Tag: Life Stories

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Mushrooms by Pat Gourley

My experiences with mushrooms have been varied over the years and for the most part quite wonderful with one exception, which I will address further on. I love to cook with them and in the past thirty years my use of these wonderful and diverse fungi has been limited to those legally sold in supermarkets or a couple edible varieties found in the foothills near Denver. The types I have harvested mostly in the hills surrounding South Park have been a variety of Boletes and the sinfully delicious Morels or as we called them when I was growing up in rural Indiana “sponge” mushrooms. Morels in particular are often found in burn areas the year following the blaze and occasionally in the caterpillar tracks left from post-fire cleanup.

My childhood contact with mushrooms outside of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup in a green bean casserole almost exclusively served at Thanksgiving was nonexistent until in my early teens when I started mushroom hunting with one of my uncles. Our trips to the woods looking for these delicacies happened in the spring and the morels we most often found were growing under small shrub-like plants called May Apples. We also harvested in much larger quantities something we called a button mushroom from decaying logs, these may actually have been a forest Bolete of some sort. My uncle would sauté the button mushrooms in butter and serve them in heaping piles on toast. In the interest of full disclosure these mushrooms were fried rather than sautéed, trust me nothing was sautéed in rural Indiana in the 1950’s. The morels were again lightly fried in butter and served alone. Their earthy and very funky taste would later in life come to mind when sampling certain varieties of semen.

Probably my most noticeable and life impacting mushroom experience though involved what most, myself included, would call a bad trip, though in hindsight with a bit of historical revision might be described as a prophetic visionary experience. Needless to say this trip did not occur as the result of eating the buttons and morels of my childhood. Rather it happened in the fall of 1979 with a variety of homegrown psilocybin or as they were known at the time “magic” mushrooms. I was no stranger to hallucinogens by this time in my life and had used mushrooms to very positive effect on numerous occasions though LSD was always my drug of choice. I was perhaps initially drawn to hallucinogenic mushrooms through the music and iconic art of the Allman Brothers Band- sorry, no, not the Grateful Dead.

This adventure also involved the Empire Baths, now known as the Denver Swim Club, and a rather torrid, at least in my own mind, affair with a very sweet, straight-acting Mormon, local emergency room doctor. I had met this man at one of the queer health care provider support groups popular at the time. I am still not sure what my attraction was to this guy but it was consuming. He was my own age and I strongly preferred older men. He was very conservative around things queer, into electronic disco music and in many ways still tied deeply to his large Utah-based Mormon family. There was some reciprocal interest on his part I suppose perhaps an attraction to the exotic, me being a queer rolling in things radical fairie and addicted to the music of the Grateful Dead while living with numerous other eccentric types in a communal situation. It certainly wasn’t the sex, which was mediocre at its infrequent best.

I’ll refer to him here as Hank since he remained tied to those Mormon roots until the time of his AIDS related death in 1991. His death was attributed to cancer on the death certificate I was told by his twink lover at the time and not HIV. I am cognizant after all that the big NSA spy building nearing completion is in Utah and though I expect my hum drum and really boring life is not of much interest to our homegrown extensive International spy apparatus I would not want to risk causing any existential anguish to his large and I am sure still very Mormon family in some indirect and convoluted way.

Hank’s drug of choice was always pure pharmaceutical grade cocaine and snorted in large quantities. A drug I never appreciated, I mean really where was the bang for the buck. Though I must say there was a time or two with another lover who would fuck me with powdered coke under his foreskin that I do have rather fond memories of. This was of course a bit selfish I suppose on my part since the head of his penis would get very numb while I got off a bit high.

Where Hank’s interest in psilocybin came from I am not sure but he became obsessed with growing them in his small Capitol Hill apartment. The spores were actually available for sale legally in head shops at the time. The spores were inoculated onto sterilized rye in quart size mason jars and then coaxed to grow under artificial light in a warm dark closet in his apartment. A much safer and environmentally friendly endeavor than cooking meth would have been. After several unsuccessful attempts, one of which involved an exploding pressure-cooker being used to sterilize the rye, he was able to inoculate the spores into the grain and was able to grow quite a nice large crop. I imagine that apartment may still have remnants of dry rye on the ceiling despite our repeated attempts to get it all off. The harvest was nicely dried in a toaster oven. We never sold any of these but they would make nice stocking stuffers.

Our maiden voyage with these mushrooms was a few weeks before my infamous bathhouse experience and involved a quick trip to the Grand Canyon. There, while hiking to the bottom of the canyon on a full moon night, we nibbled a few each and were as high as kites for the next 24 hours with no sleep that night. We were I think hiking the Bright Angel Trail and our destination was a waterfall that begged for nude moonlight bathing underneath it. Photos were taken but it was only moonlight and we were totally fucked up so little good evidence remains. I relate this merely to establish that the mushrooms were pretty good and not apparently one of the poisonous psilocybin varieties. Our drive back in his little sporty Volkswagen mostly at 100 miles an hour with obnoxious disco music playing was uneventful and for some inexplicable reason I was still very smitten with the guy.

