Tag: Life Stories

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Hallowe’en Dinner by Betsy

I was only trying to be
a good mother.  Back in the 1960‘and 70’s
liver was considered to be the best, most nutritious food available.  No other food had all the goodness of beef or
calves’ liver.  That is, nutritionally it
was the best, aesthetically, well, pretty awful, in my opinion.
During that time I was
very conscientious about giving my young children the best in nutrition.  The only question about liver was how
to get them to eat it.  I,
myself, had a hard time, indeed, getting the slightest morsel down.  The texture and the taste, I thought and
still think, are rather repulsive. But a good mother feeds her children
well.   So I determined that once a year,
at least, liver would be served at the dinner table and consumed by all–even
if it were to be a very small amount.  But
how to get them to eat it.  What
was a mother to do.
Hallowe’en offered the
perfect situation.  The children
typically would do their trick or treating as soon as they had finished their
dinner.  Well, you know the rest.  “You may go trick or treating after
you have finished your liver.” 
said I to the three sweet, little, adorable faces with blinking eyes
looking at me in anticipation of the excitement of going out with their friends
for Hallowe’en fun. Ooow!! That was hard. 
Was that cruel, or what.  Oh well,
I wouldn’t make them eat much.  Even just
a couple of bites!  After all, it’s for
their own good.  That’s why I’m doing
this, isn’t it.  Isn’t that what any good
mother would do?
Interesting that when
my daughters, now old enough to be young grandmothers, recently reminded me of
these hallowe’en dinners of many years ago, I replied innocently, “I don’t
remember any of that!.  Are you sure that
really happened?  You know, I wouldn’t
touch the stuff even if I wanted to.  It’s
full of cholesterol and toxins!”
The reality is that I
do remember, now that my memory has been tweaked.  And, yes, this did happen, but I think only
once or maybe twice at most, not the many, many hallowe’en dinners that they
remember. 
At the time those liver
dinners on Hallowe’en were not so funny to any of us.  Eating liver was serious business.  Now we know better.   Now 45 years later, every Hallowe’en, we get
lots of laughs remembering the liver dinner–or was it dinners?  I get teased a lot about this.  I guess my kids grew up and came to
understand what it’s like to be a parent wanting to do the right thing for
their kids.
But as I look back on
it now, I realize I have mellowed a lot. 
I don’t think I would make my kids do that now, especially on
Hallowe’en.  Every once in a while, in
spite of the laughs, a vague, nagging feeling from deep inside emerges and
suggests that maybe that was kind of mean–making them eat liver.  But, then, didn’t someone say that Hallowe’en
has its dark side. 
© 31 Oct 2011

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the
GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians
Organizing for Change).  She has been
retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years.  Since her retirement, her major activities
include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor
with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning.  Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of
marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys
spending time with her four grandchildren. 
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing
her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards. 
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The Gayest Person I Have Ever Known by Will Stanton

I know the world is full of
gay people (using the currently popular definition of the term), and they dress
and behave in many different ways.  If,
however, the person who chose this topic was thinking of the stereotypical gay
guy with distinctive apparel or mannerisms who often draws attention to
himself, I really have not hung around very many gays like that.  If I use that frame of reference, however,
then I would have to think of young Peter whom I met in college.
Peter did, in fact, draw
attention to himself; but he seemed to be able to do it in a way that
fascinated people, never repelled them. 
I suppose that he had the advantage of being remarkably good looking, as
well as intelligent and charismatic. 
I  observed  people’s body-language that supported this
fact.  Sometimes, I’d see straight guys
encounter a gay guy and then immediately draw away in distaste; whereas, with
Peter, they involuntarily would lean forward, eyes wide-open, fascinated.  Other gays on campus did not fare so well as
he did.  I know of at least one gay who
was beaten up, but even the homophobes just stared at Peter, and that is no
exaggeration.  Straight guys seemed to be
far too taken with Peter to ever consider being unkind to him.
Peter’s heritage was an
unlikely pairing of Polish and Sicilian ancestry.  He had the fine, classic facial features of a
Polish aristocrat, and I could imagine that his mother resembled Tadzio’s
mother in the film “Death in Venice.”  
He also flaunted a mane of golden locks, much like Tadzio’s.  His skin was a smooth, honey-tan.  Apparently, the only obvious inheritance from
his Sicilian father was the ability to tan without burning.
Peter obviously was very
aware of his good looks and their effect upon people.  He enjoyed being noticed.  He did confide in me, however, one concern
about his physical self.  His body appeared
to be rather soft and smooth, even slightly androgynous; and he wondered if he
innately was less masculine than most college-age guys.
Peter chose clothes that
straight guys would be embarrassed to wear. 
Between Peter’s physical appearance, his cute clothes, and his confident
way of talking and walking, he never failed to draw attention.
Peter had a large group of
gay friends, plus an endless string of guys persistently trying to get Peter
into bed, and a series of trailing hangers-on that people unkindly referred to
as “fag-hags.”  It was nothing to see
Peter cheerfully making his way somewhere, trailed by several enamored
acquaintances, much like moths to a flame.
Peter was an unabashed
flirt. He knew when people were staring at him. 
If he was in a teasing mood, he could embarrass his admirers by
sensuously displaying himself. He might smile at them and not leave until the
observers turned red with embarrassment. 
 
