Tag: Life Stories

Posted on

Tat, by Phillip Hoyle

I
had proven myself the occasional social drinker and social smoker, but there
was to be more. I became a social tattoo wearer. Not the temporary tattoos, not
henna patterns from the subcontinent, not painted designs like kids wear at festivals.
No, I got a tattoo, a permanent crescent moon with its old man looking
thoughtfully on my life: its constancy, its changes, and its crises; a July
blue moon that arose that summer night twelve years ago and still shines on my
left calf.
My
tat caught the attention of the security guard at the Denver Public Library the
other day. He asked if it had any particular meaning. I said it didn’t, but
went on to tell him about the crazy choir member from Tulsa who, when I was
planning to move to Denver, said she was coming out soon to visit her daughter
at CU Boulder and we were going to get tattoos. “Oh we are?” I asked. “Yes,”
she affirmed, “and I’ll have my daughter call you with the name and number of
the guy her friends have been going to get their tattoos.”
I
moved here, got the information, called the artist, set the appointments, and
thought: what would I indelibly mark my body with? I had already decided I’d
get my ears pierced; I could always remove the posts or hoops, but a tattoo
seemed different. What design was I willing to sport around town for the rest
of my life? I chose a crescent moon, and when the artist asked what kind of
expression I wanted the man in the moon to have, I quickly responded,
“Thoughtful.”
So
the moon has been looking on, watching my life with its important changes from
married to single to partnered, from minister to masseur, from kind of straight
to kind of gay. He’s watched my continuing generous style, and my life’s
plentiful crises over finances, relationships, and losses.
I
got my moon. My friend got a ladybug on her ankle. A few months later I
arranged for more tattoos for her and her husband but declined to add more to
my body. I’ve grown so used to my moon that am surprised when someone asks
about it. My man in the moon smiles thoughtfully as if to provide me a sense of
calm, determination, and love, all three feelings I inject into all my social
relationships whether drinking, smoking, or otherwise fitting in.
© 17 Sep 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 
Posted on

My Earliest Queer Memory, by Pat Gourley

This is more difficult to
write on than I at first thought it would be. I believe the realization that I
was different or as Harry Hay was fond of saying “other” was a gradual process
with many little steps and discoveries along the way. This process of
realization long preceded my actual coming out which I define largely as an
internal acceptance and certainly not an initial sexual act. Again paraphrasing
Hay it took years to realize that the only thing I did have in common with
straight people was what I did in bed.
I think this is true of
queer awakening in general in that it rarely initially involves the sexual but
rather a profound and deeply real sense that we are not like our peers in some
fundamental way.  This may take the form
of what society would call gender nonconformity perhaps in dress, actions,
mannerisms and speech but again I think it can be even less blatant and more
elusive than that.  These expressions
despite their honest innocence are often met with quick and at times harsh
rebuke. For me personally it took the forms of loving to cook and garden and
when we did play cowboys and Indians I always insisted on being Crazy Horse or
Cochise, an interesting twist on being “other”.
Oh and of course there
were those times when we played school and I was always the nun.  Prancing around with a couple bath towels
serving as a shawl and headgear for a makeshift nun’s habit. This was behavior that
should have been a siren-like clue to somebody that this little kid was not
fitting into the norm.
My first sexual encounter
with another man was a spectacular bit of mutual masturbation that took place
in the biology lab of my Catholic High School with a wonderful man 20 years my
senior in the spring of 1967. This was though preceded by years of many little
messages some subtle and some others not so subtle that hey I wasn’t like a lot
of other little boys. I date my real coming out though to almost a decade
later. The Gay Community Center of Colorado and the LGBT folks I met there
playing a very significant role in cementing my comfort with my queer identity.
For years I was
fascinated and aroused especially by older men and any snippet of their naked
physiques I could spot and believe me I went out of my way to catch a glimpse
whenever I could.  My dad’s beautiful naked
ass being on rare occasions a wonderful source of inspiration! I was in some
ways sheltered from blatant homophobia in the form of overt harassment because
of my fey nature in part by the all-encompassing cocoon of Catholicism that
totally enveloped my life at home and at school. Something that I really only
broke free of when I went off to college in the fall of 1967.
Though I have no doubt I
was exhibiting less than desirable “little boy” qualities from an early age it
wasn’t until about the 4th grade that I started to respond ever so
indirectly to little cues that this could be a bumpy ride. In hindsight it all
proved pretty smooth from about 1960 until the full Monty so to speak that was
my life by the mid-1970’s. I attribute my coming out being relatively smooth
with little drama , even though it took about a decade and a half, to wonderful
parents and a host of older teachers and mentors along the way that were
accepting and even celebrating of difference and not of course only in the
queer arena.
Queer awakening is rich
with possibilities for growth that are unique to us as a people.  If we make it through this process alive, and
most of us do, we come out the other side so often strong and vibrant
individuals. Despite gains in the areas of marriage equality and military
access the coming out process for most remains initially a unique character
building solo-process with still very few societal supports and unfortunately
to this day many very negative messages. These admonitions to shun the “other”
may not be as blatant and intense as in the past but they still remain and are
quite daunting for little queer folk.
Again it is amazing how
many of us make it through to the other side stronger than ever. And this is
why continued support of community-based organizations that programmatically facilitate
the coming out process remains paramount in moving the gay agenda forward. This
Story Telling Group comes quickly to mind as one such effort.
© 17 Jul 2015 
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.
Posted on

