip. But I have never
forgotten those worn old fingers slowly moving over the cold wet stone.
Shortly after I retired, I found myself in a volunteer job in
Hungary for a few weeks. I resolved not to leave without visiting Auschwitz in
neighboring Poland, and so one weekend took the overnight train from Budapest
to Krakau, to spend a day which was well beyond moving; harrowing,
heartbreaking, horrifying. After some time at Auschwitz, having reached my
saturation point of the evil of that dreadful place, I returned to Krakau in a
cab shared with four others. The five of us stood silently on the cobbled
street, watching the cab rattle away. It was almost as if we huddled together
searching for comfort from what we so recently had seen and felt. There seemed
nothing to say. Eventually we began to introduce ourselves – and a motley crew
we were. There was a Jewish woman, about my age, from Wisconsin, two young
Japanese men who, as far as I ever discovered, spoke not one word of any other
language, and an even younger man who literally spoke not one word at all, so I
never knew what country he was from or what language he would have spoken, had
he spoken. Still we seemed to have some compelling need to stick together. One
of the Japanese men gestured across the street. There was a cinema, showing,
rather shockingly I somehow felt, Schindler’s List. He turned
questioningly to the rest of us and we all nodded yes in silent agreement. What
strange impulse led us to do that? It was as if our current state of numb
misery was not enough; we needed more. After the movie we performed a strange,
hesitant, kind of loosely formed group hug, and I returned to Budapest on the
overnight train after one of the strangest days of my life. But I can still
recall every detail of that day, while most of my time in Hungary recedes into
misty muddled memory. 
Betsy and I spent the whole month of September 2015 on a 5,000-mile
road trip to and from the east coast. We stayed in so many different places and
did so many completely different things that it seems, looking back, like
several mini-vacations all rolled into one. Some things were scheduled and
planned, some were simply spontaneous. Driving back home through Pennsylvania,
Betsy spotted a tiny red square on the map. Beside it, in miniscule red
letters, were the words, Flight 93 Crash Site Memorial. Although we were in Pennsylvania,
we hadn’t given it a thought. I’m not sure we even knew there was such a thing.
Without hesitation we agreed the small detour was worth it, and took off across
back roads through rolling farmland.
The Memorial is beautifully, very tastefully, done. 

There’s a long black granite walkway
following the flight path, which comes to an end overlooking another pathway
(but you cannot walk on this one) mown through the long grass and bushes of
that infamous field. This ends at a boulder placed there to mark the impact
spot. All very simple but oh so effective.

It moves you to tears and also to
shades of the terror those passengers must have felt. There is something magic
about it that almost moves you right into that plane with them. At least that’s
what it did for me.

And after all that is why we visit places like that isn’t it?
To feel. If we don’t feel moved, then why go?
But, back to the original question I asked myself, why?
Why do I need to be moved to sorrow and sadness by monuments to death and
destruction? Since I decided to write on the topic, I’ve been thinking a lot
about it and I decided that for me it accomplishes several things.
Gratitude. I simply feel enormous, completely selfish,
gratitude. It was not me. I was not there. Nor were my loved ones: not on that,
or any other, doomed flight, not in the Twin Towers, nor the jungles of Vietnam
dodging snipers’ bullets, nor any school or shopping mall mass shootings, nor
in the Asian tsunami. It revives and strengthens that everyday gratitude I
should feel for the blessed life I have lived, and continue to live.
Balance. We need the yin and the yang, that balance of
negative and positive, in our lives; the ups and downs. Without bad, we are
less able to appreciate good. I have been so fortunate, that I think I have to
indulge in collective sorrows to keep my balance; to really feel just
how good my life is.
Connection. In feeling the pain of others, I am connected to
them. Your pain is my pain. We are members of the same tribe. At bottom we are
all tribal beings, and in sharing, no matter how remotely, minimally, the pain
and terror of Auschwitz, I keep myself connected; in the tribe.
So it’s not that I get some sick twisted voyeuristic pleasure
from being moved to tears by others’ pain. 
It’s simply that I need it.
Nicolas Sparks in, At
First Site
, says, “The emotion that can break your
heart is sometimes the very one that heals it…”
I think that describes perfectly
my need for being moved to tears. It keeps my heart healthy and strong when
otherwise it might be weakened by a life too lucky.
© 2 Nov
2015
 
About the Author 
I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have been with
my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.

