Tag: LGBTQA

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Drinking by Phillip Hoyle

Socially speaking—like at most Friday night happy hours—

  • the first beer numbs my lips,
  • the second beer elevates my vocal volume and brings on laughter, 
  • the third beer helps me become very friendly.

Which leaves me wondering about my friend Little T who years ago was so freaked out when, in such a friendly moment, I slid my bar stool in behind his and affectionately put my hand on his shoulder. Within minutes he left the bar all upset. I followed him out to see if he was okay. He claimed to be okay but wouldn’t afterwards answer or return my phone calls. A mutual friend intervened and paved the way for Little T and me to begin talking again. She encouraged him not to turn down a friendship with me and warned me not to call him for a couple of weeks. When Little T and I later talked about the event he said he assumed I was sex addicted like so many other gay men he knew, whereas he was a love and romance guy. I had thought at the time I was playing a love and romance move so to speak. But in the ensuing months of our relationship by getting to know him much better I found out much more.

Little T was addicted to drugs, an assortment of marijuana, mushrooms, and probably more. He had long before given up using LSD, but a couple of years after that reconciliation between us he started using crystal meth with his boyfriend. By then Little T and I had developed a wonderful, supportive friendship sharing our loves of music, literature, and wide-ranging conversation.

Then he disappeared. Finally, several years later he told a friend to give me his phone number. I waited a number of weeks—or was it months?—and finally contacted him to discover he was living out of state. Eventually he moved back to Denver. Of course, I remained understanding in the light of his challenges. I loved the man, still do, appreciate our friendship, and look forward to it continuing many years. I accept his addictive personality. I applaud his quitting the drugs. I want the best for him.

Still when we are together I can get confused. Sometimes Little T encourages me to drink more, even a third beer. I wonder silently, “Don’t you recall the night I so freaked you out? Surely you don’t mean for that to happen again.” I tell myself either he has a bad memory or I am just not going to “go there.” I guess I just don’t know. I do recall another friend, Big T, saying to me, “Oh Phillip, you just aren’t paying attention.” Now I pay attention but cannot for the life of me figure out what behaviors are meaningful enough to respond to. This drinking stuff always seems to leave me uncertain. Perhaps I should just stick to the Coca Cola I was weaned on although they don’t even make that kind anymore. © Denver, 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

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The Sprint by Phillip Hoyle

Morning Pages excerpt, September 19

… I’m writing my Morning Pages, the daily exercise I’ve employed the past fourteen years. I am at the beginning of Page 3. So here I hope to sprint. Get into racing position. Put pen to paper. Ready, set, go. The gun sounds. I bound down the college ruled lanes filling each line with words, phrases, sentences. Eventually they form a paragraph, but that doesn’t seem so important while I sprint.

It’s speed I pursue, a record for swift writing. I want to write faster than I can process what I’m doing, to get caught up in the action of it, to open my mind, to disconnect through the physical movement, to discover my writer’s second wind as it were, but how can I sprint writing such complicated sentences? So I write. I don’t care about anything but the speed. Write, write, write. This is no texting with buttons to push, no Twitter, no Facebook, no images except written, but I write, ink runs along the track, a wild spewing of images, ideas, even ideals, like the ideal of being the best, somehow perfect in this sprint, a record-setter. Oh well. I have finished this short jaunt. My page is full. The tape has broken. I pant. I am an artist in a hurry. I am doing the work. I write; I paint; I massage. Life is good. My life is good. Yes.
September 20
…I’m having a slow morning with watering the lawn out front, playing cards, stretching, making data entries, eating fresh-baked cookies, drinking coffee, talking with Ruth, and now at this late morning hour (it’s 11:30), writing my Morning Pages. Perhaps I’ll try sprint writing like I described yesterday.
I work in spurts. Always has as far back as I recall. My lack of physical coordination may have contributed to this style or need. Even more influential are the speed of my thinking and feeling and my fast-changing interests, call this last my tendency towards multi-tasking. Or ADD. Whatever.
I’ve been sitting here attending to this writing.
I hope to be bitten by the inspiration bug so I can successfully write about my most Unusual Day, this week’s challenge in my storytelling group. I still haven’t settled on a topic—a particular day—although I have listed several possibilities. I want to write on something I’ve never before tried to describe. The realization that I have fallen in love is my topic now. I’ve worked on it before, but I don’t think I’ve looked at each instance. Somewhere I wrote a list of such experiences. But I don’t want a list; I need to make a decision for a particular experience. 
I’m thinking about Michael O., the two of us looking at each other. I found the realization of his interest quite moving. When I saw him again I thought, “Oh that guy.” I was pleased. Invited him to stay for tea. Pleased when he called to talk. Then to meet for coffee. I recalled my first impression of how clean he was. I heard his nasal voice and thought of Steve, my longtime lover. I wasn’t especially attracted to Michael’s voice, but I liked his offbeat humor. I liked his kind manner. I was confused when another guy answered Michael’s phone. Later I asked. Michael told me it was Chuck. I didn’t understand. He told me they had been partners but that he was in the process of moving out. He had already been searching for a place to live. We had dinner with his friend Frank. Leaving the restaurant I met Chuck although I didn’t put it all together until later.
Michael brought me gifts: lotions and lubes for sex. I was really pleased. I liked the open signal that approved of and encouraged our love making.
My most defended self speaking.
I accompanied him to an eye appointment. I didn’t understand why none of his friends arranged to go with him. 
“I always go alone,” he said. 
“Not when you’re having your eyes dilated,” I protested. I drove the car home. I didn’t like the inattention of his ex-partner and current friends.
February brought bad news. I had information; I observed swelling lymph nodes. I asked him to be sure to have his nurse palpate them. They started tests. He was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He would have to start chemotherapy.
Chemo started. I agreed to stay at his house on the nights following his treatment but preserved several days to stay at my own apartment. I didn’t want to signal to his friends that he didn’t need them. But I felt manipulated by the fact no one volunteered to stay with him. I realized Michael was unable to ask. Still I defended some of my independence and looked forward to being alone, to have coffee and walks with Tony, and so forth. 
I had worked downtown giving massages that day. It was one of my free nights. I walked home up Capitol Hill. As I turned south on Downing, I realized I wanted to be with Michael. When I got to my place I called. “What are you doing?”
“Not much.”
“Would you like if I came to spend the night?” I asked.
“Yes, I’d love that.”
So I got on a bus and made my way out to his street. I realized on that unusual day I’d rather be with Michael than preserve my precious independence.
But I realize that while I have been writing without stop, it was not a sprint. I actually took time to feel into what I was recalling. Fortunately I liked the topic. I’ll sprint tomorrow or some other time I need entertainment.
I am an artist. 
Life is good; my life is good. Yes.