When Things Don’t Work, by Gillian

Throughout human
time, I believe, there has been a certain protocol to be followed when things
don’t work. You change them, stop using them, or eliminate them. This is more
or less the pattern today. But we seem to have added a little something. We
apply the same rules to things or procedures or systems which do work!
A prime case in
point would be computer programs. I struggle for months to master how to use,
say, hypothetical programs photomax, to share my photographs on line, or
readywrite for my weekly story-writings. I don’t find either of them
particularly user-friendly, but then, at my age new cyber-tricks do not settle
instantly in my brain. I can guarantee, the moment I become fairly comfortable
with them, I shall receive notice of the dreaded upgrades. I dither. I do not
want to install the bloody upgrades because then I shall return to the bottom
of the learning curve. But if I don’t, I run the risk of the whole thing
becoming so down-level that it slowly bogs down in computer mire. Timidly, I
click on ignore. The screen is instantly filled with flashing WARNING signs. If you do not install this
upgrade, oversized, over-excited words threaten me, you will no longer be able
to use readywrite 4-1. Meanwhile photomax is telling me that unless I download
their upgrade my system will lose security integrity. But why is it, that in
order to upgrade security, they also change every little thing about how it works?
When I pressed *4, this used to happen. Now, nothing happens. But if I hit
command S, which used to sort my photos, the screen now goes blank. Oh, I see.
It transferred everything to the trash. Why oh why, I moan, do they always have
to fix things when they ain’t broke? It worked perfectly. I had learned
to love it. Now I hate it all over again!
The real-world
equivalent of cyber-upgrades would be the similarly dreaded new and improved.
That phrase can generate panic attacks. Oh no! That means it will no longer
work for me. That blouse I have bought three of over the last couple of years
will now be too tight and have sleeves that end, as modern female fashion seems
to dictate, four inches below my fingertips. My favorite shoes, now new and
improved, are suddenly only available in strangely psychedelic colors. A
few years ago they “improved” many of my favorite deli and restaurant
dishes by loading them up with pico de gallo; a flavor I really do not
appreciate. When a new and improved bus schedule comes along, you can
bet it provides a diminished service.
Often appearing in
tandem with new and improved is the worst one of all; for your
convenience. Any time you are greeted with that one, you know things are
about to become very inconvenient indeed. For your convenience,
with that new and improved schedule, the bus will no longer run after
6.oo p.m. and will no longer stop at Union Station. For your convenience the
parking lot will be closed for two weeks in July. This, of course, in order to
provide new and improved parking spaces. A few weeks ago King Soopers
reorganized it’s stores for, of course, our convenience, so that now no-one can
find anything. I think my favorite to date is a sign posted recently on a bank
door; for your convenience this branch will no longer be open on
Saturday morning. Really! Where are these people’s heads? Do they believe that
simply saying it makes it so? 
Maybe we should
give it a try!?
There are, happily,
many of us in our Monday story-time group these days, so I’m trying to keep my
offerings pretty short. But my future new and improved stories will be a
minimum of 10,000 words. For your convenience.
© 8 Dec 2014 
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 28 years.
Posted on