From what Peter told me, I
think that he enjoyed flirting with straight guys.  He once answered an ad to share expenses with
two straight guys in a van going to Florida for spring break. When they drove
up to Peter’s house, he appeared wearing tiny, baby-blue shorts and a little
pink sweater.  And, when he came
flouncing down the front steps to the van, his gay house-mate called out, “Have
a good time, and don’t get any nice boys into trouble!”  The two guys’ jaws dropped.  Apparently, the straight guys overcame their
initial surprise, for by the time they pulled over into a rest stop for the
night, Peter ended up being, as he later described it, “the meat in the
sandwich.”  Once Peter arrived in Florida,
he donned a diaphanous caftan, strutted upon the beach, and immediately found
housing and entertainment during his stay because he was picked up by a member
of one of America’s most wealthy and prominent families.  I have chosen not to mention the name.  Then he had the ride home with the two
straight guys to enjoy.
No one could mistake Peter
as being anything other than gay, but he had no interest in drag.  Some of his friends; however, thought that he
was too pretty not to try it, at least on one occasion.  They decided to dress Peter up for a big
party that would have lots of straight guys there with their dates.  At first, he resisted, but eventually he
agreed to do it.  As it turned out, his
appearance was so stunning that a lot of the guys abandoned their dates, went
over to Peter, and were trying to chat him up. Their abandoned dates were
furious. Peter was so convincing that they never discovered that he was a guy
in drag.  He could be flamboyant, but he did
not care for drag. He never did that again.
On a few occasions, I paled
around with Peter, but we never did anything particularly gay or
titillating.  We took a hike around the
state park, went to see the film “Death in Venice” together, and sometimes just
hung out talking.  Even though I admired
his good looks, I never asked to go to bed with Peter.  I liked him just for who he was.  He wondered why I had not asked.  I replied that, apparently, everyone else
continually asked him, and my asking him simply would place my friendship on
their same level.  My friendship could be
misinterpreted, implying that having sex was all that I really was interested
in.  That impressed him, for when he
graduated and left college, he gave me some gifts including three photos of
himself.  The color one is included with
this story.  I have one very large,
glass-framed composite-portrait in silver that was part of his final
commercial-art portfolio.  He wrote on
the back of the picture, “Love ya always, Peter.”
The last time that I talked
with Peter, he expressed, for the first time that I observed, some loss of
confidence.  Here he had graduated and
was going out into the real world.  He
was afraid of how people would treat him, his being so obviously gay.  He imagined that he might have to limit
himself to living on the East Coast or West Coast where there might be a
greater percentage of tolerant people.  I
hope that he chose well.
I often have wondered what
became of Peter.  Out of curiosity, I did
a couple of searches on the web.  All
that I found were listings for several people with the same name, but none
appeared to be “The Peter.”  Perhaps it
is it is just as well that I do not have a current photo of him.  We all have aged, and even he was not
immortal.  I’ll just remember him as he
was, the golden, cheerful, charismatic Peter. 
And just maybe, he might discover our blog and read this story.                                     
© 04 April 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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Thanksgiving 2013 by Ricky

            Another Thanksgiving holiday is upon
us and I always take time to ponder the things I am thankful for but this year I
am also thinking about the changes that have taken place over my lifetime.  Back-in-the-day (I am old enough to use that
expression and it actually has meaning) as a young lad I really enjoyed the
holiday season.  First, Halloween
followed by Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve managed to offset the
after Labor Day plague of school homework with visions of “tons” of candy,
turkey and pumpkin pie, and presents, and the ever popular 1 ½ to 2 weeks of
time off from school.
          Thanksgiving
was marked by comments like “stay out of my way” or “stay out of the kitchen while
I’m fixing the turkey” or “you can help best by going outside and play while I
get this meal done.”  It was hard (read
that as impossible) for a young boy to stay away from the kitchen when all
those marvelous aromas kept wafting (to me at the time “pouring”) out of the
kitchen.  Naturally, mother had to
“remind” me to “Stay out!” and “Keep away from that pie!” all with an elevated
voice (to be polite about her emphasis). 
However, at last, all the waiting was done and the most excellent of all
meals was consumed (for several days after also) only to be repeated at
Christmas dinner.
          I can remember
that Thanksgiving was “promoted” not only on school bulletin boards in the
classrooms where each teacher and students would try to have the best
Thanksgiving displays in the entire school. 
My class’s was clearly the best each and every time but, those biased
judges never managed to pick my class as the winner.
          The community
also decorated for Thanksgiving.  Mostly
it was done by the various businesses by putting up window decorations.  The department stores fancied up their window
displays with Thanksgiving themes surrounding the mannequins on display.  Sadly, this “custom” did not last as the movement
to purchase gifts for Christmas began to gain momentum in the business
community moved the Christmas displays ever earlier in the year finally
eclipsing Thanksgiving in favor of making the “almighty dollar” sooner rather
than later.  Once again, greed conquered
gratefulness in our society.  Now only
the truly dedicated believers in a “higher power” take time to remember why the
Thanksgiving Day holiday was created.  It
saddens me.
          Fortunately, I
remember the purpose of the holiday so here is my list of things I am thankful
and grateful for this season.
I am thankful for: being alive at 65;
having good health; my deceased wife; all my children; the opportunity to be
educated; living in The United States; learning to read via phonics in
Minnesota schools; living with my grandparent’s and uncle on a farm for two
years; being lonely enough to join the Boy Scouts; my brother and sister; my
father and all he has done for and to me; my mother and step-father; all my
mistakes whether or not I learned from them; as they were the catalyst for my
coming out; all my acquaintances at SAGE’s Telling Your Story group, and Prime
Timers; and finally that I was not aborted but allowed to live and have all the
adventures and experiences I had and will have in the future.

© 25 November 2013 

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 began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
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The Shongololo by Betsy and Gillian

We were looking for a trip that would provide both adventure, something different, and a measure of comfort. It was in the year 2000 that our search ended when we read an article in the travel section of the Denver Post. The Shongololo: ten day train tour through South Africa. If this trip turned out to be as the article described it would be perfect. We needed a travel agent representing the South African Company to make the arrangements for us. There was such an agent in Boulder. So to Boulder we went to book our tour on the Shongololo.

The tour started in Cape Town. We decided to spend a few days exploring Cape Town on our own before the tour started. So we booked a room at the Holiday Inn in the heart of the city on Market Square.