© Denver, 2010

About the Author 

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Camping (It Up) by Pat Gourley

I am opening here today with a short read from Larry Mitchell’s iconic The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions, a few personal photos documenting just a few of my own campy experiences and a quote from someone else’s work.

“… Camp itself should almost be defined as a kind of madness, a rip in the fabric of reality that we need to reclaim in order to defeat the truly inauthentic, cynical, and deeply reactionary camp – or anti-camp – tendencies of the new world order.”
Bruce LaBruce from GLR, March-April 2014

A short definition of camp I found on Wikipedia: “Camp opposes satisfaction and seeks to challenge” seems a very appropriate definition of the gay male act of being “campy”. Camp can be a form of almost spiritual acting out sometimes in private but often as public street theatre that on the surface seems to be just silly. Not that there is anything wrong with being silly. Society could use much more silliness it seems to me.

Though being ‘campy’ is certainly not exclusively the purview of gay men we really have a corner on that market and have and continue to this day to take it to new and challenging heights. I would refer you to watch just a single episode of RuPaul’s Drag Show if you have any doubts that camp is still alive and well. I would also be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge certain Diva’s male and female, past and present who have also mastered the art of camp: Cher, Lady Gaga, Mae West, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Paul Lynde and Liberace to name just a few.

For many of us gay men the art of camp starts early and often involves dress up. Much to the consternation of my parents I am sure I would on occasion grab a couple bath towels one for my shoulders, cape-like, another around my waist skirt-like and one over my head. I would then pretend to be a nun, Sister Mary-the-something-or-other, and my several siblings and cousins would be my pupils.

Really, where the hell did that behavior come from in a little farm boy in rural Indiana in the 1950’s except from somewhere deep in my budding queer soul? Trust me I was not mimicking any role models or recruiters I was aware of. My juvenile gender-fuck drag appears to have been pretty spontaneous, I had no ‘gay uncles’ to mimic in any fashion that I was aware of. Early TV with the possible exception of Uncle Milty provided only the straightest of heterosexual role models and they were often quite sanitized and asexual. Remember Ricky and Lucy had separate beds!

One of the most powerful components of ‘camp’ involves its often-loving play with gender roles. I really think we are getting in touch with our being ‘other’ and since we usually only have the male and female as culturally defined to draw from and neither really fits we tend to mix them up in an attempt to create something that speaks more directly to us, often with startling success. The often-cruel taunts of ‘tomboy’ or ‘sissy’ really don’t begin to address the reality or do the behaviors justice.

Gender-fuck drag is a classic form of camp, something that has been around a long time and continues to survive today despite the tremendous push towards ‘respectability’ in the LGBT community. This I think sometimes get confused and mixed up even within our community with the powerfully emerging Trans community and their emerging forms of identity. They are very profoundly separate issues. It behooves everyone to appreciate and to be sensitive to the difference in the worlds of transsexual and transvestite and drag queen and gender fuckers and what each very differently involves and implies. There is also a significant amount of cross-pollination between these entities and those realities a bit much to try and get into here. It can be quite the sticky wicket and I would simply refer you to Ellen’s comments at the Academy Awards show she made to Liza Minnelli as an example of the thin ice here one can find yourself venturing onto.

