Tag: Life Stories

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My Favorite Place by Michael King

My favorite place is being
in my imagination where I can fantasize. I imagine how a painting will make a
statement and then let the fantasy work itself out on canvas. Usually the
fantasy is better than the painting however after a few years I often realize
that the painting does express that concept. In this process the painting seems
to paint itself. This is true of writing also. I will have an idea that I wish
to express and the story writes itself.
In my imagination a meal
will begin and as I put things together in the kitchen the food on the plate
will be a facsimile of the idea with the colors and flavors being nearly as
beautiful as I had visualized. With a little practice I can figure out timing,
visual impact and blending of flavors so that the meal actually duplicates my
fantasy.
I enjoy imagining the decorating
of a room, making a sculpture, planning a trip and wishing for things and then
later enjoying the outcome of my previous fantasies. I had a list of the
qualities I hoped for in a companion. One day he walks into a coffee shop, we
take one look at each other and have been together ever since. My world is in a
large part the joy of having been somewhat creative, very individual and personal
and filled with appreciation.
As I look back on my life
everything I ever wanted I have gotten. Not always when and exactly like I
expected but often I achieved or received what I had visualized. Some desires
that came to pass were fairly disastrous and it took time to recover. Others
came too late to be of any real satisfaction.
I don’t just lie around
fantasizing all the time. I take a little time to bring about results. I also
explore what and how I want to be doing, what experiences I would like to have
happen and what I want to do or get to make my environment enjoyable including
activities and social events. But when I’m not doing something to fulfill my
wishful thinking, I’m laying around focusing on my imaginary world where wishes
are discovered, arranged, rearranged and visualized with smells, sounds,
feelings and emotions and being prepared for manifestation. My favorite place is
in my imagination.
© 6 July 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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Don’t Touch Me There by Lewis

[Note: The following anecdote is not based upon actual events.]

He looked straight down at me, expectantly, and asked, “May I touch you here?”

“Be my guest”, I replied.

Then, again, “May I touch you there?”

“Naturally,” I responded.

It was only sex, without commitment or depth of feeling beyond the corporeal. It was fun, entertaining, spontaneous, and more than a little frightening. After all, he was only the third man I had “been with” in my nearly seven decades of existence. 

I am not enamored with the concept of “casual sex”, unless it is self-inflicted” or, to put it a little more aptly, self-administered. I hold nothing against those with a less risk-adverse attitude toward sex. Perhaps, I, for reasons meritorious or otherwise, have greater expectations as to the payoff that should come from bestowing upon someone the most precious and personal gift I can give–save for one–that being my heart.
For the moment, my heart resides in the rose garden in Cheesman Park, where lie the ashes of my late husband, Laurin. My heart is occupied, for the moment, with reminiscences of his mind, his body, his heart, his loving touch. So, I invite others to offer me a handshake, a hug, a kiss on the cheek. But, for now, please don’t touch my heart.

©
21 April 2013

About
the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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In Memory of Mickey — The Wildest of the Wild Ones by Donaciano Martinez

Mickey passed away on April 18, 2014, at age 68, due to complications related to a heart condition that worsened over the past several years. Born in Denver, Mickey had been a lifelong resident of Denver. There was cremation and the memorial service was held in May at the home of a family member, who noted that a church was ruled out because the family “never accepted” Mickey’s lifestyle.

I have met several wild people throughout my long life, but Mickey always was the wildest of the wild ones. Although Mickey could not read and write and was legally considered disabled due to partial paralysis in an arm and leg, she had more street sense of anyone I have ever known.

Mickey and I instantly clicked when we first met in Denver in early 1976. Although the term “transgender” was not used in those years, Mickey clearly fit the transgender identity because she always presented herself (through attire and behaviors) as a woman. In some of our many long talks, she told me that she self-identified as female ever since she was an early teenager in the late 1950s and she never had any interest in going through surgery to become a woman.

The Swingers Club

Mickey was a very extrovert person with a delightful sense of humor. We had many good laughs and fun times together. She always jokingly called me “Girleena Garcia” and I always jokingly called her “Cochina” (naughty lady). Early on, she told me that she and her “sister” ran a swingers club in order to supplement the low income Mickey had for many years through the Social Security disability program. Telling me that her so-called “sister” consisted only of a poster-size framed photo prominently displayed on the living room wall, Mickey boasted that the image of her “sister” had brought in big bucks to the swingers club. Through her straight male acquaintance who produced straight porno magazines, Mickey always got free ads to promote the swingers club that was supposed to be located in the upscale Green Mountain residential area west of Denver. Once men responded to the ads by calling Mickey’s telephone number, Mickey claimed to be the “sister” whose photo was in the ads. Eager to meet the “sister” and other women who were part of the so-called swingers club, numerous men paid their “membership fee” by putting cash inside an envelope and depositing it through the mail slot of the home that Mickey rented. When men subsequently called Mickey to inquire about the swingers club meetings that never materialized, Mickey politely told them that “all the girls left town” to become dancers in Las Vegas. Just like that, poof, men’s expectations were dashed along with the cash they had paid.

