Tag: Life Stories

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Paradise Found by Gillian

One of the most wonderful hours of my life was spent in a church.

Now, to realize the enormity of that statement, you need to remember that I don’t do religion.
I stopped going to church in my early youth and have never felt the need to return except of course for the obligatory weddings and funerals.
I consider myself a spiritual person, but not in the least religious.

When I was told we were going to church this Sunday morning, I simply sighed and silently acquiesced. Betsy and I were in Hawaii, sharing a condo with a woman we had met during an Elderhostel week at the Grand Canyon. Liz was several years older than we were, had never been married, but we don’t think she was a lesbian. She just befriended us at Elderhostel and we kept loosely in touch via E-mail afterwards. Suddenly one day a message appeared inviting us to stay with her in her timeshare condo on Maui. She would also have a car. It took us three seconds to accept.

Liz was an “in charge” kinda gal! We had discovered in our first few hours in Hawaii that she had her agenda and we were expected to fall into line. Not that we had any complaints, once we got the idea in our heads. Free accommodation and transportation and our activities all planned out. What’s to complain about? We had a wonderful couple of weeks.

This final Sunday we were watching the waves while sipping our morning o.j. when we learned of the impending church visit and so reluctantly dragged ourselves off the beach to change clothes, pile into the car, and drive along a beautiful coast road to Keawalai Congregational United Church of Christ.

Oh, what a breathtakingly heartachingly beautiful spot!
Located right on the bright blue ocean and nestled in flowering shrubs and trees and coconut palms, sat this small church built of mellow burnt coral rock and roofed with brown shingles.
Beside it a small, serene, cemetery contained the graves of area families including many paniolo, Hawaiian cowboys. Several of the grave markers contained rare ceramic photo plates, none of which, amazingly, had been vandalized or stolen although the place is wide open to anyone.

This church was founded originally in 1832, the services being held in a church built of pili grass. The present structure was built, in 1855, completely of stone and coral from the beach and wood from the adjacent forest. Everything in the church is Hawaiian, since 1992 when the old floor of Douglas fir was replaced by native ohia wood. The land for the church was purchased for $80. One can only imagine what it must be worth now.

We wandered to the church, on a much worn path of beach sand, midst a motley crew. There were indigenous Hawaiian families in traditional and modern dress; there were residents obviously of more recent Hawaiian heritage, and a few, like us, conspicuous tourists. We were made immediately conspicuous by the fact that we all wore shoes or sandals. The permanent members of the congregation, and the minister, were all barefoot no matter how nicely they were dressed.
In the midst of our enchantment with this, came an unfamiliar sound. It was rather like a foghorn but as we approached the main church door we were further delighted to find two men blowing into conch shells, calling the faithful to worship. Inside the cool church we found palm fronds for fanning oneself during the service if required, more conch shells and palm fronds and local bamboo, and magnificent hand carved offering bowls and a cross, all made from local wood.
The windows contained no glass; were simply open to the soft ocean breezes, and the colorful birds flitting in and out.
It was a uniquely wonderful mix of pagan and Christian and we loved it.

I found myself dreading the beginning of the service. I was so at peace in that amazing place and I just knew that the advent of religious dogma would ruin it.
It did not.
The service was conducted in both Hawaiian and English and was as delightful as the setting.
But then came time for the sermon. Hah! Now it would all be ruined, said my cynical self.
Wrong again. 
The pastor spoke with eloquent passion in a very “what would Jesus do?” way, and of course the fact that I agreed with every word he said had something to do with the comfort zone in which I found myself. This was June of 2003, a month after the U.S. had completed its invasion of Iraq, which I certainly did not see as anything Jesus would do, and the Pastor left his congregation in no doubt as to his opinions. The words from this pulpit did not spatter me like shrapnel, which is sometimes the case, but settled firmly in my heart and I have never forgotten them.

To put icing on the cake of this wonderful experience, we had somehow stumbled into a baptism. At the end of the main service the church empties out for the short walk onto Maluaka Beach where the baby was treated to a short dip in the warm blue Pacific.
What a way to start out on life’s journey!