Again I think I can say that much of ‘campy” behavior involves a messing with gender roles as often defined as the appropriate ones by our society. It is one of the most powerful change creating weapons we have in our arsenal in implementing the ‘gay agenda’.

© March 2014

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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When I Decided to Become a Nurse by Pat Gourley

I moved to Denver in December of 1972. One memory of our initial arrival in Denver has stuck with me for all of these years and I think of it every winter. I grew up in the Snow Belt of northwest Indiana and then at the age of 16 my family moved up north of Chicago so I was quite familiar with snowy winters. A scene we witnessed one snowing morning in Denver that December was a public works truck driving down the middle of Colfax avenue with two guys in the back shoveling I assumed a salt mixture out of the back of the truck onto the street. This seemed a very strange and funny way to address snow on the streets to us and we wondered if the city had any snowplows. This did not prove to be a deal breaker however and several of us close friends moved here anyway.

My first job was in the food service department at Craig Rehab Hospital in Englewood. That only lasted about six months and then I was soon employed, in the summer of 1973, on the inpatient psychiatric ward at what was then called Denver General Hospital. We were living at the time on Elati Street just behind the new Denver General Hospital building. I was hired as a Hospital Attendant, a bit of a fancier name for ‘Orderly’ I guess. All of the attendants on the unit were male and, except for me, conscientious objectors to the Vietnam War doing their community service. We were all male I assume to provide muscle to back up the all female R.N. staff. Despite being hired as “muscle” I distinctly remember three instances of getting my lights punched out by belligerent patients, one episode involving the smashing of a glass IV bottle over my head. IV bottles did not become plastic until years later.

The lasting impact of that job was not however a fist coming my way but came from the several great women I worked with. The ones who made the most lasting impression on me were R.N.’s. All were very dynamic women and my eventual philosophy of nursing was greatly shaped by these dynamic women. Several of these nurses were actually involved in a lawsuit in the early 1970’s asking that women get equal pay for equal work. They unfortunately lost that suit with the Judge actually saying in his decision that to give women equal pay for equal work would be much to disruptive to the very fabric of society.

I went from inpatient psychiatry after two years to a street alcohol detox unit down at 17th and Blake, years before it became the high-end LoDo neighborhood it is today. This street facility was pre-Denver Cares. We had ten detox beds and allowed a three-day stay to get sober with a more extended rehab-option of one month I think in our upstairs dorm. Most of the guys would leave for day labor and I suspect most often a little nip of this or that. Those who stayed behind were often subjected to lectures I pulled together on the health effects of too much alcohol with tobacco still getting a free ride back then.

This was frontier medicine at its best. No air conditioning, poor ventilation and only ten beds that really only filled up when the weather was bad. We usually did not call an ambulance until the third withdrawal seizure. Oh and we were right next-door to a liquor store. In the winter the predominately men on the streets were always hustling us for change to be able to buy a “wine-blanket” to make it through the night.

I converted my TB test in those days and ended up on meds for about a year. Relax; any cough today is not TB but just phlegm. This again was probably related to the lousy ventilation in the place. The back dorm room did have a window but to keep that open was to invite folks to crawl in or out. Also the window looked out on a vacant lot often the scene of raucous parties with small fires and occasionally the roasting of a stray dog over the fire for a late night meal.

All the guys we took in had to be at least a few hours out from their last drink. We started with stripping off their most often very funky clothes and getting them to shower with Kwell lotion and then into hospital garb. The issuing of hospital pajamas often, but not always, slowed down the urge to escape after sobering up and the shakes started to set in. The relatively few women, on what was then called skid row, would be taken to the hospital for detox.

The nurse I worked with on the evening shift, 1500-2300, was an old army nurse who drove up from Colorado Springs named Ruth. She sat at the desk facing the street with a bench on its side blocking the door to keep rowdy drunks out often trying to bum one of the endless cigarettes she chained smoked on the job – this was 1975 remember. One particularly warm summer night we had a drive by shooting. The bullet missed Ruth and the rest of us inside but I can still hear her yelling to hit the deck because of the incoming fire. The gunfire was most certainly meant for someone on the street and we were just unfortunately in the way of someone who was obviously a lousy shot.

These were also my peak coming out years and I was in no mood to take shit off straight assholes but guys still drunk did call me a fairy on more than one occasion. Our clients were often very polite and non-threatening when sober. Sweet guys lots of them really. So, despite the homophobia, having to dispose of lice infested smelly clothing, the positive TB test, getting my lights punched out on occasion, helping still often drunk men shower (nothing fun about that really!), Ruth’s endless chain smoking, another older male attendant who said he preferred taking a good shit any day to sex, and the crappy pay for nurses I decided to throw caution to the wind and enrolled in the University of Colorado School of Nursing in 1976. It only took two years to get my bachelor’s degree since I had already accumulated well over 120 hours of semester credit at the University of Illinois much of it in the sciences. No degree though to show for it, I simply could not fit that in with antiwar demonstrations, the support of Caesar Chavez’s United Farm Workers union, the occasion anti-war riot and endless picketing and leafleting. Oh and of course a fair amount of sex, drugs and rock and roll didn’t help either.