To Peggy, My Horse, by EyM

Moments
away in your humble little barn filled me deeply.  I savored the rich natural smells, and loved
so well your big deep brown eyes, 
and  the warm air from your soft
nostrils.  So carefully you moved your
big puffy lips to take my gifts.  These
were moments precious and forever true.
Never
was there a brown so lovely as your hair. 
Never was there a cologne so soothing as your smell.  Never was a flower’s aroma any sweeter than
the hay where we communed.  I believe my
visits were deep in your heart too.  You
were my get away, my comforter.
I
loved to climb on your back and hug you as you lay on the ground.  You made me laugh as you got up so smoothly
that I could hang on and go up with you. 
Looking back now, you always took me to the barn.  I suppose you knew I’d give you some grain
and my little hand full of hay. 
When
we saddled up and traveled from there, someone else was with us and talk took
over.  I trusted you and reveled in those
rides.  But the times alone with you at
your hay window were more special.  Those
were the secret healing heart times. 
Thank you Peggy.  I think you
understood that I needed you.
© 28 Sep 2015 
About the Author 
A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to
the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving
problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo
at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the
great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human
services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties
identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For
Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.
Posted on

Doors, by Betsy

Ten years ago I was on the trip of a lifetime. This was not
my dream trip. That is, it was not a trip I had dreamed of going on all my
life. As I was approaching retirement several years earlier, I had dreamed of
hiking the Colorado Trail. After all, I had helped build the trail as a
volunteer on a couple of occasions when I had vacation time from work or a long
weekend. Unfortunately I never could realize the trek of my dreams because of a
condition in my spine which was causing pain when I was on my feet for long
periods of time. The Colorado Trail Trek door was closed.
So one day I decided instead to take a cycling trip. The “Bike
Trip Directors” website opened that door. It lead me to a group called Woman
tours. Perfect, I thought.  The door to
cycling had opened when I started participating in the MS 150 fund raising
event years earlier. Now I wanted a trip that would take me to other places and
for a longer stretch of time. Woman tours offered trips all over the U.S. and
some in Europe and Asia. A simple trip in the U.S. was what I was looking for.
This would open the door to something even bigger in the future maybe. 
So I laid the information and the maps out on the living
room floor and called to my partner Gill to take a look with me. “Oh this
week-long trip in the Mississippi Valley looks good. Or how ‘bout this one: 10
days on the Maryland coast, or the California coast.” So much to choose from.
Gill is just shaking her head. “Look at this. Pacific to Atlantic two months
across the southern tier of the U.S.”  “Well,
yeah,” said I. “But I’m
not ready for that. I need to take shorter trips first.”  Sometimes it takes someone who knows you very
well–a loved one–to bring you down to Earth–to reality.  Her words were so true: “My Darling, you will
be 70 years old this year. I think you need to do this cross-country trip NOW.”
The door thus opened to my trip of a lifetime, pedaling
from San Diego, California to St. Augustine, Florida.  Sixteen women over 55 cycling for 58 days
through 7 states averaging 70 miles per day. We would have one day off per week
for rest and laundry. Pay up front and your food and lodging is covered for the
entire trip except for days off.
Our group of cyclists from this adventure has had a reunion
every year except for one. This year we will celebrate our tenth anniversary in
September near Cape Cod. Our friendships have grown over the years. The cycling
trip opened the door to many more cycling trips as well as the friendships
created on that trip.  Happily Gill is included
in the group even though she did not cycle. When I chose to do this trip, she
told me she would drop me off in San Diego and pick me up in St. Augustine. I
should have known. There was no way she was going to miss out.  Drop me off and then drive home. No way! She
never intended to do that. She followed us in the van and gave unofficial SAG
support the entire way. Oh, she would disappear for a day or two on a side trip
to some interesting site. But she always showed up again especially when needed;
such as, the day we ran out of water and could find no source nor was there any
sign of Bo-Peep, our official SAG. Or the day we were freezing cold from the
rain.
I have just recently completed transcribing my journal from
this trip which I dictated at the end of each day of riding. Here is a short
excerpt from 10 years ago almost to the day.
May10 Live Oak to High
Springs, Fla. Day 55

