Tag: Going Pink

Posted on

Going Pink by Gillian

I used to blush very easily.
“Going pink” simply wouldn’t do it justice, though; rather “glowing crimson’’ or “flowing vermilion.”
I would feel this rising tide of burning glowing lava climbing up my neck and spreading voraciously across my cheeks to turn my ears into pulsating heat sinks.
Embarrassment engendered this rush of hot color, and so did anger, and in my younger days I’m not sure which came upon me more frequently.
I often found myself embarrassed, and often lost my temper, and it was often ugly.

Over the years I guess I got my emotions under better control.
I rarely lose my temper these days, having discovered better ways to channel my energy.
I rarely feel embarrassed, probably because I have become immune to it after making an ass of myself so many times in so many ways over so many years. Also, quite honestly, the older I get the less I care what others think of me and if sometimes there are some laughs at my expense, so what? Enjoy it as my gift, freely given.

But I’m left with a guilty secret, which I have shared with very few people.
I rarely blush visibly any more, yet sometimes I still feel that hot red flush, but confined on the invisible inside of me rather than on the visible outside.
So I’m the only one who knows that I have once more embarrassed myself.
Because I do care what I think of me, of my internal thought processes and reactions.
And the terrible thing about thoughts is that you absolutely cannot unthink them.
No matter how hard you try, no matter how loudly you say to your self, oh how could I have thought that, it doesn’t evaporate.

Less often, I’m proud to report, but still occasionally my gut reaction is completely mortifying to me. It may be racial, ageist, sexist, and yes, homophobic. How can that be? I consider myself a totally inclusive person completely free of all prejudice.
Sometimes my unbidden thoughts are superior, scornful, mocking, derisive. How can that be? I consider myself a totally inclusive person completely free of judgment.
When these unthinkable thoughts leap up in me, I feel an embarrassment before myself so much worse than any I ever felt before others and that invisible red-hot lava curls around my guts.

Where do these thoughts come from? It’s as if some prehistoric part of me remains deep inside my psyche, some part which did not evolve along with the rest of me, thinking things which not only would I never dream of saying now, but I’m sure I never in my life would have said.
I doubt I will ever understand why this happens, and I guess the fact that I find it repulsive and horrifying says a lot in my own defense.

But going pink, or glowing crimson, has a whole lot deeper, scarier meaning to me than frequently flushed pink cheeks.

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Posted on

Going Pink by Ricky

Going Pink
    This
is an interesting keyword topic for this week’s writing assignment.  It has provided me with hardly any memories
to get some “story traction” or points-of-departure from which to expand
upon.  I told three members of this group
that I would probably write something that would turn everyone’s ears pink when
I read it to them.  Of course, they
laughed because they “knew” me well enough that I would not do that, but then
they also know me well enough that I am spontaneously unpredictable when it
comes to humor and joking around.  So,
maybe there is enough doubt in their minds about whether or not I would really
do it.  Well, the answer is…Yes! 
I did write one that will turn any listener’s or reader’s ears pink;
even hot pink.  Therefore, with that forewarning and, my
apologies to the ladies present, here goes. 
Oh wait, I just can’t say these pink ear producing words out loud so,
I’ll just let you read the story for yourself, if you dare.
One Day in the Woods