So with much encouragement from the several very strong female R.N.’s in my life I decided to become a nurse in the spring of 1976 and the rest is history. To this day I can be found on many a Tuesday or Thursday working a 12 hour shift in a local Urgent Care Unit with I might add a bunch of great nurses mostly still women.

© March 2014  

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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Hospitality by Will Stanton

When I was starting college back in the LGBT “Dark Ages,” society as a whole often was not so accepting or understanding about homosexuality as it appears to be now- days. This was especially true in small towns such as mine. Perhaps most devastating was the situation of parents not accepting or supporting their own children’s orientation or the fact that they had developed same-gender relationships. Parents who discovered that their sons or daughters brought home “special friends” often lacked kindness and hospitality, to say the least. Sometimes, confrontations could leave lasting scars. On the other hand, if young people were lucky and parents were better informed and more empathetic, parents might be surprisingly understanding and supportive.

At the time when I was only beginning to understand anything about the world of LGBT, a met a young couple of gay guys whose story was so special that I never have forgotten it. I attended an invitation-only party in Cincinnati. The guests were all young guys, several of them from the nearby university. One very affectionate couple drew everyone’s attention throughout the evening, partly because they were so stunningly good looking. I was not the only person frequently glancing at them but, at the same time, trying not to stare. We were curious about them also because they appeared to be unusually young for college students. The somewhat taller of the two, David, was an intelligent and self-assured brunette; whereas Peter, the more boyish partner with gold-blond hair, seem to me to more closely resemble an angel than a mere mortal. They obviously were very much in love, although they did not make an unseemly show of it.
Of course, those at the party who did not know the couple were very curious about who they were and how they had become partners. Part way through the evening, some more assertive person simply asked them to tell about themselves. So, with each partner contributing to the answer, they told us their story. The details were so interesting that I never have forgotten them.
My first surprise was when David said that he had just turned seventeen, somewhat younger than many college freshmen; however, it was his friend Peter who surprised me even more when he revealed that he was only fifteen and starting college. Oh well, it must be nice to be so intelligent as well as so good looking, all at the same time.
It turns out, however, that Peter’s early life had not been so pleasant. He was an only child of two upper-middle-class, professional parents from New York whose thinking and attitudes were extremely lacking in understanding, empathy, and perhaps even love. Apparently, they always had suspected that Peter was, shall we say, “different;” and they certainly did not approve. For several years, Peter had felt oppressed and unloved. The parent’s unthinking, harsh treatment left Peter continually feeling sad and lonely. Peter said that they told him that it was just as well that he was leaving home so that they would not be reminded each day of how disappointed they were in him, this despite that fact that he was a straight-A student and never had been in trouble. How could any parent say such a thing? No wonder he was unhappy.
David, too, was an only child. In his case, however, he appeared to be quite happy and well grounded. His parents apparently had been very loving and caring.
As fate would have it, the two of them were assigned to the same dormitory double-room, perhaps because both of them were younger than many of the other freshmen. When the two of them first met, David said that he immediately was very attracted to Peter, yet he discreetly made no overt indications of his feelings.
As the days went by, David observed Peter and saw that he was extremely studious, always attending to his school-work, frequenting the library for research, but he never went to any parties or social gatherings. Peter was polite and pleasant enough to David, but his shyness kept him from expressing himself very much. Also, Peter never spoke of his parents or his home-life. To David, Peter seemed to be in a constant state of sadness.
It was Thanksgiving break that gave David his first real clue that something was not well with Peter’s home-life. David was looking forward to returning home for Thanksgiving, although he had noted that his frequent phone conversations with his parents seemed to indicate that they were beginning to understand that he had not found a girlfriend but, instead, he often had spoken of his roommate Peter. When David asked Peter if he planned to be going home for Thanksgiving, Peter replied that he was not; he would be staying at school and just spend his time with his studies. David thought that this was somewhat strange but refrained from saying anything about it.
David drove to his parent’s home in Connecticut for Thanksgiving. He told us that, although he felt the accustomed love from his parents, they seemed to ask more questions than usual about his social life on campus and also what was his roommate Peter like. Then David’s mother surprised him by stating that, since Peter did not wish to go home for the holidays, he would have been welcome at their house as their guest.
Between Thanksgiving and Christmas break, David made a point of quietly and unobtrusively becoming even more caring and supportive of Peter. Peter said that he noticed and appreciated the kindness and affection. Over time, they became very close. As Peter gradually learned to trust David and his love, he found comfort and safety during the nights lying in David’s arms.
Then as it came time to prepare to depart for Christmas break, David received a phone-call from home. After some time, his mother inquired as to Peter’s plans for Christmas and suggested that he be their guest for the holidays. She insisted that David ask him. Peter silently shook his head, “No.” When David relayed that reply to his mother, she asked to speak directly to Peter. David turned the phone over the Peter, and she spoke to him with great warmth and caring. Peter agreed to come home with David.
David and Peter drove back to Connecticut for the holidays. David reassured Peter that he would like his parents and would feel very welcome in their home.
Peter said that, as they drove through the gates of the estate, he was surprised by how large David’s Georgian-style home was. It was easy for me to guess that David’s parents were very well off. I also guessed that, because of their position in society, they would be especially particular about David’s friends and whom he would be bringing into their home.
David and Peter said that both parents met them at the front door and invited them in. After they cleaned-up, they sat in the breakfast nook, had some refreshments, and chatted with each other. Peter said that David’s parents made him feel very relaxed and comfortable. After dinner, they sat in the living room and continued to talk throughout the evening.
Now here’s the most memorable part of their story. The most intriguing comment that Peter made to us about his experience with David’s parents was about the direction that their polite but persistent questioning took. They did not give the appearance that they were concerned by the fact that their son’s companion was a boy rather than a girl. Instead, they appeared to be thoroughly checking him out as a person. They wanted to make sure that he was well-bred and of good character. Apparently, Peter met with their approval.
Possibly even more surprising to Peter was, as the evening was closing, David’s mother stood up and announced that she would be retiring for the evening and then said to Peter, “We have a guest bedroom if you like, or you may wish to stay with David. You know best.” Those were the exact words that Peter told us, and I never have forgotten them. I’m sure that you have guessed right: Peter and David did sleep together during their visit.
I always have been impressed with David and Peter’s explanation of how the two of them found each other, how loving and understanding David’s parents were, and what wonderful hospitality they showed Peter. Although that was the one and only time that I ever saw David and Peter, I have not forgotten them. I would like to think that have been together ever since. Now, in a world that has far too much sadness, this is the kind of loving story-ending I like to hear.