Last night we were in
Live Oak and I didn’t get a chance to record. We had a 100 mile ride yesterday
and it was quite amazing. I really didn’t feel very tired from it. It was a
beautiful ride. We have had lovely rides in Florida and we have been lucky in
that we haven’t
had much rain. Today we had one of the best rides of all.  We stopped about 20 miles outside of the town
of High Springs at High Springs State Park. We went into the park to one of the
springs and all went swimming. Great fun! It was a welcome break. It was only a
58 mile ride so we had plenty of time to enjoy the cool water.
We are at the Cadillac–a
50’s motel. Gill has
been quite active with the group the last few days sagging and helping the Kiwi’s with their filming. She’s enjoying that a great deal except she
will be camping in the parking lot again tonight.
I can sense some strong
feelings among the group about the tour coming to an end. Since there are just
two days left.  Etc.
May 13 St. Augustine Day
58
Yesterday was our
triumphal entry into St. Augustine. We met at the fire station after an easy
ride from Palatka. We were escorted by two police cars and a motor cycle,
sirens blaring. We dunked our tires into the Atlantic, true to tradition, then
we all ran gleefully into the surf holding hands and screaming making quite a
spectacle of ourselves. We played in the water and hung out on the beach for a
while. Some family and friends were there with flowers and greetings of all
kinds and it was a grand celebration.
I was quite emotional as
we rode ceremoniously into St. Augustine. It was an honor to be leading the
group along with Mary and Glenna as the oldest members. I was quite proud to be
one of the six who pedaled every mile with no sagging. A lot of that is luck.
 A group picnic followed by teary goodbye’s ended the day. Many would be on their
way home before breakfast tomorrow. Gill and I decided to stay for a couple
more days.
I am having trouble
focusing today since I am so used to focusing on push my pedals every day. I’m sure I will adjust to normal life
quickly.
The fact that we have
just pedaled across the country 3165 miles has not yet fully registered in my
head. I expect it will sink in at some point or maybe not. It’s a bit overwhelming. No question about it
. It was the trip of a lifetime and a most extraordinary experience with a most
extraordinary group of people.
There is no doubt in my mind. A door was closed to me when
I developed a condition in my spine. But, I believe when one door closes
another one opens up. When the hiking door closed the biking door opened. That’s why I love revolving doors.
©  27 May 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).  She has been
retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years.  Since her retirement, her major activities
include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor
with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning.  Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of
marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending
time with her four grandchildren.  Betsy
says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life
with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.
Posted on