My rather voracious sexual needs at the time were certainly not being met by Hank so a week or so after our return to Denver I decided that a trip to the bathes was in order and it would be nice to do a few shrooms to enhance the whole thing. Now being at the tubs in an altered state was not new to me though I tended most of the time to be a more utilitarian user often going at noon on no substances whatsoever to catch the butch middle age, often married guys, who could be great sex if the stars were right. I was looking for tops so spreading HIV to unsuspecting suburban women never really entered the picture and of course was not on anyone’s radar at all in 1979.

Shortly after arriving, I had dosed before leaving the house on my bicycle, things started to get strange. And to paraphrase the Grateful Dead things only got stranger as the evening progressed. Freaking out while tripping was something totally new to me. The bathes were busy that night and the potential ripe for some great fucking. I was quickly over come though with great anxiety and a sense of dread, my death seemed immanent. I left the cozy, moist and sexy confines and ventured outside to the pool. It was a cool night in late October so no one else in his right mind was out there. I of course was not in my right mind and soon felt the concrete gargoyles on the surrounding walls were threatening me and urging me to get out of there as soon as possible or I would surely die.

I left the bath on my bike in a frenzy to get somewhere to tell anyone I was sure I was dying. Long story short I ended up in an Indian boutique on East Colfax where the family running the business was cooking a curry dish in the back. I was unable to eat any sort of curry for years. Things kind of got lost in translation with the proprietors of the shop. How does one say I took a hallucinogenic mushroom, went to a gay bathhouse to fuck and proceeded to freak out? So when they kindly called me an ambulance they related that I had food poisoning from a bad mushroom.

The ambulance drivers soon discerned this was not food poisoning and that I would be OK soon. In fact they offered, since it was apparently a slow night, to take me home and they would love to buy some of these mushrooms from me. I was incredulous at this and insisted on being taken to the nearest E.D. There I received a lecture from a rather judgmental physician on duty about growing up. I wasn’t sure if the message was to quit taking drugs or quit fucking my brains out in gay bathhouses – probably both.

Dear friends soon rescued me from the E.D. and delivered me safely to my soul mate Don. Don was an expert at helping people calm down in general so he put me in a warm corner with a couple of oranges and told me to peal and eat them and I would soon be OK. About two hours later and only one orange gone I was good enough to leave and head home.

Just to wrap up I did get my bike back the next day from the wonderfully kind folks at the Indian store who kept an eye on it for me. For some inexplicable reason I had been able to securely lock my bike up before entering the store and announcing to all that I was about to die. I also have often thought that the Universe aided by a bit of psilocybin was alerting me that night to the impeding AIDS nightmare and that a gay bathhouse even as early as 1979 was not the best place to be, certainly not with one’s legs in the air. I of course did not heed that advice but doubt I was infected at the bathes but rather in the rectory of a Protestant church in Aspen Colorado about a year later but that’s another story.

December 2013

About the Author

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

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Exploring by Michael King

In my fantasies I perceive myself as one who would explore places, ideas and experiences. Then I remember being in the Amazon and knew that without a guide I would get hopelessly lost. With that in mind I realize that in most areas except in reading books, checking out Google or in conversation I probably need a guide. Merlyn is the perfect guide and has had phenomenal experiences, is knowledgeable in computers and anything mechanical and has traveled and lived all over the mainland 48 states. I on the other hand was (and mostly still am) computer illiterate, non-mechanical and have no idea geographically the distance between one city and another or even the configuration of the states east of the Mississippi. I guess I’m not much of an explorer when it comes to even looking at a map. However, in areas of the spirit, aesthetics, design, color, cooking, feelings and ideals I have a world of my own and explore where few have or would even be interested.
For the most part I don’t even think in a language and probably wouldn’t be able to effectively communicate my inner world to another person nor can I imagine anyone even being interested.

The first time I traveled outside the western United States was when I was in the military. I took photographs while I was in Thailand. They were really excellent and I was so proud to show them to my family both as images representing where I had traveled and as artistic photography. I never did get anyone to even look at them. They weren’t interested. From that time until Merlyn insisted that I use his camera to take a few shots of my paintings and my apartment did I ever use a camera again. Looking back I realize that in Thailand, in the Philippines and in many other places around the world I have done a lot of exploring, especially if I thought I could ask directions if I got lost. I didn’t feel that way in the Amazon or in parts of Africa where I felt I needed a guide. I feel I also need a guide with the computer and not just once but repeatedly.

Exploring the inner world there is a kind of guidance but I only realized that after many years. In research I often find that I am limited by the authors of the material that is either in the library or on the internet. The key there is figuring how to locate what I’m looking for. These days I’m too occupied with activities and relationship to do much serious exploration using books or even the computer.

We spend most of our time exploring antique and junk stores. I am surprised at what one can find in a thrift store. We check out museums, places of interest as we travel and we explore each other’s memories and experiences.

The attitude I have now is to fully experience today and explore the possibilities that exist in the moment. Sharing that with someone makes each day a process of discovery, freshness and exploration.

April 29, 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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Dance, Dance, Dance by Phillip Hoyle

I have a kind of dance thing. It started early. In second grade I had my first date with a neighbor girl attending a square dance at the Elks Club. I did other folk dancing with the Girl Scouts. I’ve done interpretative dances in therapeutic and religious settings including one in a sermon I gave in a seminary preaching class. I taught African tribal dancing to children. I danced Universal Peace with adults. I danced in traditional Native American style at intertribal powwows and two stepped with an Indian guy at a cowboy bar. I’ve danced to rock music: first the bop, then the jerk, then disco, then new wave, and finally on-your-own improvised dancing to a variety of music, which brings me to this story.