© 2 July
2013



About the Author


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

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Tchaikovsky: Gay Music from Despair by Will Stanton

The Romantic music of Tchaikovsky is some of the most deeply emotional music ever written. Like millions of listeners spanning more than a century since his death, I have held a deep appreciation for his musical genius. More so, and ever since I was a child, I have deeply sensed the true meaning lying within his final composition, his “Pathétique” symphony. Whether or not my musical sense or Tchaikovsky’s ability to communicate is responsible for my insight, that sense now has been proven to be accurate, which I’ll explain further along.

Tchaikovsky’s music ranges from apparent joy and love to the darkest abyss of despair. Now that additional information has come to light, we at last understand that the full extent of Tchaikovsky’s musical creativity most likely never would have found expression had it not been for the fact that he was homosexual, an orientation that, at that time and place, caused him life-long torment and depression.

Pytor Ilyich Tchaikovsky, composer

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, born in Votkinsk, Russia, experienced a childhood of misery. Although his father was minor aristocracy and a civil servant, the family was poor and eventually became destitute. Already an extremely sensitive and introspective child, his mother’s unhappiness affected Tchaikovsky, especially after they moved to Moscow when he was eight. She died when he was only fourteen, a contributing factor to his depression.

He first enrolled in, what was called, the Imperial School of Jurisprudence, an all-boys school that prepared them for civil service, engineering, and the military. Here, he was exposed to much sexual experimentation among the boys, and he soon realized that this was his own preference. At that time in Russia, and especially in the capital of Moscow, clandestine homosexual acts did occur, but the terrible sin was being caught.

Tchaikovsky changed the direction of his career upon attending a performance of Mozart’s opera “Don Giovanni,” an experience that greatly impressed him and resulted in his enrolling in the Saint Petersburg Conservatory. Upon graduation, he returned to Moscow to join its conservatory. In such an environment, he found his career flourishing but, at the same time, having to live in a city that biographers have described as “violently homophobic.” Consequently, he suffered frequent bouts of self-doubt and depression, fearing exposure. He revealed to his younger brother Anatoly that his homosexual tendencies, caused “an unbridgeable gulf between the majority of people and myself. They impart to my character…a sense of alienation, fear of others, timidity, excessive shyness, mistrustfulness, which make me more and more unsociable.” Increasingly, these feelings found expression in his music.

Despite his fears of exposure, Tchaikovsky could not suppress his desires. He became deeply in love with fifteen-year-old Eduard Zak. Eduard, however, suffered his own despair and committed suicide at nineteen. Sometime later, Tchaikovsky wrote in his diary, “How amazingly clearly I remember him: the sound of his voice, his movements, but especially the extraordinarily wonderful expression on his face at times. I cannot conceive that he is no more. The death of this boy, the fact that he no longer exists, is beyond my understanding. It seems to me that I have never loved anyone so strongly as him.”