Acting, by Will Stanton

The word “acting” first brings
to mind theater acting or perhaps movie acting. 
I, however, briefly considered delving into a deeper subject.  I always have been fascinated with human
minds, and I have been aware that people often put on acts in front of others
throughout their daily lives.  William Shakespeare wrote, “All the world’s a stage, and all
the men and women merely players.”
The degree of acting varies
greatly from person to person depending upon his perceived situational needs
and depending upon his own nature.  I,
for example, don’t care to engage in artifice; I’d rather be just who I
am.  Acting takes too much effort, and
perhaps I’m just too simple-minded to be clever at it.  Others, however, are like chameleons, saying
and doing anything and everything they deem necessary to attract and influence
other people.  An extreme example of that
is the last three (especially Republican) presidential primaries.  Many people enthusiastically succumb to such
manipulation, but I am repulsed by it. 
So, rather than my being
repulsed and spending time talking about the vagaries of human nature, I’ll
return to the more enjoyable subject of theater acting.  Here are a few snippets of theater
occurrences from my early days.
My first experience being in a
play was at age seven.  My elementary
school was run by the local university, which provided student teachers with an
opportunity to practice by assisting the regular teachers.  One young lady wrote “The Marshmallow
Mushroom.”  I was an elf name
“Muffin.”  I was a very competent
elf.  I enjoyed the experience and still
have the script secreted somewhere with all my keepsakes.
Two years later, the
university was celebrating the sesquicentennial of its founding, and they had
commissioned Alan Smart to write an historical play called “The Green
Adventure.”  I played a pioneer lad.  Ever since that time, I never have looked at
the script, but I have that one, too.
Of course, I participated in
the infamous genre of high-school plays. 
The usual botches and glitches occurred in all of them: forgotten lines,
mixed-up scenes, stiff acting.  I was
sufficiently unimpressed with our productions to remember them today.
I’ll never forget, however,
what happened to my oldest brother.  That
class put on the famous “Annie Get Your Gun.” 
My brother was cast as Buffalo Bill. 
The problem was the audience never did figure out who he was.  That is because the lead actor totally forgot
his first-act lines and kept repeating the lines from the end of the second act
to the point where the rest of actors just went ahead and skipped half the
play.  So by the time my brother wandered
onto the stage wearing a cowboy hat and a quizzical grin, no one knew who he
was.  That role did not lead my brother
to a career in Hollywood.
At the same time, the girl
destined to become my brother’s wife was participating in a high-school play in
Katonah, New York. They were performing “Arsenic and Old Lace.” As you recall, the
loony brother who thought he was Teddy Roosevelt always assumed the responsibility
of taking the supposed “victims of yellow fever” to the basement to be
buried.  The stage was built three feet
above the main floor of the auditorium, and a trap door provided access to the
space beneath.  The play director
decided, having no stairway to a basement that the trap door would suffice as
the apparent entrance to the basement. 
Of course, when “Teddy” dumped his victims down into the basement, they
had learned to bend their knees to simulate descending into a deep
basement.  During the first act, the trap
door was covered with a carpet.  The
problem was that, during the first act, the carpet was there, but someone had
forgotten to replace the trap-door cover. 
So in the midst of the first act, an unsuspecting student-actor walked
across the carpet and immediately slowly sank three feet down into the floor
where he remained standing, torso and head above the floor, and wearing a very
surprised expression.  Fortunately the
play is meant to be a comedy, however, the howls of laughter from the audience
came at an unexpected time.
I tried participating in just
one play as a college freshman.  The
theater department had a good national reputation, so I thought that I would
see what it was like.  I played the
servant “Mishka” in “The Inspector General.” 
I don’t recall seeing any mention of me in any newspaper rave
reviews.  Apparently, I didn’t have the
immediately recognizable attributes of stunning stature, handsome looks, and
captivating voice to merit much attention.  The young stud who starred in “The Fantasticks”
was a corn-fed Kansas boy whose natural talent and good looks guaranteed the
role, even without any prior experience. 
Apparently, I was destined to play character roles such as servants,
extras, or just one of the elves.
There is one charming play
that I sentimentally recall.  Although I
never had the pleasure to be in it, I saw a wonderful production of it by my
university theater department and, later when I arrived in Denver, by the young
students at Arapahoe Community College. 
The play was “Dark of the Moon,” a folk-play about simple back-woods
people living in the Smokey Mountains. 
Although the theme and setting may seem too antiquated for these modern
times, it was remarkably popular for many years from the 1940s through the
1970s, so much so that up-and-coming actors such as Paul Newman eagerly wished
to be part of the play. 
The story in a “nutshell” was
that “John Boy” fell in love with “Barbary Allen,” a beautiful girl previously
never seen in those hills.  It turns out
that she is a witch-girl with no soul and who lives three hundred years, after
which she turns into Smokey-Mountain mist. 
Of course, the story has love, rivalry, and tragedy.  There also were occasional scenes at the
general store with the old folks sitting around the pot-bellied stove with
their musical instruments and singing Appalachian ballads that coincided with
the story.  I became so fond of the story
that I bought the script to read, twice, once because I loaned a copy to a
friend who failed to return it. 
Now that I have reached my
dotage, I recall “Dark of the Moon” with sardonic humor.  That is because I recall the youngsters of
Arapahoe Community College doing their best to imitate the elderly, they
themselves never having experienced the stiffness, pain, and other afflictions
of old age.  They did their best, but
somehow, they just did not look convincingly old.  And, I don’t think that additional experience
acting would have made any difference.
© 2 Aug 2012 
About the Author 
I also realize that, although my own life has
not brought me I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  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