I went down to The Denver Compound/Basix to dance one Saturday night several years ago; went with my friend Tony. I had been a number of times before and especially liked dancing there by myself. The music at the club had provided me some firsts: hearing a club mix with Gregorian chant in it, and then another mix with American Indian singing. The music there seemed to pull together several themes of my life, so my dance responses to the nearly deafening techno music combined barely-disguised choral directing, Indian dance steps, interactions with various friends, sexual movements, and my ever-changing dance steps to the ever-changing music. Dancing had become for me an exultation of life, of my still relatively new life as a gay man. Evenings there combined sweat, music, men, reveries, and always movement enhanced by a light show; an evening dancing on the Basix floor for me an unparalleled celebration. This evening like others seemed a mix of need, allure, and creative movement.

I had noticed a man who danced there regularly on Saturday nights. He stood off to the side of the dance floor, out of the way of other more exuberant dancers. Always dressed the same in cap, tee shirt, Levis, and work boots, he swayed from side to side shifting his weight from left to right, barely lifting his heels, and for several hours never missing a beat. He was there simply to dance. I imagined him as dancing alone with his daemon— perhaps St. Speed or the great god Oxycodon. He never moved toward a partner. He seemed a symbol for my too-solitary self. Would he ever alter his repetitions? Perhaps it was he that one of my friends watched the night he judged the techno music boring! Tonight he was there in his place.

I knew I was different than the solitary dancer, knew I’d move toward someone eventually, would need a human partner to copy, contrast, or complement my dance. Would this night be the one? I didn’t know. I just melded into the crowd as if joining a primal dance of love. A male-to-male mating ritual. A free-form yet stylized communication bolstered by drugs and alcohol (I was in a bar) just like in so many primal cultures. One alcoholic drink sufficed for me to enter the ceremony, released me into the musical exploration of what I could communicate there. I emulated the booted swayer as I moved into the magic of the rhythm. When I felt the backbeats my arms joined in the dance. My feet began to move me out from the wall-flower pose and into the seething mass of the group. Finally my whole body took up the demands of the beat, the possibilities of the night. I danced.

Then I saw him, not the solitary dancer who barely moved, but another guy across the room. He didn’t seem to be dancing with anyone, so I started dancing with him. I’d never noticed him before, didn’t know him, didn’t even know if he was aware of me. I just wanted some kind of relationship with another man, another dancer whose movements I could complement. It seemed a game and a pleasant game at that. For nearly an hour I danced with him at a great distance. I stepped this way and that, always in touch with him in my sidelong glances, my peripheral awareness as I slowly edged across the room to be near him. Eventually he did acknowledge my moves. Then we danced back to back, then side by side, then face to face. Dancing, smiling, moving away, then together. We touched. Shy smiles. Sparkling eyes.

He was not particularly handsome. Dark brown hair neatly trimmed, black stretchy shirt revealing a nice-enough body with square build, black slacks obscuring the shape of legs and more. His dance moves more conservative than mine. As I matched his pace I wondered what was going on in his mind. Was he amused? He didn’t turn his back except to bump. Drunk? On drugs? Didn’t seem to be, but I was not sure. What I had drunk? Probably the Cape Cod I liked to start my dancing nights with, that and water. We were warmed by our dance that winter night, warmed by our responses, our constant motion, the crowded dance floor.

“Gotta go,” I finally said when my friend Tony signaled his need to leave. “Thanks. Oh, I’m Phil. Hey, this was fun. Hope to see you again.” He didn’t object. Said “Bye.”

I rode the bus down to the Baker neighborhood the next Saturday night. He showed up too there across the room. I was pleased. We danced. The move across the floor didn’t take nearly as long. The body to body movements were more direct, not requiring much interpretation. Then it was closing time. “Gotta catch the bus,” I said. I stalled while he got his coat out of a locker. That’s when I saw the pin, knew it was a Trekkie symbol. I politely said “Thanks for dancing” and “Goodnight” and moved away. Somehow his identification with science fiction stood in the way for me. Made him less attractive? Boy. I danced out of there, across the Walgreens parking lot to catch the Number Zero bus back home. I wondered what I had learned about myself, what I had learned in a bar. What was the truth? The reality? Really. What dance was I willing to execute? I admit I was looking for more than a dance partner, but I certainly wasn’t interested in a relationship characterized by going to sci-fi movies and that kind of fantasy. I wanted a dancer that could dance a domestic and somehow romanticized relationship. Me? Romantic? Must have been the effect of living with my wife for twenty-nine years. Or was it the combination of booze and dancing? Thought about these things all the way home. Boy. What we can learn dancing and ponder riding busses.

© Denver, 2012 

About the Author  

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Don’t Touch Me There by Michael King

There is a place where I would warn anyone thinking about touching me there; that would not be wise. My history of experiencing touch has changed throughout the years. I don’t remember even getting hugs as a child. I had little to no body contact until the girlfriend and occasional boy get together days. Even then my experience was rather measly.