Stories of love, and doomed love, found expression in his music. Musicologists feel that Eduard was the inspiration for his composition “Romeo and Juliet,” based upon the tragedy by Shakespeare and written at the time Tchaikovsky was in love with Eduard.

Tchaikovsky himself had a doomed marriage, an attempt to appear and to feel “normal.” He wrote to his brother Modest that he would marry absolutely anyone, which he did at age thirty-seven. He attempted to propose to his new wife having simply a platonic relationship, which apparently she did not understand. This experiment failed and contributed further to his depression. They separated within a few months but never officially divorced because the legally required infidelity never had occurred.

One woman became his unseen patron, Nadezhda von Meck, widow of a wealthy railroad tycoon. Although they never met face to face, they frequently wrote to each other. This abruptly came to an end at age fifty when von Meck’s relatives, jealous of the money given to Tchaikovsky, blackmailed her with the threat of public exposure of Tchaikovsky’s homosexuality unless she ceased supporting him, which she did rather than risk that exposure. He was not told of this blackmail and became dismayed and embittered by the sudden severing of their relationship.

The most emotional and despondent music composed by Tchaikovsky was his final work, the Symphony No. 6 referred to as the “Pathétique.” The first movement begins with a solemn and even ominous introduction by bassoons. It then leads into one of the most beautiful yet heart-rending melodic themes, very much like a soulful remembrance of love.

The fourth and final movement is unusual in that it is the opposite of the expected exuberant ending. Instead, it begins with total resignation, climbs to a peak of angst and despair, and then, in a dramatically long and ever-descending passage, plummets into a deep, final abyss, much like a jumbo-jet falling from the sky, plunging into the sea, and sinking to the bottom. Recent research since the fall of the Soviet Union reveals why.

In Tchaikovsky’s fifty-third year, the final year of his life, he had an affair with Alexandre Vladimirovich Stenbok-Fermor, the eighteen-year-old son of Count Alexei Alexandrovich Stenbok-Fermor. The great sin of exposure came to pass. The count discovered the liaison and wrote an angry letter denouncing Tchaikovsky to Czar Alexander III, his close friend. The count’s lawyer, rather than delivering the letter immediately to the Czar, instead, contacted his powerful legal and political colleagues, all alumni from the Imperial School of Jurisprudence. They convened a “Court of Honor” and summoned Tchaikovsky to appear before them. He was told that they were prepared to deliver the damning letter to the Czar, thereby destroying his reputation and exposing him to censure and shame. They then informed him that the only way for him to avoid scandal and disgrace was to commit suicide.

Tchaikovsky was confronted with this shock and ultimatum while he was composing the “Pathétique.” It now appears that he completed the symphony as a farewell to life. His death by arsenic poisoning was slow and painful. To prevent the public from learning the facts behind Tchaikovsky’s death, the word went out that he died from cholera.

Anyone who truly cares for other people must be empathetic for Tchaikovsky and regret his having lead such a tortured life. His brother Modest speculated that composing music was “an attempt to drive out the somber demons that had so long plagued him.” We might wish that the man never have suffered so greatly. Yet, without a life of suffering, we might never have had given to us such extraordinary music. I’ll go further; it is safe to say that this “symphony of defeat,” and especially the suicidal fourth movement, never would have been written as it was. As for myself, who have appreciated the beauty and power of the “Pathétique” for so long, it is a sad consolation to have my sense, from the very first hearing, of what Tchaikovsky was saying confirmed. I heard his voice; I felt his despair.

Click on the link below to watch the final
movement of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony Number 6, the “Pathétique”: Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, V. Gergiev, conductor, 13:20 minutes.  

The “Pathétique” 


January, 2014

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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Competition by Pat Gourley

Harry, John, and Pat  ( Photo taken 1983 in L.A.)

On first meeting Harry Hay and John Burnside at my home here in Denver back in 1978 one of the first of many teachings Harry attempted to impart to me was his theory of Subject-Subject consciousness. Specifically how this related to gay men but he could extrapolate to all queers when asked to elaborate. This form of consciousness was of course in opposition if you will to Subject-Object consciousness and the form of relating that invokes. This is what he considered to be the heterosexual male paradigm defining almost all of their interactions, an endless competitive game of domination and submission.

Basically Subject-Subject implies the ability to relate to another sentient being as someone equal with you and not as an object. This is something I have, with varying degrees of success, attempted to aspire to in my life certainly in personal friendships, with lovers and professionally. It is a simple idea really with rather profound implications for the human race. What sort of world would we have if we all looked on each other in a subject-subject manner as opposed to subject-object?