We arrived there in mid day and, of course, we were quite exhausted from the arduous trip we had just completed, so we checked into our hotel and went directly to our room to relax and turned on the TV to check on the world news. What we saw was a gorgeous, young, black South African woman delivering the news broadcast by making clicking sounds so unfamiliar to us we laughed. For a moment in our sleep deprived state we thought perhaps we had journeyed not to another continent but to another planet. What we were hearing, we later learned, was Xhosa or the click language. Xhosa is one of the official languages of South Africa spoken by 7.5 million people. Later, on the train one of our guides was to give us a good demonstration of the language.

There our adventure did begin. We were determined to tread that narrow line between being street smart and not letting fear-mongering tie us to our hotel room or at the wildest, organized tours. We had perfect weather – not hard to find in South Africa – and walked for endless miles around the city. We rode the cable car to the top of Table Mountain on of those very rare days when the cloud “tablecloth” did not envelope it and the views from the top were superb. We set off one day to visit a museum dedicated to an old “colored” township which had been demolished during the dark days of apartheid, to make room for white folk who wanted the ocean views the area provided. In the event no further development took place, and the hillside lay barren and empty except for endless windblown garbage. Unable to find the museum, we were told that it had moved, and our informant, an old black man, provided us with two young black men who had been sitting idly on the sidewalk, to be our guides. Ever fearful of being “ugly Americans,” we accepted and set off across this endless wasteland. Betsy and I glanced at each other occasionally with looks that said,

“Are we being stupid? Should we be doing this?”

But one of the young men, who spoke reasonable English, chatted on to us about the current unemployment and other post-apartheid problems, and they seemed O.K.

Perhaps the fact that they were not very big, and we had some notion we could take them if it came to a fight, gave us fools’ courage.

Anyway, it turned out we were not fools. They led us straight to the museum and didn’t even ask for money for their time, although we did give them some before they started on their long trek back into the City. They, and that museum and the friendly people we met there, were one of the great highlights of our trip. Sometimes, when it comes to trust, you’ve just got to go with your gut!

We noticed, while on our own in Cape town, that on the street or in a park or anywhere for that matter, except in our own hotel room, we were constantly approached by South Africans with their hands out asking for–well, we imagined, money was what they wanted. We thought it prudent to NOT hand over cash. And I think we had been advised about this. If we had a little bit, probably we had more would be the message and we certainly wanted to avoid sending that message. We hated the ignoring, so we decided to buy tiny packets of dried fruit which we had noticed in some stores. We kept the packets tucked away in pockets the next time we went out and gave them out as people approached asking for………it turns out they were asking for anything we had to offer and dried fruit was like gold to some. So very grateful they were for a few morsels of fruit. This gratitude so impressed us we wanted to give baskets of fruit rather than tiny packets. But at least we were able to give some sort of response to their supplications.

The streets of Cape Town were full of activity every day. Many people walking about going from here to there, there were always those with their hands out, vendors hawking their wares, crafts, hand made jewelry, clothing, household items, etc. Particularly notable were the groups of young people–usually girls, but not always–performing groups, singing, dancing, sometime simply gyrating to the very lively, upbeat music. The singing was always well practiced, sung in perfect harmony and beautifully. They made choral singing look so easy and they did this while dancing and with no director. We often found ourselves mesmerized by such performances. Of course donations were put into the collection bowl, but talk about working hard for a pittance!

Our escapades on our own in Cape Town were the first indication of what a happy people the South Africans are. This fact impressed us throughout the trip through the country. These people whom one would expect to be full of anger and resentment, many of them struggling to survive from one day to the next, were, at least seemingly, some of the happiest people we had ever seen.

OK OK this is supposed to be about train trip. Yeah, yeah!

After a wonderful time in Cape Town we finally did board the train, and rattled off up the coast of the Indian Ocean.

Have any of you seen, on TV, the travelogue of The Blue Train, another tourist train which winds it’s way across South Africa, as it’s passengers sport dinner jackets and cocktail dresses and sip champagne in their expansive private lounges? Let me disillusion you right now.

The Shongololo ain’t no Blue Train!

Our cabin was tiny, with two very narrow folding bunks huddled on either side of a tiny wash basin, suggesting something out of the shrunken part of Gulliver’s Travels. But it was clean, as was the shower which, far from en suite, was one per each carriage of perhaps a dozen people. Out of 40 or so passengers, there were only two other Americans, who, apparently unprepared, were appalled by the accommodations. However, after the first bout of complaints they gave up, accepted their situation, and ended up being very good sports. The rest of the passengers were a mix of various Europeans, several Aussies, a few from New Zealand and Canada and some miscellaneous, or, as the Brits put it, odds and sods.

The train travels overnight while you sleep. If you’re lucky, that is, as it hurtles round bends accompanied by squealing breaks, only to shudder swiftly to slower speeds while you cling desperately to the strap provided beside your bunk. The previous night, you decide which of several van trips you choose to go on the next day. Maybe a gold mine, wildlife preserve, ostrich farm, museum, shopping, spend the day at the beach or at the winery. Never a dull moment! All the trips were fascinating. You have breakfast, and all the meals were delicious, and then they unload the vans from the flatbeds on which they ride, and off you go on your trip of choice, returning to the train in the evening for dinner and of course exchanges of van stories in the bar.

We loved every minute of it.

The entire trip took place in South Africa and all regions of that country except for one stop in a different country–Swaziland. The Kingdom of Swaziland, a sovereign nation, is an island in the sea of South Africa, completely surrounded by the larger nation with the exception of Mozambique to the East. The Shongololo made one brief stop in Swaziland. When we pulled into the station we were greeted by yet another group of singing, dancing children. These were school children, younger than those we saw in Cape Town, and had been well groomed and trained for this event and they performed with precision. They seemed to be very proud to be able to entertain us and did not expect any reward. Once we filled out the required “arrival forms,” as with all the other stops we were able to depart the train and spend a few hours in the local craft market and a glass recycling shop.