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me, by Ricky

In the spring of 1969, I was
in the Air Force and stationed at Hurlburt Field near Ft. Walton Beach in the
western panhandle of Florida.  One day I
was alone driving north along a road which was basically the top of a mile long
levy which was dividing a swamp to the west from farm land on the east.  The road/levy was approximately 10-feet above
the level of the swamp to my right.
I saw, about ½ mile ahead of
me and traveling in the same direction, two boys riding on one bicycle rather
unsteadily.  I was driving at the speed
limit of 55mph.  In the distance way
beyond the boys, I could see a school bus driving south coming towards us.
Suddenly, I heard a voice in
my head telling me to “slow down”.  I was
surprised because I know what my thoughts sound like and this “voice” was not
mine.  When I did not respond as directed
due to my surprise, the “voice” spoke again saying for forcibly, “Slow down!
Those boys are going to fall in front of you.” 
I immediately took my foot off the gas pedal and the car began to slow.
Sure enough, when I was
about 40 yards away, the bicycle hit some kind of object near the edge of the
road and the boys fell off the bike right in front of me.  As luck would have it, the school bus also
arrived going the speed limit.  I was now
going slowly enough that I was able to stop in plenty of time.  If I had not received the warning or heeded
it, I would have had three choices.  Run
over the fallen boys, swerve to the left and hit the school bus head on, or
swerve to the right going off the levy into the swamp.
I got out and made sure the
boys were okay.  I then had one boy ride
in my car while the other one rode his bicycle to the end of the levy where the
boys would turn onto a side street to their destination.  I followed behind the bicycle so no other car
would hit him, if he fell again.  At the
end of the levy, both boys thanked me and rode off to their destination.
I have not heard any “voices”
since that time on the levy.
© 6 October 2014
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.
Posted on

A Guilty Gift?, by Pat Gourley

In an effort to catch up with
the group topics I am combining “Gifts from Afar” and “Guilty Pleasures”.  I am using the title of this piece “A Guilty
Gift?” as a possible metaphor for my own HIV infection. Please don’t interpret
the use of this metaphor on my part as personal “slut-shaming” since nothing
could be further from the truth. Nor do I for a minute view my HIV infection as
a gift.
I was most certainly infected
in late 1980 or early 1981 and it could have been in the rectory of the
Methodist Church in Aspen Colorado or as likely at the Empire Baths here in
Denver. Either way I suppose that the behavior, most likely with my legs in the
air, that lend to my infection could be viewed as the result of indulgence in a
guilty pleasure.
By 1980 though I had long ago
stopped viewing getting fucked as something to feel guilty about. It had become
one of the true pleasures of my life. It did not start out that way though with
my first bottoming experience being with a cop in Gary Indiana in the summer of
1968. Note to self from that experience: do
not ever use shaving cream again as lube. This was a very unpleasant
experience that I did feel guilty about for a few years actually. However, in
large part on the basis of my first very positive sexual experiences with a
dear man a few years my senior the previous year (1967) I was able to work
through the guilt in time for my move to Denver in late 1972.  By the mid-1970’s I was a raging homosexual
activist and enjoying the many pleasures of the heady sexual liberation that
came with the blossoming of the emerging LGBT movement back then.
As I have written before I
have often wondered if a mushroom trip one night in the fall of 1979 at the
Empire Baths, that went a bit array, was not a premonition of a much bigger
nightmare to come. Were the gargoyles that adorned the walls of the outdoor pool
at the Empire Bath speaking to me, telling me that night to flee for my life or
announcing the arrival of a “gift from afar”? Maybe both! A gift in the form of
a resilient little virus called HIV.
It is now widely accepted that
HIV in humans originated from a similar virus found in a species of chimpanzees
in western equatorial Africa. This Simian virus was likely transmitted to
hunters infected when butchering these chimps for bush meat and it then mutated
in them into the HIV we know. Why this seems to have blossomed mid-20th
century is still conjecture but one interesting theory is that the European
colonization of parts of Africa forced the native Africans off the more
desirable land for farming and into the jungle areas where hunting bush meat
became a necessary source of protein. That would be one bitchin’ bit of Karma
wouldn’t it?
Hindsight can be a most potent
and effective teacher. The proverbial “if I only knew then what I know now” is
a frequently engaged mental exercise.  However,
we really aren’t psychics so feeling guilty that we are not is a big waste of
time. Living life to its fullest is inherently a risky proposition, and
mistakes will be made.
 I think it is certainly true for many of us with
HIV infection to view this virus as a gift from afar and that it is the direct
result of a guilty pleasure.  That view I
think though comes from very faulty thinking around health and illness, a view
still very prevalent today. The unsound and simplistic view is that being
healthy comes from being good and being sick from being bad. I would remind
everyone that no one gets out alive or as the Grateful Dead so succinctly sang
“if the thunder don’t get ya’, the lightning will”.
It may seem that I am blowing
off the reality that my actions have had consequences. Certainly they have even
if many of those actions were quite pleasurable in the moment and the
consequences a real bite in the ass down the road. I accept total
responsibility for my HIV but I really don’t engage in feeling guilty about it,
certainly not now 30 plus years down the road. I am much more likely to feel
very lucky to be alive today with this infection when so many in my life are
not. Guilt I think can be viewed as a form of regret about something that has
already happened and it is really a bit of toxic self-indulgence.
My main “guilty pleasure” these
days is primarily an addiction to ice cream almost always eaten in the evening
before bed. The “gift” if you will for my persistent indulgence in this
sugar-laden fat bomb several times a week may very well be Type 2 diabetes
eventually.
I was recently stunned by a
comment made by one of the Physician’s Assistants in the Urgent Care Clinic I
work. He had I think probably just seen a diabetic patient with unfortunate symptoms
related to diabetes, a necrotic toe perhaps that would require IV antibiotics
and maybe amputation. His rather forceful statement was:      “These
days I would rather have HIV than diabetes”.
Needless to say this comment
has stuck with me on more than one occasion when I am downing a pint of Ben and
Jerry’s, this shortly after taking my evening HIV meds. Guilty pleasures and
gifts from afar indeed!
© 17 May 2015 
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.
Posted on