Much of modern Hawaii does not, for me, fulfill its claims of Paradise. It is, sadly, Paradise lost. But that tiny corner, surrounded as it is by gated communities and multi-million dollar mansions, provides a glimpse of what the real Hawaii once was. It is truly a tiny piece of Paradise found. 

Lakewood, 11/5/2012

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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Breaking into Gay Culture by Betsy

Not only was I unaware of how or where to break into the gay culture, I was oblivious of the fact that there was a unique culture belonging to the gay community. Moreover, I was unaware that this is something I needed to do for myself when I came out.

One of my very first experiences breaking into the lesbian community was actually at my place of employment. I was working at a non-profit agency at the time and having seen some of the local lesbian literature around I learned that there existed in Denver a Women’s Outdoor Club. I understood that this was a lesbian club and felt it was a group that would appeal to me and be appropriate for me to belong to. I understood that I belonged in such a group in spite of the fact that I was still married, living with my husband, still one child at home, and was definitely “feeling” my way forward into unfamiliar territory (hoping I was moving forward and not backward, but not sure at this point).
I recognized the name of one of the members of the Women’s Outdoor Club as one of agency’s volunteers. I had seen her many times in the office. She knew I was married at the time. The next time I saw her I said to her, “I think I would like to join the Women’s Outdoor Club.” In a hushed tone she replied, “It IS for lesbians.” I said, “Yes, I know, and I qualify.” “Oh,” she said. Come along on our next trip. We’re hiking up in Rocky Mountain National Park.”

The time came for the hike. My husband delivered me to the car pooling meeting place and after the event picked me up. I often think about that day. He knew what I was doing and with whom. There were no secrets. Everything was out in the open. I think he was hoping I would get a taste of the new culture and find that I didn’t fit or didn’t like it. His hopes did not come to fruition. I do not and at the time did not think of this experience as “breaking into” a culture or a group. The reality was that I was doing an activity (hiking) with a number of female nature-loving hikers. This was really nothing terribly new. The difference was there were no men in the group–husbands or otherwise, nor were we a group of women hiking together while chatting about our respective husbands or male companions.

Another introduction to the culture was a visit to the Three Sisters Bar. The place seemed rather “seedy” to me–dark and almost sinister. I had no idea who the women were who were there or what they looked like. It was far too dark to see anything. Seeing the women together was quite exciting actually. I cannot remember how I got there or with whom either. Just that it was the place to go at night.

During my coming out process I learned about a group for married women or women who had been married who were coming out or considering coming out, were gay, or bisexual or thought they were gay. The group was organized and facilitated by a woman in the community who had travelled the same route more or less; that is, she, too, had been married, raised a family, and came out later in life. Perfect, I thought. That’s for me. And it was just what I needed.

One of the meetings included a tour of the then existing women’s bars. We started with our usual support group discussion and following that left the meeting place to visit the bars. This was extremely helpful to me as I had no prior knowledge of any of these places except the Sisters. It turns out there were three or four bars and they were all quite enjoyable when one was comfortably entrenched in a group and not scared to death. I will always be grateful to my mentor and leader for her support group.

Prior to that experience and meeting many other women of my age group, I seriously thought I was unique in that I was married, had been married for a long time, and now, later in life was coming out, changing my life-style completely. But I found that to be untrue as there were many other women just like me.

In those days The Center sponsored a support group for women coming out. All extremely helpful and made the coming out process much less difficult.

I suspect the gay culture is more discernible, more definable, and takes on more importance for those individuals, gay men or lesbians, who are seeking partners, either consciously or unconsciously.

I have to say that after 30 years or so in the lesbian community and almost 30 years in a stable same-sex relationship, I do not feel that there is an identifiable lesbian culture per se. Maybe among some women there is, but to me it feels more like a women’s culture, free from the constraints, real or imagined, imposed by the presence of straight men. There are plenty of straight women who partake of activities for women alone–free of the influence, direction, or guidance of the straight men to whom they are attached. By the same token by sharing a common sexual identity most lesbians tend to relate to each other more comfortably than with straight women perhaps. In my view this does not reflect a lesbian culture, rather women’s culture. Some of my best friends are straight women. Our bonding is more around our common values and our womanhood. I believe this is true in the lesbian community as well.