Upon learning about the imaginary swingers club, I told Mickey to be extremely careful as her club could be targeted by undercover police. Her reply was that police never could do anything to her because she was “not a street hustler.” I reiterated my plea upon telling her that undercover police did not limit their operations to street hustlers. My warnings were most prophetic when Mickey got arrested in 1977 by an undercover police officer, who had targeted Mickey’s swingers club around the same time that a different undercover officer shot and killed a street-hustling drag queen in an alley. The charges were dropped against Mickey when court testimony revealed the Denver Police Department (DPD) had erased portions of the audio tape that captured an undercover police officer’s phone conversation in which Mickey agreed to accept a stolen TV as payment for membership in the swingers club.

The Biggest Haul of All = $1100 Cash

Despite Mickey’s 1977 court case, the 1977 police killing of a street-hustling drag queen, and the second police killing of a street-hustling drag queen one year later in 1978, Mickey moved full steam ahead with the swingers-club scam that brought hundreds of dollars hand-delivered to her doorstep without having to set one foot on the streets of Denver.

In 1979, Mickey was arrested on several felony charges after a DPD undercover officer dropped off $1100 (eleven $100 bills) in an envelope through the mail slot at Mickey’s home. When DPD officers subsequently raided Mickey’s home, they tore the place apart and terrorized her pet monkey upon looking for the marked $100 bills. Facing a lengthy prison sentence if convicted, Mickey was very worried about her future. In open court, DPD audio tapes were played with Mickey’s voice describing in great detail how she would do the nasty with the undercover police officer. Because the police never found the evidence after leaving her rented home in shambles, Mickey was set free after a trial that was publicized in the Denver media. [Mickey told people in later years that she had hidden the $100 bills by tightly rolling them up inside empty lipstick tubes on top of her fancy makeup table, but the police never looked inside the lipstick tubes despite ransacking the drawers of her makeup table.]

After the close call with the 1979 court case, Mickey decided to keep a low profile for a while by abandoning the phony swingers club that always carried with it a big risk because of the large sums of money that were delivered for something that did not exist.

Advent of Telephone-Fantasy Service

In 1980, Mickey started a telephone fantasy service out of her home. She said a lawyer had advised her that the new service was legitimate as long as she only talked nasty and did not accept any cash for her telephone service. Just as she had done for several years with the swingers club, she advertised only in straight porno magazines and all of her clientele were straight men. After a client paid the club membership via money order to Mickey’s P.O. box, a total of ten 30-minute phone calls were allowed. Mickey talked nasty on the phone while the men became aroused and played with their whoppers. The phone fantasy line was among the growing list of “kinky” things that increasing numbers of straight men liked to do. From the perspective of married men, the phone fantasy was a “safe” activity that allowed the men to express whatever they wanted to Mickey. Many similar phone-fantasy services began to crop up all over the country in those years.

Very candid about her phone-fantasy service, Mickey frequently had this to say: “Honey, these straight guys always think they’re talking to a young, blonde and slender woman, but they’re only talking to an older and overweight lady who wants only one thing out of them – their pocketbook.”


Expanding to In-Person Encounters

Mickey had several in-person clients with whom she made contact through her phone-fantasy service. She always prided herself on the fact that she was “not a street hustler” and operated only out of her home. Learning from the 1979 court case, she stayed away from the exchange of cash for doing the nasty. Instead, she always had her clients “pick up a few things” on their way over to Mickey’s place. The requested items generally entailed groceries that she needed. A big fan of top-of-the-line expensive oil-based perfumes for women, she also had clients stop off at expensive department stores to buy her a few perfume bottles on their way to Mickey’s place. Her wish list later expanded to appliances to adorn her kitchen. Almost always, the men obliged and brought whatever she requested. If they showed up empty-handed without the items she requested, she politely asked them to leave.

In 1986 Mickey began having a relationship with a straight man, who was going through a divorce and who had custody of his one-year-old son. Having been raised on a farm in Montana, the well-mannered and handsome guy was naive about life in the city. He had quite an eye-opening introduction to city life when he met Mickey. She took very good care of the baby boy, who always referred to Mickey as “Mom.” The baby’s father worked long hours at menial jobs to support his baby and Mickey, who stopped the phone-fantasy service throughout the four-year stormy relationship that ended when the baby’s biological mother re-entered the picture and was awarded permanent custody of her son.