When the kids came along I made sure they got hugs and affection. All the affection and body contact I remembered getting when I was young was from the dog. I didn’t even have much experience with handshakes. They were even rare.

In about 1977 I attended a study group and as I was leaving the host gave me a hug. I think I must have been in a state of shock as it was for me totally unexpected and I didn’t know what to think. I attended other study groups and realized that hugging was the way some of the people said hello or goodbye. I was probably 36 or 37 and this was new to me.

Now, I am known for giving hugs. I am often asked for a hug. I, however, am seldom in situations where there is touching otherwise except in the bedroom or at home in every room and then, often. I doubt anyone thinks about touching me there and it doesn’t matter because it’s nice being touched everywhere else.

As I said usually I could be touched there, but on that rare occasion when my body reacts automatically and I can’t endure being touched there the potential isn’t pretty. So, I’m warning everyone who might now know my secret that they could be putting their life in danger. Don’t ever tickle my feet. If you do when I’m unaware, beware.

This could be genetic. My uncle got his nose broken when he tickled my mother’s feet when she was a little girl. I think I have the same instinct. “Don’t touch me there!”

© 21 April 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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Long Ago and Far Away by Gillian

Long ago and far away, I lived in paradise. It was quiet and peaceful, a land of green farm-studded hills comprised of green sheep-studded fields. No-one locked their doors. There were few cars. A tiny tinny church bell rang one monotonous note every Sunday morning. No peels from bell ringers here, just one old farmer pulling on an old frayed rope, and we all answered it’s call; not from religious zeal but because we wanted to chat with our neighbors, who lived many stones’ throw away.

What a wonderful life!

What claptrap!

Nostalgia, it has been said, is the longing for a place and time you couldn’t wait to get away from. I do have wonderful memories, real or imagined, of that past life, but I do not want to return to it. It did not encompass the GLBT world I am now able to inhabit. I was condemned to act a part on reality’s stage rather than live my real life. I couldn’t be who I really was. I couldn’t even know who I really was.

In High School English class, two of the works we studied were Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Ernest, and Alfred Lord Tennyson’s In Memoriam. These days we all know about old Oscar and the troubles he got himself into, but all that study of his wonderful writing never once led us to any discussion of his personal life. My elderly Welsh teacher would not have had a clue how to deal with any of that; nor would she have wanted to. Oscar himself had been well out of the closet, but we had booted him back in and slammed the door.

Tennyson is not as well known today as Wilde. His writing has never been interpreted on stage or screen, though In Memoriam has given us that familiar sentiment that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

As with Wilde, we spent endless school hours analyzing and dissecting the writing; the four line ABBA stanzas of iambic tetrameter. But never the man. Nothing was up for discussion on the fact that Tennyson spent seventeen years of his life writing this poem of love for, and in grief over the death of, another man. In doing that, he certainly came well out of his closet, but again society had shoved him back in.

I sometimes fear that all these English Lit. studies gave me was the ability to trot out endless quotations to fit just about any given situation, and wonder why memorizing everything was such a large part of our education. But in fact these lessons gave me much more; the very special gift of a love of literature.

Tennyson still brings tears to my eyes, and when I return to In Memoriam I find he speaks to me so clearly after all these years, and perhaps even more clearly to the lost soul I was then, in that closeted world where I studied his words.

So runs my dream, but what am I?

An infant crying in the night

An infant crying for the light

And with no language but a cry.

How better to describe me, in that cold dark closet, long ago and far away?

The past is another country, and, in the way of other countries, a great place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

© September 2013 

About the Author  

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

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Mirror Image by Betsy

My partner Gill and I often inadvertently have interesting discussions at tea time. Someone makes a statement and before we know it we find ourselves delving deeply into one subject or another.

Just a couple of days ago we got into a discussion about growing up female in the United States in the 1940‘s-50’s vs. growing up female in the U. K. in the 1940’s-50’s.

The thought that triggered this conversation had to do with confidence, rather the lack of it, in women of our generation. I am suggesting that certainly not all women but many American women raised in the 30‘s and 40‘s are more likely to lack confidence whereas British women do not. How and why did this come to pass?

I speculate that as I was growing up in middle class America I was expected to become some man’s wife and my role would be to facilitate his career, be his support staff, and to raise a family. This may not be the same for all women, but this is the message I received in some form every day of my life as a youngster. Certainly my development was not focused on learning a particular skill, pursuing a talent, or being exposed to a profession, or even learning professional behavior, or how to be assertive. Nor did I have the role models for such behavior or for such an attitude. The ultimate outcome for me was to be a wife and a mother. Mind you, there is nothing wrong or demeaning about this particular outcome, if a woman is given the choice and chooses it.

The college I attended for four years, Wells College, was founded by a man in 1868 for the purpose of providing suitable wives for the men of Cornell. This is the stated purpose of the institution, the assumption being at the time that men wanted educated wives–not so their wives could develop their own careers, of course, but so they could have intelligent conversation and have their children cared for by an educated mother.

That was the 19th century. After World War II women realized that there might be more for them than kitchens and nurseries. After all, they had had to go to work during the war to produce guns and tanks while the men were off fighting. Many women realized life might offer some choices for them. Maybe there was a life outside of the home–an interesting life. After all, raising children does not last forever–actually only a few years when taking an entire lifetime into account.