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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Happy Books by Ricky

I’ve read my share of gay sex books over the years and it didn’t take long to realize those types of books held nothing of interest.  After awhile, all the stories resembled each other so I lost interest and they no longer attract me.

On the other hand, returning to the original meaning of gay (a synonym for “happy” or “merry”) there are a few books that come to my mind.  As a child, I liked the Disney book Little Toot; which was about a small tug boat that caused a catastrophe.  He was then banished but he later saved an ocean liner and all was well. 

Another book that had a happy ending was Peter Pan.  I’m sure you all have either read the book or saw: one of several productions of the story from Mary Martin’s performances from the stage or broadcast live on TV last century; the Disney animated feature; school plays; VHS/DVDs; and most recently, a version using live actors.  As a result, I will not go into the story here.

Any of Edgar Rice Burrows’ Tarzan books also were “happy”. Naturally, the plots all involved Tarzan having a few adventures but always ending with a “happy” note.  Since most books follow that pattern, we can include under the definition of “happy” all of the books where a male or female protagonist triumphs over all the enemies or difficulties placed in their path.  There are uncommon books, which have a rather dark ending and I try to stay away from them. I accidentally read one of those a few months ago.  I would not have read it, if I had known that the main character was going to die at the end.  There was a “last minute” twist to the plot which resulted in his death but in so doing, he managed to protect a whole community from a serial killer. This story unnerved me for 3 or 4 days before it finally left my mind and my stress over it vanished.

Another type of happy books, are collections of poetry for children (and the parents who read them to their offspring). Two of our favorites are by Dr. Seuss; they are Tweedle Beadle (from Fox in Socks), and the other is In A People House.  My youngest daughter’s all time favorite poem was written by Ogden Nash; The Tale of Custard the Dragon.  At one time, both she and I had it nearly memorized, but alas, my memory of it is only bits and pieces so, I am reduced to reading it every so often; like right now.
  
The Tale of Custard the Dragon

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon,
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage,

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! Cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood,
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda’s dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets, but they didn’t hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim.
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I’d have been twice as brave if I hadn’t been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We’d have been three times as brave, we think,
Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

      ©  Ogden Nash

© 23 March 2011

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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My Favorite Place by Ray S

At first thought the subject today calls for ancient memories and especially nostalgia. My sand box in the back yard was a very favorite realm over which I was king. A fleet of yellow Tootsietoy sedans, roadsters, and two town cars with front seat open tops for the chauffeur, separating the enclosed passenger compartments. There were miles and miles of miniature roads and highways, bridges over rivers thtat sometimes flooded and washed out the roads due to the torrents of water from the garden hose. No, there was never any loss of lives. Those drivers knew what they were doing.

Along side the venerable sand box kingdom, father had constructed a club house from used wooden refrigerator crates. All sorts of secret and sometimes forbidden activities took place in that hallowed hall. Oaths of life-long friendship, confidences for no one’s ears but your best buddy, and a place of quiet consolation when things just became too hectic in the big people’s world.

Once that was a favorite place, but things change. An unrealized dream house materializes comfortably nestled in the verdant forested hills of some make believe New England landscape–all white clapboard and green shutters, stuffed with American antique funiture. “Autumn Leaves,” Thanksgiving by Currier and Ives, “White Christmas,” “Moonlight in Vermont,” etc, etc. Meanwhile life moved on in a post war ranch house in suburbia. Another unfulfilled “Favorite Place” is the magic city on the bay, or the drive up the coast past an oceanside community romantically named Sea Ranch. There, clinging to the cliffside a cluster of weathered cedar shingled cottages. Dream on…….

All of those material Favorite Places are or were important; however, is there anything that can supplant a warm hearth, the luxury of a cozy nesting place, strong shoulders to lean on, two arms to hold you tight and the security of another’s love. That is the ultimate “Favorite Place” to be for me.

About the Author

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My Favorite Place by Lewis

I have several favorite places, as no one place seems to have everything I need or want to be happy all the time.

If I were to pick just one favorite place to spend a vacation away from home, it would likely be Ouray, CO.

If I were to pick just one favorite place to be when going from one favorite place to another, it would be my car, unless distances were sufficiently short, in which case, it would be in my walking shoes.

If I were to name my favorite place to spend the biggest chunk of my time, it would be my bed.