Hundreds – and I do mean hundreds – of straight men knew where Mickey lived, but that never was a source of concern to Mickey. The public would have been shocked to learn that one of her longtime in-person clients was a very handsome and married conservative politician who had been elected to the Colorado State Legislature.

A Cart Full of Groceries

Although almost all of Mickey’s clients met at her place, there was one occasion in which she and a married man arranged to meet in the parking lot of King Soopers (a/k/a Queen Soopers) at 9th and Downing in the heart of Homo Heights in Denver. Just as she had done with other clients on hundreds of occasions, she asked her married client to “pick up a few things” at King Soopers. Mickey asked me to accompany her in order to lift the grocery bags as they were too heavy for her to lift due to the paralysis in her arm. I was aghast to see the man (who was extremely handsome and very polite) with a grocery cart full of numerous bags of groceries that the man bought for Mickey, who went through each and every bag to make sure all of her requested items (easily a total of $100 or more) were in the bags. Their pre-arranged plan was to leave the King Soopers parking lot and go to a nearby Ramada motel room (Colfax and Marion) paid for in advance by the man. With Mickey and me in her car and the man following behind us in his car, we got to an intersection at which the traffic light turned red just as I drove through the intersection. Although Mickey and I could have easily just kept going since the man was waiting for the red light to change, she insisted that I pull over and wait for the man because he came through with all of the groceries she ordered. After they did the nasty at the motel room, the guy left and Mickey returned to her car that I was driving. Once we got back to her house, I made numerous trips carrying the bags of groceries from the car to the kitchen.


In the Path of a Crazed Bull Elephant In Heat
When I once sought input from my longtime activist friend Betty about Mickey’s very wild lifestyle, Betty wrote:

“Mickey’s line of work is akin to sauntering along in the path of a crazed bull elephant in heat. I admire Mickey’s courage, ingenuity, audacity and her sheer strength of will not to allow anyone to intimidate or threaten her, but I worry about her constantly. Listening to the boys’ fantasies must get horribly old and terribly fast. In comparison to Mickey, the extremely slight exposure I get – at work, in stores, restaurants, streets, wherever – turns my nerves to live electric wires. The boys’ fantasies and their proclivity to violence are as close as a kid glove on a hand. Whether directives from the Pentagon or calls to Mickey’s phone line, the boys’ understanding and masculinity, as defined by them, come across the same. My motto is: gamble safely and only dangerously when it is an absolute necessity. I fully recognize the necessity for Mickey’s gamble every time she answers the telephone or the doorbell, but my blood turns to ice every time I hear a newscast or catch a headline in a newspaper. I also know Mickey is cognizant of the explosive possibilities of every encounter – not just her clientele, but the moralists, the cops, and the staked-out territory she might tread on.”

Fortunately, throughout her many years of life on the wild side, Mickey never was put in harm’s way by what Betty appropriately called the “crazed bull elephant in heat.”

A Book about Mickey’s Wild Life

Mickey periodically asked me to seriously consider writing a book about her wild life. Due to being busy in other aspects of my life, I never had time to follow up on her suggestion. Although the many episodes of her life would have been more than enough material for a book, we always thought that people would find the tales so outrageous and hard to believe she really went through it all. When I once sought input from my longtime activist friend Betty about the prospect of a book, Betty wrote:

“There is a market for the book. A number of people (who started out reading it because it was banned from California to Italy) would learn the truth about the use and abuse of power and by whom. The sensitive and the intelligent, intrigued by natural curiosity, would be educated. Mickey could retire from hustling.”

Although the book never will be pursued by me, this memorial piece should serve as a synopsis of the life of Mickey as the wildest of the wild ones.

© 30 April 2014

About the Author

Since 1964 Donaciano Martinez has been an activist in peace and social justice movements in Colorado. His family was part of a big migration of Mexican Americans from northern New Mexico to Colorado Springs in the 1940s. He lived in Colorado Springs until 1975 and then moved to Denver, where he still resides. He was among 20 people arrested and jailed in Colorado Springs during a 1972 protest in support of the United Farm Workers union that was co-founded by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. For his many years of activism, Martinez received the 1998 Equality Award, 1999 Founders Award, 2000 Paul Hunter Award, 2001 Community Activist Award, 2005 Movement Veterans Award, 2006 Champion of Health Award, 2008 Cesar Chavez Award, 2013 Lifetime Achievement Award, and the 2013 Pendleton Award. La Gente Unida, a nonprofit co-founded by Martinez, received the 2002 Civil Rights Award. The year 2014 marks the 50-year anniversary of his volunteer work in numerous nonprofit situations.