Acceptance, by Betsy

These
words represent thoughts that have occurred to me over the past couple of
weeks—mostly while on our recent trip to Nicaragua.
Acceptance
is growing
old and embracing it (being literally led by the hand so to speak through
airports, hotels, car rentals, etc. by children and grand child, I realized that
this is okay. I can embrace this)
Acceptance
is greeting every new day with gratitude, enthusiasm, and joy
Acceptance
is knowing when to keep your mouth shut
Acceptance
is understanding your shortcomings and imperfections and still loving yourself
Acceptance
is acknowledging when you are wrong
Acceptance
is accepting things you don’t want to accept
Acceptance
is putting words from the heart to paper
This
is not to say I don’t have a long list of things that I do not  care to accept but that will have to wait for
another day.
© 21 Dec 2015 
About the Author 
Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

Jealousy, by Will Stanton

I’m not sure that I ever have
experienced real jealousy in my whole life. 
Based upon the correct definition of the concept, jealousy requires a
degree of bitterness and covetousness to the point that the jealous person
would be content to take away from someone else whatever he desires to
take.  Apparently, I wasn’t born nasty
enough to harbor such feelings.
 
Envy is a different matter, a
feeling that is not healthful, yet, at the same time, is not so potentially
harmful as jealousy.  One can envy the
positive attributes that someone is born with or acquires, but without wishing
to deprive the fortunate person from his attributes.
I, like most people, have
fallen prey to envy.  This is especially
true when I encounter someone who is quite healthy, young, attractive,
athletic, and who has accomplished feats not granted to me.  I certainly have envied the superlative
concert pianists their hands and skills, lamenting that I was given “feet for
hands.”  Yet, I would rather address a much
lighter topic, one that is rather more unusual; and that is being able to
travel the world and learn from it.
I benefited greatly from my
two trips to Europe, one when I was a child, and one when I was a young
adult.  Unfortunately, I have not been back,
yet those two experiences broadened my mind and provided me with the insight to
view people and events more realistically than many people do who stay mired in
their limited experiences.  Mark Twain is
famous for saying (and I agree with him), “Travel is fatal to prejudice,
bigotry, and narrow-mindedness; and many of our people need it sorely on these
accounts.  Broad, wholesome, charitable
views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner
of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
So, how advantageous it would
be for a person to not only have the opportunity to travel extensively
throughout the world, but, also, to begin doing so very young.  Well, I know of two such little boys, Nathan
and Seamus. 
Nathan
Seamus
Some time ago watching Public
Television, I stumbled upon an informative and charming program called “Travel
with Kids.”  It features a young couple,
Jeremy and Carrie, who have traveled the world together for twenty years, not
staying in fancy hotels, but, instead, sometimes backpacking and exploring
areas off the beaten path and away from most touristy locales.  Having their first baby, Nathan, did not
prevent their continuing their travels, nor did the birth of their second son
Seamus.  Instead, they have turned their
love of travel into a profitable travel program and an opportunity to provide
their little boys with wondrous sights of diverse peoples and cultures.
Those bright little kids have,
for eight years, been adsorbing experiences and knowledge like sponges.  Their parents take them to fascinating
museums, many of them interactive, where they can explore for themselves local
flora and fauna.  They interact with
local guides and townspeople, learning about history, arts and crafts, language,
and traditions.  They taste regional
cuisine, learn to try and enjoy dishes new and different to them.  Continually excited by their adventures, they
often reveal a surprising degree of acquired knowledge by speaking to the
camera, explaining quite well what they have learned.
And, the extent of their
travels and experiences is amazing. 
Apparently, they have traveled through South Korea, Venice, the
Caribbean, Victoria Falls, Naples, Thailand, South Africa, Latin America, South
Pacific, Ireland, France, Vietnam, England, Scotland, Bahamas, Belize, Greece,
Kenya, China, Jamaica, Egypt, Yucatan, Spain, Mexico, Fiji, French Polynesia,
Curacao, Tahiti, and Bora Bora.  I might
have missed some. 
I never have quite figured out
how this family crams so much travel into annual schedules that must, somehow,
include schooling for the two boys.  Yet,
I must say that what they have learned in their travels is an astonishing
supplement to their formal schooling. 
Yes, I also must say that I rather envy their wonderful opportunities
provided by their parents.
You recall the Mark Twain’s
quotation I mentioned before.  These two
kids must be the most broadminded kids in the world.  And, what a dramatic contrast to the
school-teacher I met who said something like, “I’m not interested in
traveling.  Everything in America is
bigger and better than anywhere else.”  I
just can imagine how this woman thinks about anything outside her own tiny
experience.  I also can imagine how she
votes, which is typical of the terrible social and political problems plaguing
our poor nation.
So, Nathan and Seamus, I hope
your rare and wonderful opportunity to travel so extensively contributes to
your becoming wise and empathetic adults. 
May your insight and wisdom help you both to make positive contributions
to our world.
© 16 Dec 2015 
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.