From the vantage point of The Shongololo, which means centipede in Zulu, we were able to get an excellent view of the diverse topography of South Africa. From the coastal towns like Port Elizabeth and Durban through the Drakensberg Mountains to the lush winelands and the Klein Karoo. South Africa is rich in spectacular and diverse scenery. So little time, so many places to see and so many things to do. There is not time or space here to even touch on all the varied adventures and sights offered to us on this trip. But there are two in particular that I must mention.

I do not remember exactly where the ostrich farm was, but we both chose that option on the day it was offered. I may have settled for a day of rest on the train that day had I known I would soon find myself perched upon the back of an ostrich racing around an ostrich corral. At first it was scary but turned out to be good for a lot of laughs–laughs for the spectators. I did not laugh at all until I was allowed to dismount from the bird. They can run like the wind!

Did you know ostrich eggs are strong enough to stand on without breaking. We were given the opportunity to prove it by doing just that before we left the farm.

Since I love swimming in the ocean especially in the surf, when we visited the city of Durbin I had to dig out my” bathing costume,” as they say in south Africa, and spend a day at the beach. The beach, the weather, the Indian Ocean surf–all of it was absolutely blissful. I was paddling around in the water when my bliss was interrupted by a loud, shrill, high-pitched sound very much something I had heard before–oh yes, a life guard’s whistle. When I “woke up” and looked around, I noticed that everyone was running out of the water toward the beach. The whistle kept sounding so it was abundantly clear that there was a reason for leaving the water–the sound of the whistle and the urgency with which people were leaving the water was quite startling, really. Meantime Gill had been sitting in a cafe enjoying a beer, watching the bathers when all this excitement took place. She had no more idea than I did what event had precipitated the hasty exodus so she asked the waiter who calmly explained,”Oh, someone spotted a shark. It happens a lot.” I probably will never swim in the Indian Ocean again. But if I do it will not be blissful ever again. Just scary.

We could go on and on about every single day. They were all great. Good times with wonderful friends we acquired on the trip, especially one Australian couple who came to stay with us in Denver a couple of years later, and we have a standing invitation to visit them. We were certainly the only same-sex couple on the train, but if anyone cared they kept it to themselves.

We were lucky, of course; not all the Shongololo trips went as ours did. The one right before ours was, apparently, something of a disaster. It had poured with rain the entire time, they had been unable to go on several of the scheduled trips due to flooding, and Kruger National Park was closed. The train tracks were slippery and the train derailed at one point. No-one was hurt but it caused serious disruption to the schedule. On top of all this, the British and German passengers were about to start World War Three!

On our trip, the carriages were largely set up by language and we didn’t see a whole lot of the large German contingent, I guess the company had learnt it’s lesson! Not that Brits and Germans inevitably cannot get along, but given that the vast majority of travelers on the Shongololo are our age, and so of World War Two vintage, a little friction is no surprise. We had no problems, although I have to say there was one memorable German lady who could well have precipitated a few quarrels but we were all determined to keep the peace, although the Brits all nicknamed her Hildegard the Horrible Hun.

She was a very big woman with hair dyed something near maroon. She barked tersely at everyone in strident German and strode about everywhere in a way that could only conjure up visions of shining jackboots. The train’s corridors were only one-person wide but she would advance on a group of us heading in the opposite direction, forcing a dozen people to back up so as not to impede her progress. She would also come from her own carriage to ours to use our shower, very much against the unspoken rules, as there was always a long line for the shower at the end of each van trip. But as I say, we were lucky. Everyone just joked about it and didn’t let Horrible Hildegard upset our equanimity. In fact, as we observed the German contingent shaking their heads and tut-tutting over her, she helped us all to bond!

Anyway, Hildegard the Horrible Hun turned out to be the biggest, really the only, negative of the entire trip. Not only was it the best train trip we have ever been on, but it was certainly on of the best trips of any kind of our lives. Sometimes we’re tempted to do it again, but over a lifetime we have at least garnered enough wisdom to know you can never repeat the best things; the best times. We went looking for a little adventure, something different, and we found that and a lot more.

As a postscript, I want to share a very SHORT story with you. We were camping in a fairly remote part of Utah last year, and ran into a young South African woman. We immediately, of course, strted regaling her with our Shongololo experience. She found this to be an extraordinary coincidence, as her childhood nickname had been Shongololo. It’s probably not an earth-shaking coincidence, really, but out in the middle of the Utah desert, it sure seemed that way!

© 8/25/14

About the Authors

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.

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.

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Thanksgiving Dinner at the Brown House by Louie

(published in this blog previously on June 20, 2014)

When I was around 11 or 12 years old, I remember having Thanksgiving dinner with my parents and brothers in College Point. It was the mid-1950’s. Dwight Eisenhower was the President. I was a child happy with life, but my parents were very poor. I was too young to understand the inconveniences of poverty. We lived in a two-family house, and the upstairs tenant was a mother and daughter, Edna. They were poorer than we were. Edna got herself invited to our Thanksgiving and enjoyed setting up for the feast.

My parents and especially my mother and grandmother wanted us to remember that once upon a time the Brown family and my maternal grandmother’s family, the Wilcoxes, in the 19th century were enormous affluent, influential families. On the wall were a picture of Abraham Lincoln in an oak oval frame and another of my great grandfather Captain Francis Leicester Brown of the Union Army in an oak oval frame. There was a petty point sampler that read “God bless the family in this household,” completed by me on my 15th birthday, May 10, 1819, Hannah Hopkins Hodge.

In the 17th and 18th centuries my ancestors were prominent Puritan ministers. Even back then there were seemingly endless irreconcilable theological battles going on. On the other hand, my mother warned us that, though we should remember our ancestors, we should not be like her great aunt and become ancestor worshipers. It wasn’t wholesome either.