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Teacher by Betsy

Whether she wants to be or not, a mother IS a teacher. By virtue of being present from the moment her child enters the world a mother, which is a mother who IS present, has to be the greatest influence in a child’s life. Later on a child may want to break away from this overwhelming influence. After all, to become an independent adult a child has to break away. But the influence will always be there. 

I remember breaking away from my mother, but by the time I was 18 I had become human again in my behavior. Now in my dotage my mother is the first person who comes to mind when presented with the topic “teacher.”
I imagine most of a parent’s lessons are conveyed indirectly by way of example. I can think of a thousand things my mother taught me without ever uttering a word about it. 
GRACE: My mother was the most graceful and gracious creature alive. She moved with grace, she ran the household with grace. I can honestly say, I never heard my mother raise her voice. (This could be why I have trouble doing this myself!) There were times she was angry, but always kept her cool. 
COMMITMENT AND RESPONSIBILITY: She never spoke of commitment and responsibility directly, but I know I learned this from her. Actions truly do speak louder than words. However certain words have a way of sticking. One particular incident comes to mind: Where we lived I became eligible to get a driver’s license when I turned 15. In Louisiana at the time, it did not matter if you knew how to drive. On your fifteenth birthday you go down with your birth certificate and get your license. My mother prepared me for this day by taking me out for practice runs in the family car. As far as she was concerned birthday or no, I would get my license when she was satisfied that I could drive SAFELY. I can still hear her voice guiding me down the road. “Don’t ever forget, Betsy. The car is a KILLER.” This obviously made a big impression on me since I remember these words to this day–60 years later. 
COURAGE: I would never have thought of my mother as courageous–until she was torn from her roots, forced to leave her comfortable home surrounded by familiarity and family members. She had to endure relocating to a new environment and new culture. At the time I had no idea that this would be a difficult adjustment for anyone. When you are young you can move anywhere many times with ease. But this had to be an awful change of environment for her. I never heard one word of complaint. It was only a few years later that she became terminally ill. Her youngest child, my little sister, had to be sent away to boarding school because mom could not take care of her or the household or anyone else, herself included. Through a painful illness, surgeries, weakness, inability to eat, numerous hospitalizations my mother never complained. This takes courage.
STEADFASTNESS: My mother and I used to argue a lot when I was growing up. When I did grow up I stopped the nonsense. But as I was trying to assert my independence we often argued. She did have some very traditional ideas about things and I was a raging radical, like most teen agers. We did not raise our voices but would banter about with our conflicting ideas. At the end of the discussion she would always say, “I may not agree with you about this, but you stick to your guns.”
CONSIDERATION FOR OTHERS. Another very powerful lesson my mother taught me was to have consideration for others. “Even if you cannot thank Grandmother for that gift you do not want,” she said, “you MUST acknowledge her generosity and thoughtfulness in sending it.” This concept seems to be dying out altogether. I wonder if the problem is that I do not have texting capability. Those of my generation can always hope that when the youngsters have their own Facebook page, they will post acknowledgments on our walls. I really don’t care. Send a carrier pigeon! Let me hear from you even if you didn’t want that gift. I know my mom–my grandchildren’s great grandmother–would approve of any of these methods of communication, as would I. These valuable lessons so well taught should not be lost!
LOVE: I do believe my mother along with my father was instrumental in teaching me how to love another. Now, how do you teach something as important and powerful as loving another? I knew my mother loved me and I believe that is what it takes to teach this greatest lesson of all.


© November 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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Endless Joy by Ricky

To me “joy” is “happiness on steroids.” “Infinite” is a synonym for “endless”. “Eternal” is a synonym for “Infinite,” therefore, I maintain it follows that “endless joy” can be expressed as “Eternal Joy” or the life of an eternal being.

Heaven is often described as a place where we will go for our “eternal rest” often expressed as singing with the angels and playing a harp while relaxing on soft puffy clouds in a peaceful bucolic environment where we will have no cares or worries beyond singing or playing the correct notes. Our bodies will have been resurrected into their perfect young adult form with no blemishes, diseases will not exist, and no sadness will distract us from our musical talent and performances. In that state we will live forever, to infinity and beyond. Could anything be wrong with this description?

I was taught by my religion teachers that earth-life is a probationary state of existence and it is here where we are to prepare ourselves to meet God when this life is over. So are there any similarities between Heaven where God lives and this planet we call Earth?