So why you may ask do queers have a leg up, as Hay theorized, with this subject-subject business as opposed to heterosexuals? I do think many heterosexuals do acquire this level of consciousness, but it doesn’t come quite as naturally to them as it does to us. Hay thought we had an innate tendency to this form of relating and that it first comes to fruition in our initial internal coming out process. Let me quote from Radically Gay (Roscoe,editor:1996) and a piece written by Hay in 1979: “I suppose I was about eleven when I began first thinking about, then fantasizing about, him! And, of course I perceived him as subject. I knew that all the other kids around me thought of girls as sex objects to be manipulated, to be lied to in order to get them to “give in” and to be otherwise (when the boys were together without them) treated with contempt. And strangely, the girls seemed to think of the boys as objects, too. But HE whom I would love would be another ME. We wouldn’t manipulate each other – we would share –and we would always understand each other completely and forever.” Harry could be quite the optimistic romantic.

Some might argue that subject-object relating is the natural course of evolution, the survival of the fittest. I think that this evolutionary critique can be debunked but I am way to lazy for that here. Let me just say that I do think humans are evolving, sadly probably not nearly fast enough for our eventual survival as a species, but at our most altruistic best we are moving slowly, kicking and screaming, towards a subject-subject form of relating to one another. I think an argument can be made we queers are in the vanguard of this evolutionary trend. A real test for us will be if we can bring this consciousness into the newly opened realms of marriage and military service. A daunting task since these are two institutions that are traditionally built on domination and submission.

Which brings me back to the topic of the day “competition”. I guess I view competition as perhaps the most odious form of Subject-Object intercourse. There has always got to be a looser. Nobody really believes the old adage “it not’s whether you win or loose but how you play the game’. Ask any Broncos fan.

Let me share with you an anecdote from my professional life in which I have strived, again not always successfully, to relate in a subject-subject manner. Unfortunately the doctor-patient and very much so even the nurse-patient relationship is one that is in our culture inherently subject-object. One small way I would try to counteract this imbalance was to never have the clients I was seeing be sitting on the exam table when I came in but rather in the chair next to the table so we could more easily relate eye-to-eye. Putting someone on an exam table and especially putting them there half naked, and perhaps leaving them for 20 minutes before you show up is a power move, a not so subtle game of domination and submission. This is even more daunting to do these days since many exam rooms have a computer screen on the table and the exam table behind that. Kaiser though I admit has addressed that somewhat and has moveable computer stations that do allow for more face-to-face contact, which is if you can get the provider to look at you and not the screen.

Let me close with a quote from my favorite nursing theorist, Margaret Newman, who was all about subject-subject relating when it came to the “nurse-client” relationship: “ The joy of nursing lies in being fully present with clients in the disorganization and uncertainty of their lives – an unconditional acceptance of the unpredictable, paradoxical nature of life.” I have no idea if she was a lesbian or not but I will apply my universal rule to her also and assume everyone is queer until I know otherwise. Certainly her strong nods to subject-subject consciousness and her noncompetitive approach to the nurse-client relationship give her a head start in the area.

March 2014

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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When I Decided by Nicholas

Decisions, decisions: the choices I have made mark the chronicle of my life. When I decided to do something, many times after long procrastination, my life took on a new direction with momentous consequences. And maybe my memory is playing tricks on me but the most significant decisions I have made have all turned out to be success stories. If I have forgotten the disasters, let them stay forgotten. I will talk about my successes.

1964: After 12 years of Catholic schooling, I decided that I wanted to see the world, so I chose not to go to the Catholic college that most of my high school friends cheerfully enrolled in. I wanted to meet the world and I found it at Ohio State University. And I loved it and grew there.

1968: Had to take a break from college but my student deferment was saving me from going to war in Viet Nam, so I hatched a plan to leave school and fight the draft. I moved to San Francisco where I learned a lot about life–and me.

1973: Again at loose ends, I decided to join VISTA, the domestic Peace Corps, where I trained as a paralegal advocate to help free crazy people from wrongful confinement in a state hospital. They really weren’t that crazy.

1975: Falling in love with history, I decided to go to graduate school.

1977: Falling out of love with grad school which had become an expensive hobby with slim chance of meaningful employment, I left it when an interesting job came my way working on school desegregation in Cleveland. That job launched my career in journalism.

1978: When I decided I’d been alone and sexless long enough, I made that phone call to a gay helpline in Cleveland, found a community, came out and promptly fell in love.

1979: I decided to return to California to continue growing, have lots of adventures (some in dark places), fall in and out of love, find out what having fun really means, and how to help some friends struggle with a horrible disease.

1985: Despite doubts about my ability to do the job, I decided to take up the offer to be news editor of San Francisco’s gay newspaper, Bay Area Reporter. Best job I ever had in an exciting time for the LGBT community.

1987: Met Jamie. I decided, after nearly missing all the cues, that this time was different. As a friend put it in a poem: I heard his song and he heard mine. He was a keeper, as they say. So, he kept me.

1990: Now we made decisions. We decided to leave San Francisco for sunny, warm and cheaper Denver and a new life.

2008: We decided to get married and live happily ever after.

2009: Now in my 60s, I decided it was time to stop working and begin a new adventure to expand my life, not “retire” it.

It could be my mantra: when I decided.