If I had to pick a favorite place to spend all of my time, it would be my body.

If I were to pick a favorite place to pass the time, it would be in the presence of friends or family.

I find that, at certain times of the day and night, my most favorite place by far is my bathroom. No other place will do at all.

But if I were to pick the place that most nurtures my inner Lewis, it would be my balcony. No, check that. It would be my “terrace”. “Terrace” is defined as “a platform that extends out from a building”. Somehow, “terrace” sounds like a much more romantic place for soul-searching than a “balcony”. I’m sure that Juliet was courted by her Romeo while standing on a terrace. Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward starred in From the Terrace; The Balcony starred Peter Falk and Shelley Winters. See what I mean?

So, when I have breakfast, I take it on the terrace, weather permitting. The same for lunch and dinner. When I do the New York Times crossword–which is always a Monday–I do it on the terrace. When I undertake to decipher Laurin’s journals, I find the fresh air and beautiful landscape help to keep my spirit more buoyant. Even the sound of neighbors’ voices helps to keep me connected to all that is good in the world. When I write in my own journal, same place. When I take in a little sun–for very limited amounts of time–the terrace offers all the privacy I need. My garden, what there is of it–on the terrace. When I want to take in the sky, the scenery, the action on the street, nothing fills the bill like my terrace.

Out there, I am part of the world. I count. I feel connected. If I don’t want to connect, I can leave the cordless and cell phones inside. Smells, tastes, sounds are more vivid. I can even hide when that feels right. Even oblivion is within easy reach–if I had the inclination and weren’t such a coward.

Oh, in case you’re curious, I did not type this while sitting on the terrace. I was late getting to it and had not the time to daydream.

Lewis, July 15, 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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I Never Knew — Mutable Facts by Carlos

Did he remember me as I remembered him?

A couple of summers ago, playing on my computer, I typed in his name in a people search website, curious as to where the years had taken him. When his obituary of ten years earlier emblazoned my screen, a darkness of grief blotted out my emotions. I felt a suspension of thought, a resurgence of memories. I never knew.

I didn’t know he had died ten years before. After all, the last time I had seen him was at a very awkward, unexpected encounter where he had paid his respects at my father’s funeral twenty years earlier. I don’t remember what we said, only that I spoke his name for the first time in years; I did, however, recognize the gulf that divided us as he hurriedly walked away.

Interestingly, to my observant eyes, the obituary made only cursory mention of his wife with whom he had shared his final decades, yet it emphasized his ever-loving daughter and even more interestingly, his life-long allegiance to the church where he had served as sacristan, eucharistic minister and lector. How strange it was that as I read the obituary, memories of our shared pasts deluged my mind, memories of love in all its many and varied guises. Since we lost touch after I left Texas thirty years before, I often wondered if he remembered me as I remembered him. And now as I re-read the obituary, I concluded that death had finally effaced the irrational love that had since withered like a spray of once fragrant violets. I pondered whether over time I become nothing more than a sepia memory or whether I had the right to suspect that he had finally won the battle fought over a lifetime to obliterate me from his mind.

We had once shared secrets together, secrets of young love and hopeful futures over several years, as with needle and thread we quilted a covenant we trusted would last a lifetime. But I went away for a span of time and journeyed to foreign shores in distant lands as I fulfilled my obligations to my country. We wrote religiously in the interim, breathing life into our discoveries, distilling hopes like rain water percolating through layers of limestone. And when I returned, we tilled the earth in the backyard, determined to transform a plot of calcified soil into a reawakened garden of erotic extravagance. And for a while the bulbs and rhizomes we planted in the fall greeted us in the spring with rainbows of irises and ranunculi, tulips and daffodils. The sweet scent of arching peace roses and tender green grass enveloped us like a capsulated chrysalis. But he had changed; I had changed. Our improvised dance now seemed staged and amateurish. All too soon, we recognized we had miscalculated our misadventure as we pirouetted in our macabre ballet of fate. He wanted to be a father, dreaming of a little girl to whom he would build palaces of spun filigreed gold topped with silver moon beams radiating outward. I wanted him to love me with a love that was dawn and twilight and everything in between, no longer being satisfied with the love of first sight. Thus, he sent me away; I walked away. Nevertheless, even as I ascended into the skies far from him, I looked behind, hoping against hope that he would restore the primal cord that had been cut with a whetstone-sharpened steel blade.