In Genesis we read that after six “days” (periods of creation) God rested. Good! We can expect to rest, but He worked six “days” before He rested. In our society most people only work 5 days and get 2 periods of rest. We are often referred to as the children of God, that’s why we call Him our Heavenly Father. Do you suppose that He will work six days while we all sit around singing and playing harps? Even parents down here don’t allow that. So, I expect we will be doing come kind of heavenly chores (like making divinity or polishing the gold-brick sidewalks and streets) and only sing and play harps on the celestial Sabbath.

In the Book of Revelations, we are told of a war in heaven in which 1/3 of the inhabitants of Heaven rebelled against God (who was righteously angry and not happy) and as punishment were cast down to (or imprisoned on) the Earth along with the Devil (Satan, if you prefer). Well, we have wars here too, so apparently we are being well prepared for Heavenly-life. Wars of rebellion are begun by angry people upset with the government the leaders of which are not happy with the situation. As a result, people die and there is much unhappiness. And, of course, we also punish our rebels with imprisonment or casting them into the earth.

I don’t sing well and I can’t play a harp, so where is the joy? I don’t know about any of you, but harp music and choral singing is only music to my ears for so long, and one “day” of a thousand earth-years of rest is well beyond my limit of tolerance.

In this earth-life, I am happiest when I am engaged in positive activities with my family and circle of friends. I expect God is happiest when He is with His children and family members as well. So, while Heaven, in fact, may not be all that peaceful or carefree, as long as I have friends around helping me with my celestial or cosmic chores, I will be filled with as much joy as I can have for endless time into infinity and beyond.

© 6 January 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 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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When I Decided by Nicholas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It could be my mantra: when I decided.

March 2014

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Camping by Lewis

Ah, fresh air, the sounds of nature’s myriad creatures, the vast array of nighttime stars, the perfumed air, stillness, the sleep of angels–all are reasons that the urban heart is beckoned to forsake convenience, connection, and comfort for the ruggedness of pitching a tent against the wind and rain, digging a trench around it to channel any rain water harmlessly away, inflating those cumbersome sleeping mattresses, getting out the propane tank and stove, finding firewood for toasting marshmallows, and making a practice-run to the bathrooms and showers in hopes of avoiding discombobulation in the dark of night.

To a boy of 12, it seems not to matter whether the tent is pitched on the north rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison or the back yard. Tenting means adventuring into an environment that, even though it may be as familiar as one’s own porch or yard, invites the imagination to blossom, the inhibitions to fall away, and perceptions of possible danger to usurp the bounds of reason.

A couple of cases in point–

It was the occasion of a visit from my dad’s youngest brother and his family. They lived in far southeastern Kansas, a largely rural area not far from the border with Missouri. My aunt and uncle brought their young son and daughter with them, as expected. The son, Dana, was about 8 or 9. I was around 11 or 12. I was preparing to spend the night sleeping in our tent in the backyard. Dana wanted to join me. My dog, Skippy, a toy fox terrier mix, would be with us, too.

We had two Army surplus cots and blankets and all seemed settled in for the night. Dawn came and I stood up fully rested and ready to face the day. My feet felt something on the floor of the tent that was cold and wet. Even against the pale green of the tent floor, I could tell it was piss. I’m sure that some exclamation came out of my mouth, which roused a sleeping Dana. I asked him if he knew anything about the noxious liquid. He blamed Skippy. Well, I knew Skippy sufficiently to know that he would never do something so uncouth. I accused Dana and he confessed that he had had to pee in the middle of the night and was afraid to step outside of the tent. The esteem in which my eyes had held him was significantly diminished from that night on.

To my utter amazement, Dana later became a member of the military police. That fact, coupled with my learning in early adulthood of a young man–the son-in-law of my landlord–who was a member of the police reserve in Dearborn, MI, and, while on duty on a Friday night and riding shotgun in a cruiser on its way to break up a bar fight, also found it necessary to evacuate his bladder at an inopportune moment, has led me to believe that some men–probably a small minority–seek to reassure themselves that they are, indeed, men by signing up for jobs almost certain to test that hypothesis.

My other story also involves a planned overnight backyard camping adventure, only this time with Eddy and Donnie, the brothers very close in age to me who lived next door, on the other side of a drainage ditch (what we used to call a “slough”). I was about 13 and Eddy was a year older than I and Donny a year younger. This time, we were going to sleep on the cots but without the tent.

When the appointed hour for the brothers to come over came and nobody showed up, well, if it had happened today, I would have simply called one of them on his cell phone. As it was, I waited what I thought was a sufficient time and then decided to teach them a lesson. I crossed the slough, which had no water in it, and crept up to the window of the boys’ bedroom, which was separated from the slough
by a bit of lawn and a hedge. The boys were in their bunk bed, apparently asleep. Using my fingernails, I scratched the screen covering the open window, much as I’m sure I had seen in some horror movie.