The meal consisted of turkey, creamed onions, turnips, yams, rather traditional. What made it memorable was the chinaware: Limoges and Haviland plates and platters, a Wedgewood chocolate pitcher, Limoges demitasse espresso coffee cups that were works of art. Crystal goblets for the cider, a magnificent Damask table cloth and napkins. Ornate sterling silverware, Victorian style. Our attic was full of these remnants and memorabilia of an affluent comfortable 19th century past. Corny but beautiful oil paintings, more petit point samplers, lavish gowns with the finest French laces. More Victorian extravagance. Edna from a Catholic family really enjoyed our Thanksgiving dinners. For a day we Browns were again important people though the reference point was to another earlier century. For a day we were ancestor worshipers.

Moral: How do poor people become whole happy well-adjusted people in a hostile social environment? I think poor people learning survival skills is probably more important than measuring one’s personal worth by the balance in our checking accounts and the influence we have in our communities.

Catholic Edna for example is happy. She started out poor. She is still poor, but she has a good understanding of why certain politicians say what they say. She has a spiritual dimension to her belief system. She survives, she is well-adjusted. She also proves that Puritans and Catholics can get along just fine, thank you.

Personally, I am still a “mal-content”. I am dissatisfied with church-sponsored homophobia, and the establishment’s irrational hostility to poor people, but I am on the mend.

Our best teachers in the current environment are Occupy Wall Street and the Radical Faeries. I heard clearly what they have to say. They are convincing. We Americans should object to Wall Street giving orders to our elected leaders about how they should victimize the public for the sake of increasing profits for billionaires. The Radical Faeries in their presentations at the Lesbian and Gay Center in New York City pointed out the need for Lesgay people to develop a spiritual side to their personalities, to revere their sexual orientation rather than skulking around hating ourselves for the convenience of homophobes. We are an international “tribe”. Guess what, there are gay people in Morocco and Australia.

In her personal search to find meaning in life outside of material success, Edna feels that she should boast about her family, her two children. In general, since Lesgay people are banished from traditional families, we have to devise another system that suits our communal interests.

What do we tell Lesbian and gay homeless teenagers who have been tossed out of their fundamentalist parents’ homes because of their sexual orientation? In other words, empower the out-groups. Amen.

© 31 March 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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Giving Thanks by Nicholas

(published previously in this blog on June 10, 2014)

It was our first Thanksgiving together in our first flat together in San Francisco. We loved the place up the hill from Parnassus Avenue above Cole Valley. The street was Woodland, named so, we presumed, because it ended in a small forest of eucalyptus that ran up Mt. Sutro in the heart of the city. The rent was a bit steep even then but we fell in love with the redwood shingle house of which we occupied the first floor. We were right at the usual fog line so we could watch the fog roll in from the ocean at the front and see the sun at the back.

Our flat was elegant. Old wood trim, arched front window with beveled glass, neat little kitchen with lots of counter space that was a deep, lustrous purple. I loved those deep purple countertops. That was the first kitchen that I loved to cook in.

Being our first Thanksgiving in our own place, we decided to entertain at home with friends coming over instead of joining Jamie’s family in Menlo Park, an hour south. It was kind of a statement of independence from the family and a statement that holidays were ours. So, we invited a bunch of friends and began planning dinner for eight on Thanksgiving Day. We asked each person or couple to contribute something like an appetizer, a salad, a side dish, dessert, wine. We ordered the turkey and would roast it and make stuffing.

We got a 12 pound bird and studied up on what to do with it. What’s to cooking a turkey, we thought. You throw it in the oven early in the morning, check it now and then, and, voila, dinner was ready. Truth is, this wasn’t the very first turkey I had cooked. A previous boyfriend and I had cooked a turkey one holiday so I thought I knew what I was doing. I should have learned more from that turkey, I mean, the boyfriend.

With the bird in the oven in plenty of time, we thought we were in fine shape to get other things done. Jamie decided to call his mom just to wish her a happy holiday and remind her of what a wonderful time we were having. Mom, being mom, couldn’t leave things alone and had to start asking questions about what was, to her, our cooking experiment. Had we washed the turkey, had we wrapped it in foil or a roasting bag, had we made stuffing, had we gotten the giblets and other parts out of both ends.

Wait a minute, I said, both ends? Turkeys have two ends? I know they do in nature but in the supermarket? I had pulled some extra body parts out of one end, where was this other end and what was supposed to come out of it? Humbled and desperate, we dashed to the oven and yanked the damned bird out of the heat. The cavity was empty, as it was supposed to be. We pried open the other end, having discovered that indeed there was an opening there too. That’s when we realized we were in trouble. The back side, or maybe it was the front, was still frozen solid. I neglected to mention that we had gotten a frozen turkey and had given it what we thought was a proper 2-3 day thawing, but the damn thing was still ice inside.

We threw it back into the oven, cranked up the temp and hoped it would cook. Guests were due to arrive soon. Turkeys are slow birds, especially in the oven. Hours seemed to go by and it was only warm.

Since we’d planned a leisurely meal, we told people to come over early so we could nosh. We did just that. Guests and their dishes arrived to great cheer and our anxious announcement that dinner might be a little later than planned. We did not elaborate.

We opened the wine. We ate the appetizers. We ate the salad. We opened more wine. The turkey was gradually getting warmer, even starting to cook.

Then the second disaster of our elegant holiday feast arrived. The friend assigned to bring a nice dessert showed up late, though that was no problem compared to the one in the oven. “What did you bring for dessert,” we asked. He proudly pulled out a five-pound bag of apples, just apples, like from a tree. He said it would be a healthy dessert. I said, let me show you where the flour, butter and sugar are and you can bake a pie, like now. Or, I gave him a choice, I could put one of his apples in his mouth and throw him into the oven so we could have two turkeys. He opted instead to go out and buy something.

We were just about ready for dessert by then anyway since we had consumed the entire meal including sweet potatoes and vegetables when at long last the fucking turkey was ready to eat.

We did have our lovely Thanksgiving dinner though the order was slightly reversed with the main course last. I’ve never again purchased a frozen turkey but have successfully cooked fresh, never frozen birds to the delight of hungry guests. I do not recommend buying frozen turkeys.