By the time I attended Wells College attitudes had become much more progressive and women were encouraged to develop a profession or a career if they so chose. So I was exposed to this attitude as a young adult in the college I attended and sometimes from other sources. I remember clearly my grandmother, whom I called “Abita,” encouraging me to think about a career in math or science. She had clipped from the paper an article pointing out the surge of interest among women in careers in science and the opportunities that were coming available, suggesting that I might be encouraged to fly in that direction. This was a brand new idea to me–something I had never considered.

By the time I graduated from college, I no longer saw myself as a wife alone, but perhaps as a wife and a member of one of three professions which by that time had been assigned to women: nursing, teaching, and social work. In 1957 it was quite acceptable, even promoted, that a woman could have a career and a husband. However, despite the changes in the attitudes and the social norms of the time, the message I received from the adults in the early years of my life were a part of my psyche.

Listening to partner Gill’s description of growing up female in Britain, I realize there is a contrast, but at the same time, the image is the same–much like a mirror image.

In Britain, at least in Gill’s experience and the experience of most of the females she knew, girls grew up with the expectation that they would be independent, able to take care of themselves, if needed, and it turns out that it was needed thanks to two world wars. Girls would marry and raise families, and they would be making choices for themselves all along. British women, according to her story, were raised to be strong and independent–in contrast to American women who were supposed to be happily dependent and at least appear to be the demure little wife sitting at home taking care of the house.

Interesting mirror image! The same, but turned around. But why not, I say. Look at the role models the British women have: Elizabeth, Victoria, the current Elizabeth. The kings, with a few exceptions, messed up. But the queens–just look at them. And what did our ancestors who were British do with that heritage? They chose to leave the country and sail across the ocean and start a new country where there would be no monarchy–no role models.

Besides that, two world wars in Europe had taken out a huge chunk of the British male population. World War I in particular. It was not a given for a woman in 1930’s Britain that she would become someone’s wife, she knew that she would very likely soon become someone’s widow. Men were in short supply during both wars. The women had been left at home to run the household and to continue doing so when their men did not return from war. It was the women who raised the next generation of adults in post war Britain. These adults certainly did not grow up with a vision of females as being anything but strong and self sufficient.

This topic can certainly stand on its own as an opportunity for further consideration, writing, and listening, or another discussion at tea time. But in this case I will leave it here with the two similar and opposing images to contemplate.

©18 March 2013 
  

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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Discovery by Ricky

I am not famous or even infamous, nonetheless, I made many discoveries in my life. As an infant, I discovered that I did not like being tossed into the air and then caught by my father. Of course getting caught was much preferred to hitting the floor unhindered. My father always caught me, but I never liked or enjoyed the falling feeling.

As a 1st grader, I discovered, but did not understand, that I could not trust my mother and I feared my father and yet I still loved both of them dearly. Perhaps children are ‟hard-wired” to be that way or maybe it was the unconscious realization that they provided everything I needed to survive—a juvenile Stockholm Syndrome as it were.

As a pubescent 5th grader, I discovered the initial pleasures of male genitalia and the physical differences between boys and girls. Boys were more ‟interesting”. I also discovered ‟responsibility” while caring for my younger siblings. It wasn’t something for which I wanted to be responsible.

As a 6th grader, I finally discovered all the pleasures that male genitalia can provide and that there were other boys who liked rediscovering those pleasures with me. During the school Christmas presentation, I discovered stage fright when I saw my parents sitting in the second row. I also discovered that it is much more fun to play sports than to watch from the bleachers.

In the Boy Scouts, I discovered the pleasures of belonging to an organized group of boys having fun camping, learning new games and skills, and performing campfire skits. Because I was the oldest boy in the troop and held the position of Senior Patrol Leader, I was always ‟responsible” for everything boy related and sometimes other things. As a result, I was always on my best behavior trying to be the good example. While my time in the troop was very enjoyable and fun, the boys had more fun than I.

As an 8th grader, I discovered the first pangs of being different as all my friends began to favor girls while I still wanted to be with boys. From this point forward my interests began to diverge from the mainstream interests of other boys until in my freshman year of high school, I began to wonder if I was a ‟slow developer” or something else altogether.

Increasingly throughout high school, college, and into mainstream adulthood, I discovered I was growing more comfortable around groups of females and more estranged from and apprehensive around groups of men, lest they detect that I had no interest in their primary topics of discussion. Groups of women did not make me uncomfortable in the least. Nonetheless, I crave male companionship.

In the first semester of college, I discovered that I would never be a high school chemistry teacher.

In the military, I discovered self-discipline. Unfortunately, when I left the military, I also left behind nearly all traces of self-discipline. Fortunately, I also discovered the pleasures of heterosexual relationships and in separate events met my future spouse.

After being married, I discovered that I liked it and also discovered the joy of being present at the birth of our four children.

Upon returning to military life, I discovered I am still a child psychologically. I found this out while in training when I read in a manual on how to set up an “L-shaped” ambush. Specifically, where to aim the machine gun to inflict the greatest damage if the bullets fall short or go past the aiming point. I actually realized that the military was no “game” like I played as a little kid.

I discovered that I rather enjoyed being a military officer and also a deputy sheriff both of which were childhood desires.