I couldn’t have been more delighted at the result. Donny, in the lower bunk, sprang out of the bed as if dismounting from a trampoline and ran screaming into the living room, which was lighted. Realizing my danger of being exposed, I rushed behind the hedge and crouched down, so as to be able to see if anybody emerged from the house.

I had barely gotten into position when the father emerged from the house with a flashlight and headed directly toward where I was hiding. Too afraid to move a muscle, I soon found the beam of light pointing at my head like the finger of doom and Mr. Nunn calmly explaining to me that, if I ever did something like that again, he would be happy to inform my parents. I sheepishly stood up and apologized for my misbehavior and ran the short distance home. I spent the rest of the night sleeping alone in the yard after a brief period of introspection after which I’m certain I decided that I had just had an adventure which neither Donny nor I would ever forget.

There are many more camping stories that I could tell, those with my parents in various parks in Colorado and elsewhere, but none give me the pleasure in relating as those I have shared today.

© 17 March 2014

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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My Favorite Fantasy by Ricky

If I were to follow my financial greediness, my favorite fantasy would involve having lots of money so I could travel when and where I wanted. I am not greedy, but I could become so should I ever have large amounts of personal funds.

A not so favorite but highly enjoyable fantasy involves lots of Baseball Nut ice-cream everyday for treats between meals.
As a pubescent pre-teen and an adolescent teen, to help me fall asleep, I would draft movie plots in my head. One favorite was a series about a group of humanoid, pubescent, hermaphrodite, pre-teen aliens from another planet who land on Earth because their flying-saucer needed some repair. While here they used their advanced technology to secretly fight crime like the comic book heroes of the time.
During my youth, my all-time favorite fantasy, as you might expect from my previous stories, involves a lot of sexual behaviors featuring me. I won’t go into any details but if you could see the geographic setting for my adventures, you would understand without being told that my name in the fantasy is, Peter.
© 14 October 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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Four Saturday Scenes by Phillip Hoyle

Days change from dawn to dusk, from cool to warm, from humid to dry. Still we reckon seven days a week but they too are not the same. For instance, the seventh day is sometimes called Shabbat, for the old Hebrew word meaning he rested, an allusion to the Genesis story of God creating the world in six days and resting on the seventh. The day was marked by a tradition of rest that emphasized contemplation and prayer. On my calendar the seventh day reads Saturday, recalling a Roman God, Saturn, to whom I have little relationship. History reminds me that Roman culture and government had a great determining effect on western culture and thus on Christian development. So, the name changed from Sabbath to Saturday, and the time of its beginning and ending changed from sundown to midnight. Even its purpose changed for most Christians although the mythological symbol of a day of rest persisted. For the majority, Sunday gathered the resting and worshipping to itself to create a Sunday Sabbath. Saturday stayed the same work day it had been under Roman law.

In my own life, Saturday’s meaning has shifted. Originally my Saturdays were structured around the needs of my mother: a time to have help with the kids so she could shop and keep her weekly hair appointment. A grandmother would sometimes watch us, but as we children aged, Mom would take us to the library just upstairs from the hair salon. We’d check out our books and then join her towards the end of her appointment. But that one fall Saturday was singular in that I had decided I was tired of trying to keep up with the older kids on my tricycle. My sisters and some neighbors were riding a small boy’s bicycle. “I want to ride it,” I screamed in my high-pitched six-year-old voice as they flew by. They were happy to play teacher. So with their help I got on the big thing, achieved my balance, and took off in a hurry thrilled by the air rushing over my skin and through my hair. But they had forgotten to tell me how to slow down and the corner of the block was fast approaching. I kept my balance as I bumped down the curb into the street and accomplished a turn to avoid the curb across the street, but I was unable to avoid the curb waiting catty-corner across the intersection. I crashed landing on the bar, smashing my genitals. There was a little blood. I must have screamed in pain. Mom came running and took me into the house. She bathed me, explained about circumcision (the only sex-related information she ever proffered, probably to help me understand why I my penis looked so different than dad’s), and told me I was to go with her downtown. She must have wanted me close by in case I really had hurt myself or had decided I needed some extra attention. As we walked the several blocks to the salon, she taught me how to escort a woman in public along with a few other fine points of good manners. Perhaps these items were meant to further my sex education. Turns out I was just fine. Eventually I did learn how to brake and how to avoid accidents. I also continue to this day to heed my mother’s advice about escorting women to the delight of several friends who still find me mannerly.