© 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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Pushing the Buttons by Will Stanton

I try to go swimming several times each week for exercise. I go during what is called “Senior Swim.” I call it “Old Farts Swim,” for the elderly wrecks of humanity who show up there plainly exhibit the ravages of time. I sometimes have wondered what the adolescents from preceding classes during summer think when they view in the locker room these shambling husks of once healthy men. Are they able to foresee their own doom, or can they not relate?

There are some nice people who show up during Senior Swim. There is one particular man and one kind woman that I usually talk with. I often swim back and forth, head out of water, discussing world events or various pleasant topics. I try to avoid negative or disturbing topics.

There is a group of old farts, however, who appear to embody all the worst of the all-too-numerous Neanderthals of our society. Actually, I should not use that word to describe them; that would be denigrating Neanderthals. Because they appear to rely primarily upon the reptilian core of their brains, perhaps I should refer to them as “dinosaurs.”

These old farts appear to be politically and socially delusional. Fact and reality have no value to them and consistently are ignored. They are proud of the fact that their only source of information is Fox Noise, the attack-propaganda outlet for the extreme right-wing. Ironically, they believe that all other news sources are left-wing, socialist propaganda that should not be listened to. They do read books, especially Ann Coulter and Bill O’Reilly.

These old farts also seem to be filled with hate. They use that word a lot. “I hate Jimmy Carter. I hate Ted Kennedy. I hate Obama. I hate Nancy Pelosi,” and on and on. When they choose to orally attack someone or something, that emotion of hate is clearly evident in their voices and facial expressions.

I generally am very tolerant and always civil with people. The cumulative effect of the dinosaurs’ harangues, either overheard as I swim by or shared with several of us, can eventually become an irritation. I remain civil, but I sometimes succumb to the desire to “push their buttons.” I have created a persona for myself of being a very conservative thinker who, on occasion, becomes mystified and frustrated by the transgressions of the dinosaur-politicians, media pundits, and fundamentalist preachers who are far too numerous and influential in our nation. Then, I say something to old farts, “in all innocence” and as though I am hoping that I may gain from their responses a glimmer of understanding of why such “good conservatives” would engage in such terrible deeds or why they would say something so hypocritical and ironic in view of what these people have said or done in the past.

In short, I actually am trying to get them to think rationally based upon fact and reality. If I were to sound combative in my oral responses, they would explode into anger; so I do not. Because I speak to them with civility, the content of what I’m saying simply mystifies them. For a moment, they have blank stares and no comment. Then, they either go on with what they have been saying without any acknowledgment that something was presented to them for consideration, or they return to the same delusional claim made previously.

For example, one dinosaur stated, as though matter of fact, “Jimmy Carter is the worst president that nation ever had.” Of course, he ignores the facts that Carter is an honest man, continues to do good for the country and did a lot internationally, which won him the Nobel Peace Prize, secretly got six of our diplomat-hostages out of Iran, and would have had all the rest out before the next election if some influential right-wingers had not secretly gone to Iran and offered to sell weapons to the Iranians if they delayed releasing our remaining hostages until moments after Reagan’s inauguration. Of course, that was treason and denied Carter a second term, but that is how dinosaur-politicians operate. The response of the farts often is, “I haven’t heard that,” which means, “that can’t be true.” Still, I was able to do a little bit of button-pushing. Ironically, the dinosaurs speak of Democrat’s fictitious efforts to “steal elections,” ironic and hypocritical also in light of what we now know what happened in the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections.

Then one day, one of them related a whole string of national and international accomplishments that he attributed to Nixon. My response was, “That’s puzzling. All the historical documents attribute those successes to President Carter.” The dinosaur responded simply with a mystified look and stated, “I thought it was Nixon.“

On another occasion, one dinosaur adamantly asserted that, “America has the number-one healthcare system in the world.” I answered with, “That’s curious. Some in-depth studies of healthcare systems throughout the world list the U.S. as number 37th behind Slovenia.” After a moment of confused silence, the dinosaur responded with, “But, we still are number one.” The facts were not accepted, but at least I may have received a little satisfaction from my button-pushing.

Another of the herd of dinosaurs often ejaculated the claim that “Kennedy was a terrible president .” After the umpteenth time that he said that, I “innocently” asked him, “Aren’t you pleased that Kennedy gave you and your family another fifty years of life?” Of course, he has no knowledge or what I’m referring to; and if he did, he would deny the facts. That fact that we now know about the Cuban Missile Crisis is that our own military wanted to invade Cuba and, supposedly out of consequential necessity, have a nuclear first-strike against the Soviet Union. The U.S. may well have done so without the intervention of Jack and Robert Kennedy. The Kennedys, instead, solved the crises through political back-channels. The fact from Russia is that Khrushchev’s own son revealed that his father told him that he was ready to respond to any U.S. action with a retaliatory nuclear strike had the U.S. attacked Cuba. The dinosaur gave no response. He just turned off his mind and refused to consider that information. Again, my button-pushing probably satisfied only me.

Of course, the dinosaurs believe that Republicans can do no wrong. One of them sternly announced to me, “Republicans never have done anything wrong Only the Democrats have; and it’s not just because they are incompetent, it’s because they have a conspiracy to destroy our nation!” Isn’t interesting that they believe that our nation in divided into two groups of people, good – – meaning Tea Party bloviators, radical Republicans, and right-wing militias, versus evil – – Democrats, socialists, professors, Hollywood, and pot-smoking hippies. Fortunately, I don’t appear to them to be in one of those evil groups, although they may hate me behind my back if I have required them to attempt to engage in factual, logical thinking.

The dinosaur’s’ blindness and hypocrisy regarding sexual transgressions is mind-boggling. Over the years, a bunch of conservatives have professed to be obedient, God-fearing Christians. They sign the conservative pledge of monogamy and faithfulness, and then have had sex with mistresses, prostitutes, underage girls and boys. Some of those politicians even were sponsors of legislation against the vary acts they have committed. When yet another naughty dinosaur makes the news, I may be attempted again to push the old farts’ buttons by “innocently” expressing consternation that an “otherwise good Republican” was caught stalking Congressional pages even though he had written legislation against it; or a homophobe, who wrote anti-gay legislation, was caught having sex with an underage boy. After I have pushed their buttons, they respond with the usual, “I never heard that on Fox.”