I discovered that I am a child of God and that most people are good, although many are misguided.

I discovered just how devastating it is when one’s soul-mate passes on leaving one behind.

I discovered the importance of being around family and friends and to keep lines of communication open.

In 2010, I finally admitted to myself that I am sexually oriented towards males and discovered just how liberating the admission was to my psyche.

Lastly, I discovered The Center and SAGE’s Telling Your Story group and the wonderful people who attend. I am looking forward to next Monday’s get-together for conversation and, of course, food with ice cream.

© 22 December 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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Elder Words by Phillip Hoyle

I read this somewhere:

When I turned forty I knew a lot about life.

When I turned fifty every new experience reminded me of a story from the past.

When I turned sixty I thought I was supposed to tell the stories.

Now at sixty-four with croaky voice I say:
Bah humbug.
The next generation is going to the dogs. (Quoting Ovid)
I’m feeling passé.
Moan, groan.
Youth is wasted on the young.
The food here used to be better.
Today I feel like Grandpa Grunt.
Their prices sure have gone up.
I really miss the good old days when things made sense.

Elder words are not new to me. Any number of times I heard them proffering advice, insight, and hope. My folks wanted me to have a good life and somehow to learn from their experience, so I ask you to listen while I tell you their good words.

Words my elders said to me:

Earl Hoyle, my dad: A kind man who wanted his children to have meaningful lives helping other people, Dad was spare in his advice giving. He didn’t select any of his children’s life-work or push them towards a specific career. Yet he did give me two words of advice concerning what I might seek for myself. “For a career,” he advised, “do something you really like to do,” and “Don’t be a musician.” My settlement was to work as a minister in churches leading their choirs and music programs.

Professor Joe Secrest: My main music teacher in undergraduate school, Mr. Secrest encouraged me in many ways providing varied musical resources and experiences. He liked my musicality and dedication to music, and he may have seen that my path into pastoral ministry would be wrong for me. He also may have understood more about my personality and potentials than I ever imagined; after all, he was a musician. At the end of my junior year he proposed: “I’ll stay here another year if you’ll change your major to music.” That was all I needed to hear. I changed my major. It cost me an additional year of schooling but was worth every hour, every book, every measure of music, and every dollar spent.

John Conroe: This handsome and kind man worked in the oil business encouraging folk to sign mineral rights leases. He and his wife lived simply although they had loads of resources. At the church where I had my first full-time job, she greeted at the door and he ushered the center aisle for the eleven o’clock service. They accepted Myrna and me and eventually our children into their lives like they were our parents. One fine day John said this to me: “They should never say of either of us: he worked himself to death.” I agreed with the sentiment and have lived into its easing wisdom.

Rev. Ed, mentor: When I began graduate study at Wichita State University and took on a part-time youth ministry at Broadway Christian Church, I shared an office with a retired American Baptist minister. On occasion Ed and I talked. He seemed interested in my ways of thinking. We read and discussed books on theological and psychological themes. I was amazed at his elder mind, for although the conversations sometimes lagged due to his slower come-backs, he several times recalled the outline of books he had studied thirty years before. I learned from him and was acutely aware of the irony of heeding the advice of a Baptist minister who said: “Go to seminary.”

Dr. Beckelheimer, professor of homiletics: In seminary, at the first meeting of a social ethics graduate seminar, “Strategies for Change” (a kind of Saul Alinsky community organizing course), I realized my real motivation for taking the course was my anger—at the church, at the need for credentials, at the whole world, and at the upset I had caused my family by moving to Texas. I was just plain angry and realized I needed to study something harmless, so immediately after that first session, after I had lied about why I was there, I went to the seminary office to drop that course and sign up for “Principles of Preaching.” The class would be my third three-semester-hour course in homiletics. I’d had two as an undergraduate student and already had discovered I’d be happy to live the rest of my life without preaching another sermon. I took Dr. Beckelheimer’s course and was the first student he ever he gave an “A” to on every sermon submitted. I didn’t like his course, but later in my effort to get out of seminary one semester early, I signed up for another one that sounded better to me, “Experimental Preaching,” a two-hour course in summer school. Again I did superior work that deeply impressed my unimpressive instructor. When I was almost done with my seminary education, Dr. Beckelheimer stopped me in the hallway. In his over-serious although sincere manner, he said: “Be sure you preach.” I did preach some for the next twenty years. As an associate minister I covered vacations and other times away for the senior ministers in several churches. I must have preached about one hundred fifty sermons—addresses I made sure my senior ministers understood I didn’t want to deliver. They liked me for that since I seemed no threat to their position.

Dr. James Duke and Dr. Cy Rowell: In seminary two other professors gave me identical advice. Both seemed impressed by my scholarship. Dr. Duke said: “I’d encourage you to do post-graduate work in church history except there won’t be any jobs.” Dr. Rowell said the same about religious education except that he explained, “There won’t be any jobs; too many people are already lined up getting their degrees.” I appreciated their advice that correlated well with the decision that had landed me in seminary anyway. I had chosen seminary when I realized I didn’t want to pursue postgraduate work in music history.