Eventually Saturdays moved me into my father’s world. At age 12, after I’d failed to make the team in seventh grade basketball, I began to work on Saturdays at the family IGA store sacking groceries and carrying them to customer’s cars. I now worked in a mostly man’s world with its structure of having a goal, earning income related to hours and usefulness, and working around people who didn’t live on our block. I did more than sack and carry. At slow times I helped dust cans, face shelves, assist in the produce market, and help restock the freezer. I’d take returned soda bottles to the back room and sometimes take a short break sitting there drinking a Coke.

Saturday was the busiest day of the week at the grocery store with ten, twelve, three, and five o’clock rushes when the aisles got as crowded as Main Street. We worked hard; at least it seemed that way to me, a skinny boy and not very strong. All day I ran out into the winter cold carrying bags to the yellow Desoto, the green Chevy pickup, or the purple Cadillac and then ran back into the warm building to prepare the next bunch of groceries. I got stronger and more efficient. Customers liked me.

The family arrangement was informal. We kids paid ourselves out of the cash register on Saturday evening leaving a paper slip with the information of hours and payment. That winter Saturday after I had worked a year and a half earning forty cents an hour, I asked my oldest sister, “How can I get a raise?” She said, “Just start paying yourself more.” So I gave myself a ten cent raise, noting the new amount times my hours on the slip of paper. No one ever said a word to me about the change. A year later, when I began working for my uncle at the family’s other store, I got another raise of fifty cents bringing my remuneration to a dollar an hour. Perhaps by then my work was worth the pay.

Saturday changed most when Myrna and I became engaged to be married. We would travel each Saturday to Glen Elder, KS where she played house and I played church. She’d cook a meal. I’d go to the church office to check on the mail, read the worship bulletin, or make some other arrangement for the Sunday service. Sometimes we’d visit the Spooners at their dairy farm, the elderly Foresters in their gracious home, or someone else with a special need. Then in the evening we’d make out on the couch in the front room of the parsonage as we step by step increased our physical intimacy in preparation for the full disclosure we anticipated on our wedding night. Later I’d drive her over to Ella Neifert’s house where my fiancé slept. One spring Saturday evening when the western Kansas wind blew with extra force, we huddled together on the couch to soothe each other’s chill. We warmed up, further than ever before. Realizing we’d soon be parted for several months while she made preparations for our wedding in western Colorado, I thought we needed to touch each other more intimately than before. So we educated one other about some of the finer details of our bodies. We didn’t go all the way, but we did share ourselves in new ways. The cold-sounding wind howled around the old house as we warmed ourselves with our explorations. We loved our intimacy. We both realized we had to end this session, so we bundled up to drive over to the widow’s house. When we left the parsonage, we were both surprised how warm the wind had turned, or we were just so heated up as to believe it was almost summertime! Thus a spring Saturday helped prepare us for a wonderful marriage.

It was a particular summer Saturday a few years ago, several years after I had left my marriage and ministry and had moved to a big city to live as a gay man. It was a late June Saturday that I experienced with complex delight. My son Michael and his family had come to visit. Our schedule that weekend included the Saturday Buskerfest with its unusual street performances and the Sunday Gay Pridefest with its parade and concerts. On Friday evening I discovered a phone message from Rafael, the man I’d hoped to hear from for two months. I had sometimes walked the neighborhood wanting to run into him but kept missing him. I’d already concluded he’d moved back to El Paso when I finally got this contact. In response I left on his voice mail an invitation for him to join us for spaghetti the next evening. He should call me when he got off work. Now it was Saturday evening. The spaghetti tasted good, at least my family said so before Heather and her three younger kids fell asleep exhausted by the day’s activities and their light sunburns. Rafael called and with several more calls found his way the one block to my apartment. I brought plates of spaghetti with meat sauce to the patio table. We were eating when I noticed his gold wedding band had been turned around to reveal a rainbow flag. I pointed at it saying, “Look at that.” Rafael’s warm and amused smile increased my anticipation of what the evening might mean. My son and eldest grandson came downstairs to meet Rafael. We talked. Our guest asked for wine. I told him I didn’t have any but suggested he and I go to a nearby restaurant for wine and dessert. As we were leaving the restaurant, Rafael said, “Let’s go dancing.” We started walking towards a nearby club.

“Do you have your ID?” I asked.

“I don’t need one.”

“Yes, you do,” I insisted.

He led me to his apartment to retrieve his ID, but we didn’t leave the place, ending that Saturday with a passion I won’t try to describe except to suggest it seemed emotionally perfect as we two came together with open arms and hearts, and with humor, concern, and love.

Rafael died several delightful and sad months later. I live on, wondering what new Saturdays I will experience as my life continues to change and mature. I’ve had Mom’s, Dad’s, a wife’s, and a lover’s Saturdays. What next?