He married within weeks, to what I believe was a wonderful woman he had known for years, a woman who was able to give him what I could not. Asking me to be his best man, I stood solemnly but tormented at bride and groom shared sacred vows. I wanted to give flesh to our sin before man and God lest we lose each other in the maelstrom of time. But I silenced my voice; I carved a smile upon my polychromed mask, and again, I flew away into the clouds. Nine months to the day, he sent me a letter informing me of the birth of a daughter hours earlier, a daughter he wrote who uncannily had my eyes, my skin, my mouth. Days later, he sent me a picture of him bathing the child, a look of sublime joy on his face. I realized he had discovered the treasure after which he had quested. I returned back to him not long after when he asked be to be the godfather of his beloved…his two beloveds joined in a momentary gasp of suspiration, the child holding her breathe as the pure water dedicated her to God; me gasping with unanswered questions.

And I walked away. Because the cicatrice in my heart kept opening and spewing molten pain that could not be cauterized, I again walked away, but this time I never returned. The moments became eons, and the eons coalesced into eternity. As I re-read his obituary, I hammered nails upon the entombed gyrations that had decimated with finality. I hoped that over time the church that he had so openly shunned when we were one offered him solace. I knew the beloved daughter he had birthed certainly did. I suspect he spent a lifetime trying to deny me, yet I retain a romantic hope, maybe even a vain hope, that maybe, just maybe, he experienced moments when he exalted me, when he honored that part of me that he carried in his heart forever.

And I wondered if he had remembered me as I remembered him.

© Denver
June 2, 2013 



About the Author 



Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

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Filing through the Files by Terry

In
the effort to avoid a depressing subject, I am sharing my little adventure in
going through my files to find the title of my car. It took me twice through to
locate the title. I traveled a territory spanning at least three decades. I
searched through three different files.
The
largest, looming at a full page, officially stamped, was my marriage
certificate. Could not for the life of me remember what I’d needed that for.
Ahh
the receipts.  For someone who doesn’t
itemize, I have a lot of receipts!  Everything from ice cream shops to body shops,
not to mention movie tickets (remember Back to the Future?)
For
some reason, I had tucked a bunch of poetry and letters written many years ago,
under, for some reason, letter H.  I read
through several letters written to someone named Nancy. Unmailed, Passionate,
that professed undying love, please don’t leave me, that kind of thing, for
pages and pages!
I
was stunned. I had no idea who this Nancy was.  Had I been in an imaginary relationship?  Or, had I actually been writing letters, at
age thirty or so, to an imaginary lover?  Was this a half-finished narrative from a
short story that I forgot I wrote?  Who
in the Hell was Nancy?  I don’t know any Nancy,
or any Nancys.  The handwriting looked
like mine.  It took a good twenty minutes
of staring into space before it dawned on me; the woman I thought I would
never get over, over whom I had been devastated and bereft; I must have been
chuckling to myself the rest of the day and into sleep over that one.
The
other find was the roster for The Denver Golden Girls, my wonderful Lesbian
rugby team.  I had started out just to
take part in practices to get into shape. But that game just sucked me right in.
 I remembered practice, breaking through
tackles, when Harpo (her real name) tied to catch me by the waist band of my
shorts which were of a stretchy material, and more than my athletic talent was
revealed, however briefly.  Though we
beat the women of The Air Force Academy I remembered only Harpo from that
roster.
Ultimately,
of course, there were receipts from doctor bills and shrinks and surgeons, but
I said I wasn’t going to get into that.  Suffice
it to say that some things just are bound to be forgotten.  After all, isn’t that why we have files?
  
© 23 June 2013 

About the Author 
I
am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career
serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental
health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for
elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have
returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.
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Casual Sex by Phillip Hoyle

Sex has never felt casual to me. Some have suggested that because of this I am not really gay, like the drag queen who claimed to my ex-wife that I wasn’t gay because when I had his beautiful body on my massage table I didn’t have sex with him. He echoed the complaint of much of the gay liberation movement that grew up during the time of free love and open relationships. The early gay movement presented these opening salvos of value to gain attention in order to gain civil rights for yet another segment of American people. They championed free-love among other rights. Still, even the most cursory look at “out” GLBTs reveals a much more complicated world of relationships, sexual practices, and preferences.