Body Parts, by Ricky

        Here I sit in a room full of senior gay citizens who perhaps
metaphorically are drooling over the potential erotic stories that today’s
topic “body parts” could inspire me and others to write.  Well as much as I hate to fall into the
obvious nature of this topic I will share at least one body-part story not
previously related.
One
day when I was about 5 ½ years old, my Aunt and Uncle Phillips along with my 5-year
old cousin, Timmy, visited my family.  It
was decided that they would be spending the night with us, so Timmy and I ended
up sharing my bed.  This was the first
time I recall anyone sharing my bed with me so there was some adjustment to be
made to the falling asleep routine.  He
and I began talking quietly about whatever came to our minds.  By this age I had been traumatically fixated
on my small body part and very curious about other’s equivalent parts.  As a result, I eventually suggested that we
play a game where we would take turns naming body parts.  Timmy agreed to play.  So we began with all the standard parts:
head, shoulders, knees, and toes; each taking turns naming one part at a
time.  It soon became rather funny so we
would laugh together after naming each part.
Upon
exhausting all the possibilities except one small part; it was Timmy’s turn to
name the last small part.  He didn’t want
to name it so he would say there aren’t any more parts; and we’d laughed.  I told him yes there was; and we’d
laugh.  We ended up laughing ourselves to
sleep and never did name that part.
The
next morning at the breakfast table, my Aunt Marion told everyone that we had
been doing a lot of laughing in my room last night.  She then asked what we were laughing
about.  I hadn’t learned about lying my
way out of difficult situations yet so I told her that we had just been naming
body parts and it was funny.  Nothing
further was said about it by anyone.
The
largest body part I ever wrestled with was tubular, weighed about 15 pounds,
and was at least 7-feet long from beginning to the rear orifice.  Of course I’m speaking of the exhaust pipe
and muffler I had to attach to the body of my 1952 jeep wagon.
When
the hood latch broke off, I went out and obtained the spring loaded hood clamps
that were used on the jeeps of WW2. 
Installing them was easy.  The
purchase and installation of the muffler, tail pipe, and hood clamps I did all
myself; and without adult supervision. 
At one point I even had to change the universal joint on the drive
shaft.
Another
body part I was involved with was rather personal and fun.  A few high school girls and boys also liked
it, but most preferred their own.  This
body part was about 5’ 10-½“ and weighed about 150 pounds.  In reality there were two body parts.  The first was the body part of “Grandpa
Kwimper” in the high school play of “Pioneer
Go Home
”.  (The movie “Follow that Dream” starring Elvis
Presley is the same story.)  The second
body part was the body of “Tom Jones
of the high school play of the same name based on Henry Fielding’s famous novel
with the same title.  Other than the
occasional Boy Scout skit, these two plays represent my only venture into the
world of entertainment.
During
my life I have used my body parts in several endeavors:  deputy sheriff; baby sitter; Air Force NCO
and Officer; Sunday School teacher; substitute teacher; dutiful son;
mischievous son; husband; father; emergency funds supplier; friend to many; and
at the moment—storyteller.  While my life continues from here, this story does not.
© 27 March 2011 
About the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live 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 9-11-2001
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.