March 2014

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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Promoting the Metropolitan Community Church by Louis

Prompt for this story: “When I decided”

This prompt reminded me of an old corny Protestant hymn, “I have decided to follow Jesus.” Gay Christians have a big responsibility. They have to have answers for atheists and agnostics. Institutionalized church-sponsored homophobia is another good reason to be anti-church, our atheist friend would point out. My parents thought religion was a mental illness. They could not understand why a bunch of people would make a cult of a rabbi being tortured to death two thousand years ago. There was a famous play that received a lot of coverage in the 1960’s reminding the public that during the holocaust the Catholic Church was silent, and yet they make a claim of being the ultimate moral authority. What a joke! How can the typical member of Dignity, gay and lesbian Catholics, advocate for their point of view?

My four brothers also believed science and 18th century style “reason” would make a better moral touchstone than “organized religion.” My parents also thought that Protestants, most of them, went to church to worship the all-mighty dollar rather than God. They were closet atheists doing a song and dance to engage in social climbing.

My counter arguments are as follows. First, Christianity is our heritage. We have to improve it. Upon reading scripture, we learn Jesus was well aware that institutionalized establishment religious authorities tend to be hypocritical and just love to condemn their neighbors. In other words, do not blame Jesus for contemporary religious hypocrisy. Judge not thy neighbors lest thou be judged.

The gay lib Russians have informed us that the Russian Orthodox Church is a solid bastion of homophobia. The response should not be Communist style or enlightenment style deism, atheism or agnosticism; the response should be to question their Christian credentials. If their so-called faith is based on hating gay people, hate is what is in their hearts. Therefore, they are not Christian, they cannot claim to be Christians, if you take true Christianity seriously.

In other words, true Christianity is quite revolutionary. If you read Scripture with a sensitive heart, you will note that Jesus even spoke in terms of empowering out-groups.

In other words, Metropolitan Community Church of the Rockies and Metropolitan Community Church of New York would agree with my stance on this religious issue. We also have to realize that the Church is a human institution although they have to claim they are ordained by God. Humans, unlike God, tend to make mistakes, they tend to project their own prejudices into sacred places. MCC teaches that gay and Lesbian are a holy, sacred people, beloved by God. In addition to a religious statement, this is of course a political statement. Sometimes the victimized out-groups have to become teachers for the whole of humanity, for the oppressors. In other words, Scripture does not justify homophobia, au contraire, when you see blind hatred, oppose it. It is a Christian responsibility.

March 21, 2014

About the Author

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

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A Meal to Remember by Will Stanton

I arrived in Colorado in 1975. I first found an apartment in Arvada, then Englewood, and then finally gravitated to Capitol Hill by ’77. I gradually acquired a number of friends and acquaintances. Among them was a very wealthy gentleman named Stan A. and his much younger and particularly attractive partner Michael B.

Stan had made his money by owning a major construction firm that, among other projects, helped to construct I-70 into the foothills west of Denver. By the time I met him, apparently he did not need to work anymore, having made plenty of money. I recall Stan as being immaculately dressed, well groomed, and always very polite. His large apartment was kept perfectly spotless by his house-keeper. His apartment’s décor included carefully selected paintings and objects d’art, all perfectly placed and without a spot of dust. In addition to whatever attractive personal attributes Stan might have had, plenty of money probably was a contributing factor in his wooing an especially handsome young man as his sweety.

Apparently, Stan preferred having a partner who also was immaculate in his dress and appearance, which enhanced Michael’s being especially eye-catching. He took plenty of time every morning for his libations and grooming. Not a hair was out of place. Being younger than Stan, Michael was still working at that time as a salesman of some sort. I recall seeing on his bathroom mirror self-motivating quotations that he would recite each morning as he combed his hair. For the short time that I lived in Capital Hill, I was happy to be invited to their apartment for gatherings of friends or to use their swimming pool with Michael.

Unlike some wealthy people whom I have met, Stan was not tight with his money. He was perfectly happy to pick up a check if we all went out to dinner.

I recall when Stan piled six of us into his BMW and drove south to the Tech Center to a Chinese restaurant. We all had a grand ol’ time sitting for some time around a large round table with a sizable lazy Susan carrying plenty of Chinese delicacies to choose from.

As excellent as the food was, it soon became apparent that the most obvious attraction at dinner was the bus-boy. He truly was unusually handsome. It was one thing for us younger guys to notice and admire the bus-boy; but now that I’m much older, I understand that Stan, being about a generation older than we, had as much right as we to admire him as well. We guessed that the bus-boy was about seventeen based upon his boyish features, although, physically, he certainly was not puny. He easily could have been a star high-school swimmer or baseball player.

I still am not sure whether we all simply had succumbed to the extraordinary good looks of the bus-boy or whether the wine during dinner had contributed to our increasingly indiscreet glances—and to Stan’s comment. Someone at the table asked if anyone would like dessert. Stan immediately announced that he certainly would love to have that bus-boy for dessert. He was standing right behind Stan. I never knew that a person’s face could turn so red.

© 31 March 2014

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.