Terror, by Gillian

I don’t understand terrorism
or terrorists. I mean, intellectually of course I do. I understand what
psychiatrists say about the factors causing people to become terrorists; but I
can’t get inside their heads. I simply cannot feel what it is they are feeling.
With an estimated minimum of a thousand young people a month from different
parts of the globe currently rushing off to join forces with ISIS, however,
it’s clear that creating terror holds an attraction for a significant number of
people.
Not only am I completely
mystified by that desire, or compulsion, to bring terror to others, but I am
fortunate enough to be able to say that I have never felt true terror myself.
That is not because I am remarkably brave and tough. Neither am I in denial of
some unacknowledged terror. It is simply that I have lived my life in a place
and time that has been terror-free. For me, that is. Not, alas, for everyone.
I can only imagine the utter
terror I would feel, hiding in the bushes in Rwanda, waiting to be discovered
and hacked to pieces by my erstwhile friends and neighbors. Or hiding in a room
in Nazi Germany, waiting to be turned in to the Gestapo by my erstwhile friends
and neighbors. Sadly, the list is endless. I would know what real terror was in
Stalin’s U.S.S.R and Mao’s China: the Cambodia of the Khmer Rouge and on and on
to today’s North Korea and most places in the Middle East.
I say I can only imagine, but
in truth I’m sure I cannot. I have lived so far from the horror of so many
people’s lives that I cannot begin to imagine what it would be like. I
have lived in my own little warm and cosy cocoon, safe and secure. Oh sure,
I’ve been a bit afraid occasionally. For instance, long before the advent of
cellphones, on business in Florida, I got lost in Miami in the dark and pouring
rain and my rental car broke down in a part of town which looked seriously
uninviting. Walking home in Denver one night after dark someone followed me
step for step. When I slowed, the footsteps behind me slowed; they kept pace if
I walked faster. Nothing bad resulted from these minor incidents, and the most
they made me feel was a bit nervous: just a frisson of fear. I’ve had health
issues that made me feel much the same, but that’s nothing approaching terror.
They call it a cancer scare, after all, not a cancer terror, though I’m
equally sure that being diagnosed with some horrific Stage Four cancer would
certainly invoke terror.
The most frightened I have
ever been, I think, were two instances involving airplanes.
One was on a flight from New
York’s La Guardia to London Heathrow. It was at the height of the Falklands
“war,” so it must have been 1982. I was working God knows how many
hours a week at the time and as soon as I settled to watch the movie, which was
Tora Tora Tora, I fell into a deep sleep. Over the mid-Atlantic we hit
some really rough air, and even that didn’t wake me, but a combination of
things suddenly did. We were bouncing around so badly that one of the overhead
bins bust open – it must not have been securely latched – and a hard-sided case
fell out onto the woman directly in front of me. It must have been heavy as
blood started pouring from her head and she began to scream. At precisely the
same moment, a voice from the cockpit announced with regret that the H.M.S.
Sheffield had been sunk with heavy loss of life. Well, you know what it’s like
when you are rudely awakened from a very deep sleep. You lust can’t get your
bearings. I was awash in confusion. My last memories, from the movie, were of
air battles; planes crashing into the ocean. The name Sheffield bothered me
because that’s where I went to College. Were we at war? What was happening? Why
was that woman screaming and bleeding?
Why was the plane pitching and
reeling? Were we going down in the ocean? I’m sure this complete lack of any
grasp on reality was very short-lived, but it seemed like forever and I was
truly scared. But I think I was too confused to be really terrified, and I
realized well enough that I was confused. Had we really been going down, yes,
then I’m sure I would have felt undeniable terror, for real. I think, now, of
those doomed passengers on that flight that went down in Pennsylvania on 9/11,
and more recently the one that wandered off course around the skies for several
hours before, they think, ending up at the bottom of the Indian Ocean; some
terror involved there, I would guess.
The other time was when my
husband of the time was flying us back from California in our little
four-seater plane. There were the two of us and my two youngest step-children.
We had just cleared the Sierra Nevada summit, heading East back to Colorado at
about 8,000 feet in a clear blue sky. Suddenly an invisible hole in the sky
opened up and we fell through it like a rock. My stomach hit the roof. The
clipboard securing the navigation charts, which I always held on my lap, shot
up and the metal clip gouged a big gash under my chin. My step-daughter started
screaming. The hillside was coming up to meet us at a really frightening speed.
The plane stopped falling as suddenly as it had started, and we landed at the
first available spot to make sure there was no damage. There was a crack in one
wing and in the tail, but not enough to stop us flying on home. We later
calculated that we had dropped about 6,000 feet in very few seconds.
And it was scary, but it was
all over before I had time to work up to real terror. Maybe it’s just that my
reactions are too slow!
I had planned to end there,
but you know how these stories go. Sometimes they seem to take on a life of their
own and go off on a tangent you had not planned to take. So we’ll just follow.
Some of you may remember that
several months ago I wrote about my dad, who, lost in a daze of dementia,
created havoc by trying to liven up their electric heater, which was made to
look somewhat like a real fire, by jabbing at it with the old metal poker. 
I was writing this current
story, last week, on a very cold day, around zero outside. Somehow when it’s
that cold, it seems to seep into the house regardless of how you have set the
thermostat.
I was cold. I huddled closer
to the cozily-glowing gas insert fireplace and noticed that there was a
considerable gap between two of the “logs.” No wonder it’s cold in
here, I thought, and unbidden the next thoughts leapt into my head. I
need to get the poker and rearrange those logs a bit, that’ll warm things up.
Now that truly terrifies me.
© 24 Nov 2014 
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