I really have no problem with the idea of casual sex. It’s fine with me although I have never been truly casual. When I came to Denver to live, I had sixteen different partners in my first sixteen months. The meetings began as casual pick-ups in bars. “Let’s have sex,” one smiling man at Charlies night club suggested. I agreed, and off we went to my apartment. The casual got a little more complicated when we negotiated what to do. It turned out we both wanted to do the same thing to one another but eventually found a mutually agreeable compromise and the once-again-casual fun began. Afterwards we talked about our backgrounds and found similar experiences, and in the exchange he emerged as a complex person, as much as I. Casually or otherwise, I liked him, his body, his openness, his personality. The several times we got together were great fun with vigorous sex, but I felt responsibility towards him and myself. Sex has always been like that for me. I feel like Johnny Carson, who said the reason he had so many divorces was that when he had sex with a woman, he thought he was supposed to marry her. When with men I don’t think in terms of marriage, but I may as well. If I’m casual in the initial act, I’m not casual in the aftermath when a real person emerges. Perhaps I was too long married, too long a pastor in churches. I just can’t maintain interest to an unattached sex organ.

Casual sex is probably the wrong expression for what I have observed in bars. There are forms for seeking to get laid that include pick up lines, banter, back-and-forth exchanges of glances, words, drinks, dances, kisses, and sometimes introductions. Even getting casual sex relies on long-established rules of communication. It’s rare to find it any other way since communications have to be understandable. 

I seek mental and emotional accord as well as sex. I want real, lively people in my life. I’m just that way. So… I’m a certain kind of gay person. I love sex but always lean towards complex relationships with complex personalities. That’s how it is for me: not too casual.

While I protest my interest in casual sex, I freely admit I have had sex outside of a committed relationship. I had sex in addition to a committed marriage, and in these variances I am not alone. In general, men seem happy to engage in casual sex even though there are social strictures against it. They do so in war; they do it when away on trips; they do it at home even with the possibility of getting caught and charged. The care of children and their mothers is a societal concern that has tended to limit the number of wives and keep men in control. In addition, control of family lineage and the distribution of wealth have long been preoccupations among the powerful. Societies don’t want to get out of control just because their men have too much testosterone, so they have developed standards of faithfulness within human marriages.

Men having sex with men don’t have to worry about pregnancies, so when Gay liberation became an issue, gay’s fought for sexual freedom as well. Gay men felt free of relational obligations until the discovery of the deadly STD HIV, then the co-infections such as hepatitis C, and then the re-emergence of syphilis. Then gay men had to calm down, refocus their attention, be less casual about it all, but they still wanted to suck it, still wanted to stick it, and still wanted to feel it buried deep inside and often with lots of different people. They (we) wanted the fucking intensity, and the rubber made it possible.

The accusations I have heard that I was not really gay, seem to point to an established form of free love, meaning casual sex within gay meanings. I am even more casual. No. I’m not. Nor am I particularly hung up. I want sex within friendship’s larger possibilities. I’m not interested to simply play out someone else’s fantasies. I want to relate at some more complex level. So I think in terms of sexualized friendships, something more akin to fuck buddies with the emphasis placed on buddies. This institution provides more than sexual release. As a form of friendship, it bows somewhat to the terms of contractual relationship. It certainly is more complex than John Richey’s young protagonist in the novel Numbers, much less goal-oriented than his adding notches to his whatever or adding variety to his numbering. It moves away from such quantitative goals to supplement them with a quality experience that I believe can only come with repeat performance. At least that’s my fantasy.

The current interest in establishing gay marriages by law seems to move the emphasis away from casual sex, but we must also remember that men who have been married to women all their adult lives still want and often get casual sex. The same surely will be true with gay men who seek formal, structured relationships, yet they seem willing to do so for financial, personal, control, romantic, or other reasons. Also they want it as a civil right and surely will win in this confrontation with general society.