Dinosaurs have a third way of responding to unwelcome news by immediately trying to deflect that bad news by pointing out that a Democrat recently had done something terribly wrong, such as being arrested for speeding and given a traffic ticket. For some reason, they don’t see the discrepancy between the Republican’s immoral and illegal acts such as corrupting the democratic process versus the Democrat’s traffic offense.

And finally, the fact that Bill Clinton had extramarital sex warranted his being impeached, whereas the Bush gang lied to the nation, started an unwarranted war that cost the nation thousands of lives and five trillion dollars, put our nation’s reputation into the dumpster, violated international treaties by engaging in torture and crimes against humanity, all of which were similar charges against the Nazis at the Nuremberg Trials that resulted in the perpetrators being hanged. Apparently however, the Bush junta’s crimes did not warrant impeachment of Bush or bringing criminal charges against the whole evil bunch.

Yes, on occasion, I have succumbed to the temptation of pushing the dinosaurs’ buttons. I few times, I have expressed supposed mystification and confusion at the egregious transgressions of that unelected Bush administration and the terrible, continuing consequences to the nation and the world as a whole. The old farts are beginning to muse that the U.S. should never have gone into Iraq and Afghanistan, but usually they respond just by repeating how terrible Jimmy Carter was.

Over the years, I have grown older and perhaps more weary, because I seldom feel the urge or have the energy to push dinosaur buttons. I understand that I never will change them, never be able to encourage them to learn real facts and to practice high quality critical thinking skills. That’s a lost cause. Nowadays, my occasional expressions of mystification and consternation may be expressed only to like-minded friends. There is little practical purpose in doing so, however, other than just “venting my spleen.” As the old saying goes, sharing similar observations with friends is like “preaching to the choir.”

© 05 May 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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A Meal to Remember by Phillip Hoyle

One crisp March morning twelve years ago I caught the faint aroma of a meal I will never forget. I was standing over on East 12th Avenue talking with another man who, like me, was waiting for a bus. That first sniff came accompanied with a rather high-pitched, scratchy voice that I thought was cute. With it came a beautiful face with big smiles and startlingly warm eyes. I could feel my hunger mounting with these first glances and a few simple words. Twelve years ago I began seeing Rafael, his presence then like an appetizer promising the delight of an entrée, a dessert, even a feast! Twelve years ago I began living in a relationship that, when most clearly expressed, seemed a protracted meal. And I was one hungry guy.

I had no idea there’d be an outcome to this initial meeting at a bus stop, but I certainly realized more and more about my hungering desire. At the thought of him the aromas of a bakery, of a steak house, of a backyard BBQ, and of a candy shop enticed me. All the flavors seemed delicately balanced. The whole experience that persisted for seven months seemed to me like a Chinese meal in which each bite offered a slightly different combination of vegetables, meats, sauces, and memories. And as I said before, there was beauty in the face of my lover, in the delight I saw in his eyes, in a body language of loving excitement.

When on our third unplanned meeting I touched him, I was afraid. Would I ever again have contact? Would he actually be more than a memory? But the touch intensified my desire as it communicated itself to him. Oh, I was there thinking, laughing, teasing, delighting, feeling. I presented myself openly to him in a way I never before had communicated to anyone. During those few moments, I felt as if my salivary glands were taking over my body, yet I realized there were several more glands at work in my responses to the man I had just touched.

When I finally heard from him again, it was a message on my answering machine. I returned it with an invitation to dinner where he met some of my family and asked if there was wine. I said no, but the two of us would go to a nearby restaurant for wine and dessert.

Eventually we got together—actually starting from that dessert and subsequent evening. And we actually cooked for one another, although he was the major cook. Rafael had heard my stories about Dianne. He said, “Invite her for dinner.” He prepared an Italian meal which we ate with relish. This woman who had spent years living in Europe told him she’d never tasted better cannelloni even in Italy. Rafael always insisted his food tasted good because of the love he put into it.

I fixed breakfast one morning when Rafael was running late: pork chops, an omelet filled with chives and cheese, toast, fresh fruit, juice, and coffee. It tasted good to me, and Rafael said he liked it. The cooking seemed easy enough, so inspired by this small success, I fixed him a French meal and from then on I filled all my cooking attempts with love.

We went to Gumbo’s Restaurant for a birthday party for my friend Frank. Rafael ordered an appetizer of escargot, and we both had entrees and drinks. I didn’t really like the snails all that much—too salty—but I loved the new experiences, especially all the new things I was doing with Rafael. I took Rafael to the Rock Bottom Brewery to celebrate our being together. He ordered lots of food without paying any attention to cost. We ate an appetizer, salads, entrées, beer, dessert, and coffee. Although I was nervous over the expense, we had a good time and appreciated our talkative Okie gay waiter. We enjoyed nice conversation together, Rafael and I, and I knew then I wanted us to have a full and long relationship.

When I got home one September evening, Rafael was sitting on the sofa all nicely dressed up. The dishes were not done. Food was cooking, but it seemed over-cooked. He wanted me to taste his beef molé. After he explained a little bit about how he made the molé, he said we needed some pink wine to go with the dish: White Zinfandel or Rosé. He would show me. While I put the lid on the molé and turned off the heat, Rafael walked around the room talking to himself, a behavior I had never before observed in him. He was speaking in French, not Spanish or English. I got his attention and finally got us out the door. We walked to the liquor store. He seemed fine on the walk although the conversation was disconnected and several times I had to steady him. At the store I kept trying to get him to pick out a wine, but he’d wander off down an aisle looking but not seeming to know what he was doing. Finally he held up a bottle of Pinot Noir that cost $30. I made the decision for another bottle. Finally, back at the house, I set the table and asked him to be seated. I couldn’t believe how good the food tasted. He was the only cook I’ve ever known whose food thrilled me even when it had burned. Still, I was worried when he just kept losing track of what he was doing. His illness seemed to be getting worse.