Cowgirls Come on Out, by EyM

Roy Rogers exuded cool.
He wore his neck scarf knot to the side. Roy Rogers always impressed Dale
Evans. So naturally when my little 8 year old wanna-be cowboy body and soul
craved to impress a girl, I copied him. Sure enough that scarf sat over my
jugular as I stood there wide-eyed looking into my Mother’s dresser mirror. My
exuberant rendition of a TV ad “Going out on a date in my Rocket V-8!” flew out
of my mouth full blast and full volume. Shame followed long after with
startling fear that I could have been heard. This magical mirrored moment
undeniably marks my early lesbian feelings.

Before that, my Father completely perplexed me when he shamed me at age 6 for asking if my neighbor, a boy, could stay all night and sleep outside with me in the tent. It took years to know just what his problem was. It took even longer to know that it was all his problem.

In first grade, oh how I wanted to impress Susan. I lovingly wired rag strips from the rag drawer to a piece of broomstick I cut just for her. I strutted on my Schwinn to her house to present the wonderful homemade mop. I grasped the bag at the top of the mop head and thrust the stick handle out with great flair. But ugh, only the stick came out.
It’s icky that I still feel embarrassed by the failed mop mistake, and even worse to hold the fear that my Rocket V-8 date song had been heard. How messed up is that? How messed up was the mid 50’s world that dumped so much shame. Obviously, our work is just beginning if even one little cowgirl or cowboy heart feels shame for who they are.
My Dad never really got it. “Don’t hang out in the back of the church with the boys! It just doesn’t look right!” Boys got to be ushers. He didn’t know how much I was one of the boys.
This year, about 60 years later, you cowgirls Barrel Racers took my breath away. Watching you young women fervently running your horses around those barrels was delicious to watch!
That was me as a teen. What a great full circle awakening. Thank you cowgirls. I don’t care how you tie your scarves. You rock! You RIDE! Oh how you ride, right here in my heart.
© 30 Sep 2015 
About the Author 
A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.