© 17 February 2011

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in
Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing.
His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups
of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in
church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients
in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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One Monday Afternoon by Merlyn

I like to go on vacation the week after Labor Day; the kids are back in school and most of the places we liked to go to would still be open without all the people. We moved into a new place three years earlier and had been busy repairing and remodeled our new home. The only thing left to do was update the laundry room. I had redone the pumping, wiring and replaced the flooring. The only thing left to do on Monday was put the new washer and dryer in place. Load the old ones in the trailer and take them to be recycled. Then get out of town. The weather was supposed to be nice in southern Nevada and Arizona so we were planning on heading that way.

We were still in bed sleeping when the phone started ringing; my girlfriend’s son called to tell to turn on the TV, a plane had crashed into the world trade center. We were lying in bed watching the news when the second tower was hit.

I had been reading stories on line about possible terrorist attacks against us but I had dismissed them.

We spend the morning watching the TV and finishing the laundry room. The news was reporting that all of the planes that were flying were ordered to land at the nearest airport. I had the computer on a site that showed all of the planes in the air anywhere in the country, within an hour there were only a few planes left as one by one they landed and the sky was empty.

Around noon I went outside and was loading the old washer and dryer on the trailer when I realized how quiet everything was. We lived about a mile from the flight path to PDX airport and could always see and hear planes going over. I looked at the sky and realized our country would never be the same.

I went back inside and we watched the TV as we ate lunch and talked about what might happen next. Since no one knew what was going to happen we decided we did not want to be 1000 + miles from home and not be able to get back if the attacks continued.

We spent a week on the Oregon coast and spent the rest of our vacation just hanging around home.

After twenty years we never made a big trip together again after September 11, 2001

P.S. After I finished this story I was thinking about it and realized 911 was on a Tuesday. We were planning on leaving on Monday but the washer was not available to be picked up until Monday afternoon.

© 5
March 2013 



About the Author



I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

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The Swim by Gillian

I have never been one to be really “in the swim of things,” an expression much used by my mother but not heard so much today. American Heritage Dictionary of Idioms defines it as “actively participating, in the thick of things,” and explains it’s origin from the term “swim” used in the 1800’s to mean a large number of fish in one area.

No, I have not for the most part been one of those many, but more one aside. Perhaps it was to some extent an inevitable result of being an only child, learning of necessity to be perfectly content with my own company, but it was also the result of other circumstances.

When I was about four my parents and I moved to a remote farming area on the border of England and Wales, to live with and look after my paternal grandparents of whom I have already told you quite a lot in various stories. This part of the world had a dialect all its own, so that set me apart from everyone else from the start. When I began school I learned, as children swiftly do, to adopt the right words and phrases, to talk like the other kids, and fit in well enough, but was never really “in the swim.”

Besides, they were all farm kids and I was the teacher’s brat, so that left an inevitable space between us. Furthermore, in remote areas like this, people were only just beginning to travel outside their immediate surroundings and so for many generations had been intermarrying.

It seemed as if every one of my friends was related to all the others whereas I had no family in the area except my immediate one of parents and grandparents.

It was not that I was lonely or unhappy, just not “in the swim.”

Then, of course, as I grew older that subconscious subliminal gay thing was always there.

Even though I didn’t even recognize it consciously, let alone do anything about it, it definitely kept me out of that “swim!”

And now I have recognized it, and done something about it, and am completely “out,” I still wouldn’t say I’m firmly “in the swim of things” as far as gay culture, whatever that is, goes. Yes, I suppose being with a same-sex partner in a committed relationship for twenty-five years does put me solidly within the “gay” circle, but I don’t find myself “in the swim” of gay culture.

Sure, I’ve read some gay books and seen some gay movies, and would probably do more of both if there were more really good ones. I’ve done my fair share of dancing and lesbian bars but once I found my beautiful Betsy those rather lost their appeal.

I am here, a participant in this wonderful group, which I acknowledge as one of the best things to have come along in my life, so clearly I do participate in gay things with gay people,

But in general I have to say that I don’t feel participation in gay culture to be a big part of my life.

No, not in the swim!

Or am I? Surely being completely at peace with whom and what you are is just about as much “in the swim” as a person could ever be.

© Sept. 10th 2012
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.