     One day when I was 13, I was walking
in the woods when I came upon two #$%%xs who were
doing the most amazing things to each other using their  )(&@#+!   #$#((&
and  $#@$#@.  Some of their actions were funny like when
they *&^^),   ^x@#$@, and  (&(^*%#!@#.  Other things they did, like
–C E N S O R E D by SAGE–  were
just  @$%**#&%@+.   !#$@$,   @^^%*(&,   @!@%^%, and *&*%$#@ 
were highly sensual and  **&*%&^$#.  Eventually, they %#&**^@)
and invited me to join them next time I was in the woods. 
The ^%$$)&@!> End
     Growing up at South Lake Tahoe was a real treat.  My first summer, I was my step-father’s deck
hand on his 38 foot cabin cruiser which he used to conduct all-day tours around
the lake.  After that summer, it was just
nice to live in the clear mountain air, play in the woods with my peers, and
eventually to live in a house, which was surrounded by woods with our next
neighbor being several hundred yards distant. 
That location I usually describe as “like living in the middle of
Central Park in New York City.”  But for all that mountain splendiferous
environment, we led basically a lower middle-class existence.
     As a result, we could not afford ski
equipment for me so I never learned to snow ski and thus could not join the
high school ski team.  Our school’s dress
code prohibited many things, like facial hair on boys and pants or Levis on girls.  However, during winter season’s cold months,
girls were allowed to wear pants. 
Because South Tahoe is a winter skiing Mecca for the “flat-landers,” we were all
exposed to the ski clothing fashions of the day.  During those months, nearly everyone, both
boys and girls, would wear ski pants to school.
     I didn’t get to wear any until my
senior year.  I still remember how much I
wanted a couple of pair of the skin-tight, stretchy, but not too tight fitting,
pants.  Before I got my pair, I had to
content myself (as did the girls) in checking out the telltale bulges in the boys’
pants, which left no mistake as to which leg they hung in or their circumcision
status.  I don’t know if I wanted to
“show off” my stuff or if I just wanted to fit into the “fashion” scene, but I
really wanted those pants.  In any case,
as I said, I finally got one pair my senior year.
     Another winter skiing fashion
necessity was the footwear for when skiing was over and everyone was relaxing
in the lounges of the various resorts. 
Again nearly all the kids in school were wearing the very comfortable
“after-ski-boots” except me again, until my senior year.  Most of the styles were very similar in
design, made out of leather, and the color was almost exclusively black or
brown.  But my after-ski-boots were of
the same design, in my favorite color, and made of suede.  That’s right. 
At 17 years old, I wore my one and only pair of – blue suede shoes.  (Thank you Elvis!)
Similar to Mine but Not an Exact Match
     I really liked those shoes, but they
really turned out to be a bad purchase as the things were not waterproof and
the blue dye stained all my white socks with blue splotches.  I wore them anyway.
     Picture this – a boy wearing black,
snug fitting pants, and blue shoes. 
Still, no one called me a homo or queer even though no one else wore
blue shoes.  This was probably due to the
fact that besides the snug fitting ski pants and blue after-ski-boots, I
usually wore long-sleeved flannel shirts of various plaid color combinations.  Since the prevailing stereotype of a
gay man or boy at the time was the limp wrist and fashion conscious poster
child, and I was clearly not either,  I was probably viewed as either being
hopeless or a nerd.
     I really loved those blue boots.  I never went pink, but on so many levels I went
blue.
© 7 August 2012  

About the Author

     Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while his parents obtained a divorce; unknown to him.
     When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.
     He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.”
     Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Posted on

Going Pink by Will Stanton

     I have nothing lengthy nor profound to say about the topic of “going pink.”  Instead, I have just two, very short presentations.  Here’s the first:

     “Pan!  You’re pink!”

     Originally, I was going to leave it at just that, but I decided not to surprise everyone with just a four-word presentation.  So, here’s the second; it has to do with blushing.

     When I was in college eons ago, my classmate Ed discovered at the beginning of the semester that he had a roommate who could cause blushes at will, blushes, that is, with gay guys.  The evening that Ed arrived at his dorm, his assigned roommate had not shown up yet.  So, Ed chose the upper bunk and went to sleep.

     The next morning, Ed wondered if his roommate had come in during the night.  He looked over the edge of his bunk to the berth below.  His gaze was met with a totally unexpected and startling sight : the most beautiful young-male face he ever had seen punctuated by the biggest, shiniest blue eyes in the world looking right back at him.  Ed said that, for a moment, his heart stopped.  His roommate may or may not have noted Ed’s thunderstruck look, but what he immediately did see was Ed’s deep and uncontrolled blushing.  To add to Ed’s consternation was his roommate’s puzzled comment noting Ed’s deep-pink face.

     Climbing down from the bunk and stumbling for words, Ed tried to change the focus of the conversation and to introduce himself.  In the course of the exchange, it was established that Ed was gay but his roommate was not.  To Ed’s embarrassment, the roommate Chris returned to the topic of Ed’s blushing, so Ed resignedly explained that, whether Chris was aware of it or not, Chris was drop-dead gorgeous, and his eyes could devastate any gay guy who met his gaze.  Chris found this to be terribly amusing and stated that he would try it out on any guy that he sensed was looking at him.

     Perhaps Ed took pity on any potential gay victims of that devastating gaze and, therefore, tried to dissuade Chris from pursuing his plan; but Chris proceeded to practice his new-found power upon a whole series of unsuspecting gay guys.  Ed and I observed the unfailing results.

     Chris could sense when he was being admired.  He developed a strategy of casually walking past his next victim, then quietly turning around a few yards away, and looking right into the gay guy’s eyes. Whamo!  Immediate results.  Deep blushing.  I don’t know for how long Chris pursued his hobby of watching gay guys turn pink.  He may have become bored; it just was far too easy.