I met his family when he entered the hospital. Near the end of October I wrote this: “I just saw Rafael. He’s with his mom, who is feeding him. She takes delight in that! I loved the picture of the two of them together. This morning as [his mother] was speaking to her mother on the phone, I heard in her voice many of Rafael’s intimate intonations and expressions. He learned them from his mother.” Perhaps he’d learned cooking from her and perhaps that’s why he was so conscious of adding love to his dishes.

Our whole time living together—from PrideFest weekend into the second week of November when he died—seemed a great feast, a meal to remember, and it featured spicy appetizers, rich entrees, and luscious desserts. Early on in our relationship Rafael said that no one had ever made love to him like I was doing it. He had a great need to be loved with a sense of wild abandon and lots of words. I was pleased to love him wildly and verbally. I had never before experienced such sexual emotions. I felt them because he so obviously enjoyed making love with me. His desire stoked my own. When I looked at him, I wanted to hold and kiss him. I wanted to lie next to him. I wanted to touch him and embrace him. I wanted to have sex in many different ways. I felt like a man I knew who in his childhood had often been hungry and as an adult couldn’t turn down food. I had missed out on male to male love and sex for so many years I just couldn’t get enough of it. Our love feast continued to the end of his too-short life. We washed it all down with great doses of love making and spiced each hour with love. We wallowed like two very excited pigs in a mud puddle snorting, oinking, giggling, rolling around, chasing, laughing, and in general celebrating our love. What a meal to remember.

© Denver, 2014

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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I Used to … but Now I … by Nicholas

I used to ride 50 miles in a day on my bicycle. Now I do it in a week—most weeks.

I used to use a telephone like a telephone to talk to people. Now I send text messages and check email. Sometimes I’m even hoping that no one answers my call so I can just leave a message and not actually have to talk, as in carry on a conversation, with a human being.

I used to love working in my garden and I still do but my back says, get real, or I’ll hurt you.

I used to wonder what to call Jamie. Now he’s my husband. I agree, we need some new terminology to avoid all the baggage of husband and wife.

I used to think that I had nothing in common with my parents and would live a much better life because I just knew more about how to live a better life. Now, I think of them as my role models for aging well, knowing when to quit it and when to hit it.

I used to think I was brilliant and would go far in this world. Now, I don’t think I’m so brilliant but I have gone far in this world, to many places I never dreamed of, and I’m still pretty smart.

I used to be closeted, confused and alone. Now I’m not. Well, maybe still confused.

I used to try to keep up with national and world events and politics and give excellent opinions on important matters. Now, it’s all beyond me. If I had a prescription for all the world’s ills, or even any one of them, I would not hesitate to send it out to all concerned parties. But I don’t.

I used to read newspapers regularly. Now there aren’t any.

I used to feel free to have second helpings of dessert. Not anymore.

I used to ask God for help, for strength, for forgiveness. Now I’d just ask for an apology.

I used to seek more freedom. Now, I guess I have it.

© 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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Being Gay Is … by Will Stanton

I awoke feeling exuberant, in an especially gay mood for early morning. It was the weekend, and I had no classes to attend. I was free to go where I wanted and to do what I chose, and I already had planned to take a woodland hike. The sun was shining bright and gay, and the temperature just perfect, warm enough to hike without a jacket yet brisk enough not to become overheated.

In cheerful, gay spirits, I quickly finished my breakfast and prepared to meet my hiking companion for the day. Eric W. was a Norwegian exchange student and looked the part, blond and Nordic. The doorbell rang, and I found Eric standing at the door right on-time. He, too, appeared to be in a merry, gay mood.

Taking with us only canteens of water, we started with a lively, gay step up the lane that connected with a steep path that led to the ridge-top. Like most Americans, I spoke no Norwegian whatsoever. Like most Norwegians, Eric spoke good English. Even so, we spoke very little, preferring instead to listen to the sparkling, gay ripple of the nearby stream and the gay, spring songs of the woodland birds. Being early morning, the wooded hills seemed especially keenly alive and gay with a myriad of songs from chickadees, cardinals, wrens, robins, and dozens of other chipper, gay birds. A summer tanager in his flamboyant, gay red feathers landed on a branch close by and viewed us two interlopers with curiosity.

Eric and I reached the crest of the ridge and continued to follow the narrow path among the tall oaks, maples, and buckeyes. Eventually, the path opened up upon a gay, sunny meadow lit by the brilliantly gay blue of the sky. Patches of gayly colored wildflowers lent a joyous, gay feel to the meadow.

We paused for some time on the far tip of the meadow, viewing the green valley below. The warm sun accentuated the glittering, gay ripple of the distant, wandering river dividing the valley.

Eric took his shirt off, perhaps feeling quite warm in contrast to what he was used to in Norway. I stood behind and watched, he unaware of my licentious, gay attention.

Remembering that moment, I am reminded of a passage from Tennessee William’s story “The Resemblance Between a Violin Case and a Coffin,” when the lad observed his seventeen-year-old neighbor standing in the sunshine. “About people you knew in your childhood, it is rarely possible to remember their appearance except as ugly or beautiful, light or dark. I do not remember if Richard was light in the sense of being blond or if the lightness came from a quality in him deeper than hair or skin. Yes, probably both, for he was one of those people who move in the light, provided by practically everything around them. This detail I do remember. He was wearing a white shirt, and through its cloth could be seen the fair skin of his shoulders. And for the first time prematurely, I was aware of skin as an attraction. A thing that might be desirable to touch. This awareness entered my mind, my senses, like the sudden streak of flame that follows a comet.” There are about two dozen synonyms to the word “gay,” but perhaps that quotation is what “being gay” means most of all to many people.

© 29 Sept 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.