Rev. Kathryn Williams, a regional associate minister, friend, and mentor: I appreciated many things about Kathryn besides her enthusiasm. She had served as a missionary in the then Belgium Congo and from that experience had unusual views on culture and educational process. She helped me gain a particular approach to childhood education in a church setting, one I employed often in planning events and writing curriculum resources. Besides all that, I just liked her, her accessibility, humor, sharp insights, and constant encouragement. Sometime during the last year of my seminary education, Kathryn said to me: “I know a hundred ministers in their fifties and almost every one of them is bitter at the church. I don’t want that for you.” I thanked her for the wise advice and pledged to quit before I grew to hate my work. Eventually her observation led me to leave ministry.

Geraldean McMillin, school teacher, now retired: Geraldean and I started talking years ago. She taught economics to high school students and so her insights often related to her theories about economics. Growing up in the Missouri Ozarks, she also reflected an earthy common sense. We talked and talked and still do. She asserts it’s the job of elders to be wise. Among many wise sayings she has taught me, I most appreciate this one: “You can’t get a job without experience; can’t get experience without making mistakes.” Her practical approach has helped me deal with my own faux pas and snafu’s.

Ronnie Montoya, friend: I learned sage words from the mouth of a younger person, words that reflected his greater experience, talk that always combined humor and wisdom. He served me as a singular friend, a gateway into Hispanic experience, and a sexual playmate. This short, chubby, cute guy entertained me in Albuquerque. I had met him through my wife who worked with him. The three of us started going out to dance. Ronnie and I started doing more together—playing pool, kicking around, driving here and there, and eventually having sex. A few weeks into our affair, Ronnie warned, “If you get enough man-to-man sex, you’ll want a lot more.” Such truth! I became one of his best-ever students and continued my studies after moving to two other cities. I’m still studying.

Winston Weathers, writer, literary agent, and professor of writing: This elder statesman of creative writing invited me to his apartment several afternoons when I lived in Tulsa. With his partner of forty years we shared wine, snacks, and talk of art, literature, and writing. I didn’t know much about Winston except that he was a retired university professor and that his published poetry and short fiction had gained critical attention. He knew writing and one day told me: “Gay fiction needs more than drugs, dancing, and wild sex.” I am seeking to follow his advice.

Words describing an elder ideal:

Wisdom is knowing what to do with knowledge
Adages distill wisdom
Stories tell the truth
Poetry reaches deeper

© 23 November 2012 

About the Author  

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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For a Good Time by Pat Gourley

If I were to take the high road with this topic I suppose I would explore my options for a “good time” by discussing my friends and time spent with them sharing a movie or a meal I have prepared especially to accommodate their particular dietary idiosyncrasies. Or perhaps relate my anticipation for seeing a couple of Furthur shows next month at Red Rocks with 10,000 of my closet associates. Prowling a Farmer’s Market, taking in the latest vegetative creations at the Denver Botanic Gardens or curling up with my kitties, a good book and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s are also things that work for me when it comes to a good time.

I will dispense however with the “high road” for the remainder of this piece and look at the tried and true completion of the phrase which would be “for a good time and hopefully a happy ending” call 555-5555. In decades gone by this exhortation was often seen scrawled on public toilet stalls along with the requisite phone number. For the extremely bold the phrase might appear in a personal print ad, though the “good time” was often just implied as was the “happy ending”.

Throughout the 1970’s a “good time” for me involved heading out to the bathhouse. I do believe that as gay bathhouses evolved in that decade they were a truly unique space created by gay men. There certainly had for millennia been public bathes that often had a homosexual cruising element but the gay bathes as manifested in large American and European cities largely after Stonewall had no pretext or subterfuge about them. They were gay male space created for the express purpose of getting laid in a relatively safe place often catering to and facilitating a variety of gay male sexual fantasies.

The amenities were simple but plentiful including safe lockers, clean towels, private rooms, slings, suitable lengths of plastic douching hose with hookups right next to the toilets, orgy rooms, steam rooms, lots of hot water, reasonably priced poppers and buckets of free cheap lube, usually whipped up like cake batter in big batches by the employees. This lube was often a mix of baby oil and Crisco or some other vegetable shortening on sale that week at Safeway I expect. Johnson & Johnson was almost always the source of the baby oil. Condoms were certainly not readily available and if so their use was at best frowned on.

Though in hindsight the baths may have initially fueled the AIDS epidemic after that horse was out of the barn I always felt they were more a form of quarantine for the already infected than really significant vectors. Certainly before AIDS the tubs were I think overall very conducive elements to the building of the potent queer liberation movement of the post Stonewall era. I mean what could go wrong in these ultimate palaces of testosterone fueled gay male bonding where fucking with as many or as few men in a single visit as you could accommodate was easily facilitated, the ultimate male fantasy.

Some unfortunate drawbacks did exist and in some forms persist today. Many bathes were mob owned and often enforced very racist and ageist door policies though in their heyday there was a variety of establishments that accommodated nearly everyone.

The tubs still exist today but after a severe curtailing in the 1980’s due to the AIDS epidemic they have never fully recovered to their 1970’s glory. Perhaps though even more significant than fear of disease in their decline has been the Internet. In case one forgets for a moment the importance of this when you type “Internet” and neglect to capitalize the “I’ it spells checks to remind you to do so.