© 06 August 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.

Posted on

Going Pink by Merlyn

One
evening last fall Michael and I were on a mission. Michael needed a pink purse
to go with his pink dress that he wanted to wear to a drag show.
We
had already been in about 10 stores and he thought everything we looked at
would clash with his pink dress.
We
walked into a women’s store on the 16th Street Mall, and Michael asked this
young girl if she had a small pink purse. She looked everywhere and could not
find one that Michael liked.
Michael
and she talked about the outfit he was going to wear and her eyes lit up. “I
have a pink purse that I love, but it is covered with fuchsia panty lace! Would
you like to see it?” Michael nodded yes. She had it high on a shelf in back of
the counter over the register. I think she had hidden it so she could buy it
for herself when it was time to mark the price down. Michael took one glace at
it, and I knew he wanted it until he saw the price of $40.00.
I
never thought I would be standing next to a man in a women’s clothing store
while he was talking to a young girl about how, if he wore long fuchsia gloves,
the fuchsia panty lace purse would look great with any pink dress.
All
the time they are talking Michael was fondling the lace and playing with the
purse. I was sure he would break down and buy it until he handed it back to her
and said he could not spend $40.00 for something he would only use one time.
I
told her I would buy it for him and gave her my card.
When
we got home Michael said he could not let me pay $40 and tried to give me the
money. We settled on splitting the $40.00.
That’s
the story of how I got to be part owner of a pink panty lace purse. 

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now
living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit
area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the
United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole
life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for
the unusual and enjoying life each day. 

Posted on

Going Pink by Michael King

Oh, the glow of a sunset’s reflection on the snow. The blush of being caught with your pants down, the frills of a little girl dressed up in pink. Boys don’t wear pink is sort of an old rule. There was the pink triangle and the gas chambers for gays of the 40s in Germany. Yet in the 50s it was OK to wear the pink and gray shirt and occasionally see a pink and gray car drive by. But it seems that pink was mostly related to expensive stucco hotels, the color for little girls and bigger girls too, prom dresses, weddings, etc., and for gay men. Though I haven’t seen many gay men dressed in pink, the walk-in cooler in the flower shop was pink because the fairy co-owner expressed his gay status in that way. It was an unmistakable statement. So upon my new identity I fantasized my statements.  Red is more my color, but I want at least a touch of all clear, clean colors in my surroundings.

When it was a fact that the “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” was officially rescinded, I wanted to make a statement. As a veteran, I wanted to fulfill one of my fantasies. Quite by an unplanned circumstance I saw a pink wig at a thrift store. Immediately I knew what I wanted to do with it. Thus began a shopping spree to find all the rest of my fantasy. Both of my lovers were very supportive. Since one was working and had family responsibilities most of the search for my debut attire was with Merlyn, who soon became comfortable going into the ladies’ stores, watching my try on items, or the vintage shops, the lingerie departments and costume shops. I looked all over for glasses and then created a wire and jeweled extension to the frame of a pair of reading glasses that I accented with pink nail polish. The rhinestone earrings came from an antique mall.
Then came the big day; or night really. Escorted by my two lovers, both dressed in black, Queen Ann Tique, a name given to me by John Kelly, arrived at Charlie’s for the repeal celebration.
 I had been interviewed by Channel 4 when the vote passed and was introduced as a gay activist. From that point on my new mission has been to flaunt my gayness and now the grand entrance and celebration. Having been born a king, at 71 I was now a queen, a queen in pink.
By Christmas, I was able to add to the pink thing. I had another fantasy. In deciding to decorate for the holidays, I dragged out the decorations from storage and discovered that since it had been years since they had been used, the tree was missing. I must have gotten rid of it when I last moved, so, now to find that perfect tree. Merlyn and I were in an antique store that we frequent when we were greeted by one of the dealers with open arms stating, “Whatever you want we have.” My response was that I wanted a pink feather Christmas tree. Her eyes got large, her mouth opened and the shocked look on her face preceded the statement, “How did you know? We just got one in two hours ago!”
Again we got to go shopping for decorations. We found  a pair of fucia glittered deer, a clashing big pink bow, balls and garland and topped it off with what we thought gay guys should put on top of their pink feather Christmas tree; a fairy of course.
My next pink thing hasn’t been thought of yet, but I do have the rest of eternity to be pretty in pink or whatever.

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, 4 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.