Denver, 2010

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Favorite Literary Character by Pat Gourley

Anna Madrigal (a girl and a man)

My first trip to San Francisco was in 1979 with a friend named Phil. I met Phil I recall through the Gay Community Center on Lafayette Street a few years earlier. His story of coming to the Center was one of the classic coming out stories I remember from those years. He had recently been discharged from the Navy and had wound up in Denver. His home was rural Ohio and his Catholic family very conservative and probably not fond of queers but totally unaware that there own son was one of those people.

Phil related to me some years later that he had first actually seen me at a party and thought I was the butchest thing he had ever seen when I walked in wearing my winter leather jacket – that was, he said empathically, until I opened my mouth and the whole masculine illusion evaporated in a Nellie mist. I loved him despite of this tacky and very snarky story.

Phil had apparently walked around the block at the Center many times before getting up the nerve to come in. There he met several others and quickly became a fast friend and member of our budding community. We remained close until his death in August of 1994 from AIDS. He died at home in the arms of his true love. I had been summoned to get there quickly but walked in just minutes after Phil took his leave.

Our trip to San Francisco was magical in that I totally fell for that City and all its magic. Phil had been there before while in the Navy. I believe several times – Fleet Week perhaps – though that I don’t know that for sure. He showed me all the sights and sounds and we sampled many different tastes.

Marin Headlands (Titled “Oz”)  2012

This year of 1979 was momentous for me for many reasons but one little thing that happened was I was introduced to the work of Armistead Maupin. Tales of the City was published in 1978 and was essentially his columns on life in the City syndicated in the San Francisco Chronicle. The stories consisted of an eclectic cast of characters whose lives crisscrossed through that novel and eight more to follow culminating in the most recent release The Days of Anna Madrigal. Good friends of mine owned the local Gay Book store and I suspect that is how I got turned onto the book.

The novel’s stories and many adventures often revolved around a straight female character named Mary Ann Singleton. She, soon on arrival in San Francisco, was living at 28 Barbary Lane in a large multi-story dwelling on Russian Hill managed by one Anna Madrigal. My initial visit to the City and my budding connection with a few Radical Fairies from the Bay area provided a modicum of familiarity with the characters, adventures and environs described in Tales of the City.

So as it turns out Anna was a male to female transsexual, pot-growing/smoking landlady who was mentor to all who came through 28 Barbary Lane. Her early years were spent growing up in a house of ill repute in Winnemucca Nevada, in an establishment run by her mother.

I was certainly very familiar with and predisposed to like her character from the first book on but this was cemented when the first three books of the series were immortalized in a PBS (originating in the U.K.) and Showtime miniseries in which Anna was played by the flawlessly cast Olympia Dukakis. These are available on DVD and highly recommended if you haven’t seen them, but do read the books first.

I think it is safe to say that LGBT literature and literature in general is bereft of positive, powerful and dynamic Transsexual characters. Though I suppose one could argue that Maupin’s books don’t fall into the category of great literature, whatever the fuck that is, they are much loved, iconic tomes in the pantheon of queer literature documenting our generation. I certainly enjoyed reading them and this was magnified and has been enhanced with my growing knowledge over the decades of the City of San Francisco starting back in 1979 thanks to my friend Phil.

What I would have not given to have my shit together enough to have moved to San Francisco in the late seventies and to then have fallen under the spell of a powerful female mentor like Anna Madrigal. I downloaded the last in the series –The Days of Anna Madrigal – to my Kindle this week and ripped through it in a couple days. Lots of loose ends about Anna get tied up and the ending is really wonderful and plays out in the only place it could really, at Burning Man in the Nevada desert.

I think Phil liked and read Maupin’s books and I am sad that he can’t be around to read the final book in the series. Who knows it might have provided the impetus for a group of us to get our act together and attend Burning Man. We would fit right in and I am quite sure that the entire festival owes a significant debt of gratitude to the Radical Fairies whose influence seems stamped all over the event particularly as it is described in vivid detail by Maupin in his latest work.

Let me close by saying that I think the only real radical juice left in the LGBTQI movement is coming from the T’s. The word radical, as Harry Hay pointed out to me about 10,000 times, means, “to the root.” If the “gay agenda” ever had a truly revolutionary component to it, it was our willingness to turn gender on its head and shake it all up real good and see what would come out on top so to speak. These days many of us G’s, L’s and B’s seem quite caught up in imitating the dominant hetero-defined roles of male and female. Perhaps more Anna Madrigals will come along to finally lead us out of the hetero-dominated wilderness and our true agenda will come to pass.

March, 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.