For myself personally as having been a child of the tubs decades ago and fortunate enough to have had a couple of relatively good long term relationships, I now am occasionally at a loss really as to where to go for a sexual good time. I do though rely on my left hand (I am right handed but go figure), a tube of Vaseline and my computer. And FYI the word Vaseline also insists on being capitalized on my Apple product.

Gay men though being the masters of the “hook-up” that we are have evolved quite well with the times. An example of this would be Grindr – spelled G-r-i-n-d-r – which is a geosocial networking application available for download from the Apple App Store and Google Play. This can best be described as making use of GPS and your computer, tablet or iPhone to find other men near by specifically for sexual hook ups. This can happen in an instant of course and eliminates the tediously time consuming efforts involved in the past for meeting up with partners at bars, parks, parties etc. and very little social chit-chat is required. Simply to initiate a “good time” text to xxxxxx.

The Grindr app provides an interface that displays photos of men arranged in order of proximity to your current location. Tapping on a photo of interest will provide you with a brief profile hopefully not a total pack of lies. Needless to say this award winning social networking tool has been a wild success all over the world. And thanks to Edward Snowden we now know that all of the personal information provided on this platform is and will be carefully stored for possible future retrieval at the large and ominous NSA facility nearing completion in neighboring Utah. The old vice squad of yesteryear must just be wetting their pants with jealously.

Again for me personally I must confess that Grindr is not an option I am willing to explore and not for any fear of the NSA though it is none of their fucking business and a violation of my 1st, 4th and 6th amendment rights but I digress. Rather it is difficult to teach an old queen new tricks or how to find new tricks. I am for the most part quite content with my computer and a couple dear old comfortable and reliable (and I use the phrase with the greatest of love and affection) fuck buddies. In a concession to the times though they are contacts on my iPhone and I call them with a simple touch most likely unable to actually dial their number form memory.

© August 2013

About
the Author  

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

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Remembering by Michael King

Since I have now been writing stories based on the topic of the week for about 3 ½ years, I have had a variety of insights relating to today’s topic “remembering”. Each topic seems to force me to examine my memories regarding the particular topic. When I first started it became very painful as I had so many of my life’s experiences so deeply buried in a hidden place somewhere to never be thought about again.

My lifetime of forgetting and going ahead had worked well up until I started thinking about the topic for rhe week. Some topics brought forth a tremendous surge of past hurts and disappointments. Others gave me the opportunity to see parts of my life more clearly. It didn’t seem to matter what feeling and memories I had. What I did begin to notice was resolve. I allowed myself to sincerely assess each group of experiences that came into my mind as I pondered the possible truth of these memories. Surprisingly, I realized that for the most part I didn’t at the time have the skills or the experience to handle whatever situation in a manner that met my high standards. I had often felt that I was a failure and incompetent. Now I can see that I simply didn’t know how to meet some of these challenges with any real level of maturity as I had not yet developed any coping techniques to address most of the painful disappointments and betrayals that always surprised me and my overly sensitive ego had no calloused self-protective armor. I so much have always wanted to live in a wonderful world where I was also wonderful and efficient, respected and loved, skillful and wise, happy and humorous, brave and self-sufficient, intelligent and knowledgeable, and on and on and on.

So, I must now take responsibility for having seen the world of my past as one that of course I couldn’t be comfortable in since I didn’t have the knowledge or understanding to be the person that I thought I should be. I didn’t allow for mistakes, ignorance, self forgiveness, nor did I allow for those in my environment to be less than honorable, trustworthy, mature, etc. Not only was I a disappointment to myself, but that was often reinforced by the way others treated me. I felt alone, that I couldn’t trust anyone including myself.

This was the frame of mind I had for the first 17 years of my life; I often focused on the negative and placed little attention on the positive. Now I see that there was much that I could have appreciated that I didn’t.

I am also aware that I can now review much of my life from a much clearer perspective since I have by now finally had the experiences and developed the coping skills and insights that allow me to put all those dreadful feeling and disappointments in a more realistic and understanding perspective. Yes, if I had been in a different environment and had mentors and so on it might have been different. Then I probably wouldn’t have the insight and compassion for understanding other people.

From 17 on, my world changed when I went to college and for the first time in my memory I didn’t have to feel on the defensive. I began to be more and more like I thought I should be and feel.

I continued to have some difficult periods and many challenges, disappointments and failures which I still considered unacceptable, but I also had many really wonderful happenings and wasn’t always waiting for the other shoe to drop. There were plenty of times that it did. I was caught off guard or betrayed or deeply hurt either because of my own doing or someone else’s.

I’ve been doing a lot of self-forgiveness and a lot of forgiving since I started the “Telling My Story Group” and I realize that we rework our memories. We see them from different perspectives. We sometimes make changes in our thoughts, our behaviors, our emotional selves and we can rework our memories. We can also do as I did for years and bury them.

Some of the memories that I like best are the ones where I have been outrageous, funny and got the reactions I wanted and the times when I felt loving and loved, sensuous and sexy, accepted and appreciated, when I was admired and agreed, and when I felt secure that I was thick skinned enough to withstand anything that comes my way. Being so prepared after 73 years of being defensive seems to have eliminated being caught off guard. When I am, I almost always can turn the situation into something humorous. I love a good laugh and usually don’t wait till I’m challenged. I especially remember when something’s funny.

© 11
March 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.