Tag: Life Stories

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Bishop’s Castle and Beyond by Gillian

Bishop’s Castle, where I went to high school, is a tiny town on the border between England and Wales, and about as far from being a city as a settlement can get, but it’s what I had. It had a population of a little over a thousand then, and less than 1500 now. A prehistoric Bronze Age route runs from the town but there is evidence of human habitation there several thousand years before that.
In the early 1200s the Bishop of Hereford built a castle there, hence the name, and the settlement received royal borough status in 1249.
In 1642, the Three Tuns Brewery was established on its current site, making it the oldest licensed brewery site in Britain. Now that is a real claim to fame. Need I say that any time I visit my friends who still live in B.C. as it’s known locally, I make it a point to have a pint or two in the Three Tuns pub?
Some of my friends live in a row of cottages all with curved back walls and flanking a gently curving street, as the original curved castle wall was used as it stood when they were built in the 1600s.  
Now I see it as a fascinating spot alive with history, but of course when I was at school there I simply found it a peacefully boring backwater I couldn’t wait to leave.
I did leave a little piece of my heart there, though. Inevitably, I think, we are left with some fondness for anywhere we spend much time, even if it is all distorted by nostalgia.
And anyway, I was in love there.
I was in love everywhere.
In that serial monogamy existing, secretly, only in my mind, I have been in love everywhere I have lived, and so scattered other little pieces of my heart.

In B.C. I was in love with Sarah who now lives in New Zealand and is a great-grandmother.

Bishop’s Castle, with its few tiny medieval shops, was useless for serious shopping so for that we rode the local bus into Shrewsbury, a town of 100,000 now and maybe half that in the 1940s.
Shrewsbury was founded as a town in the 8th century, built on the site of the Roman town of Viriconium of which many beautiful parts remain. The earliest written mention of the town is from the year 901, when it was part an important border post between the Anglo-Saxons of England and the Britons in Wales. By the reign of Athelstan (925-939) coinage was being issued by the Shrewsbury mint and many coins from that time are still being unearthed today.
The town fell to Welsh forces led by Llywelyn the Great in 1215 and again in 1234. In 1283 Edward I held a Parliament, the first to include a House of Commons, at Shrewsbury to decide the fate of Dafydd ap Gruffydd, the last free Welsh ruler of Wales. Dafydd was executed – hanged, drawn and quartered – for high treason in Shrewsbury.
Personally, I prefer the history of the Three Tuns!
Later, after the formation of the Church of England, the town was offered  a cathedral  by Henry VIII, but for some undocumented reason the citizens of the town rejected this offer. 
I like to think they had enough sense to know that Henry Vlll was mad bad and dangerous to know and preferred to keep their distance.
One of Shrewsbury’s main claims to fame is that it was the home of Charles Darwin.

I was in love with Rosemary who sold her mother’s beautiful hand-knitted creations in the market held in the Shrewsbury town square every Saturday.

I left this tranquil corner and went to college in the rough tough and extremely polluted city of Sheffield which at that time was wall to wall steel mills belching endless plumes of black choking smoke. We used to have “smog days” when the whole city was instructed to shut down, with the exception, of course, of the factories actually producing the smog. Classes were cancelled, shops closed, no buses ran. We all stayed inside with doors and windows tightly shut and did our best not to breathe.
And don’t panic, we’re not going on another forced march through history but I do have to say that Sheffield is where stainless steel was invented and patented, and recent discoveries date human habitation of that area to the end of the last ice age 13,000 years ago.

My years in Sheffield were blessed or cursed, depending on my mood at the time, with a deeply felt and equally deeply hidden love for Jane, who had lost her home and family to German bombs.

Next it was across The Pond to New York City. That’s as far as the ship went so that’s far as I went, at least till I earned some money. It was late October and the stores were all hiring temps for the Xmas rush. For some reason I don’t even remember, I ended up at Altman’s on 5th Avenue. 
There’s a line in the movie Miracle on 34th Street, I can’t quote it exactly but the gist of it is that Hell is Altman’s department store at Xmas. It was all such a new and foreign world to me that I don’t think I was even capable of judging it as Hell, but it certainly was not my idea of Heaven. I mean, Bishop’s Castle can get a bit rowdy at the Three Tuns on a Saturday night, and those Sheffield foundry workers could quite frighten the opposition crowd at a soccer game, but those women battling for basement bargains at Altman’s took aggression to a whole new level. I had simply never experienced anything remotely like any of it.
But one thing I adored. 
In the display windows of Alman’s, and many other of the big department stores nearby, there were wonderful mechanical toys, animated depictions of Santa’s Workshop in one window, his slay and reindeer swooping over snowy rooftops in another, excited children opening presents in a third.
I was completely enchanted.
I had never seen such things in my life. Depressed post-war Europe had had no excess resources to squander on such things. Every coffee break I dashed outside to gaze at them along with crowds of little children. Children, not to mention a few adults, were less sophisticated in those days.
(Some years later I dragged my reluctant husband and step-children all the way from Jamestown in a snowstorm to see similar displays in the May D&F windows in Denver. Dean, a mechanical engineer, was interested objectively in their workings, The kids were clearly if politely mystified as to why we were there. The overall reaction was a resounding hmmmmm.)

The other bit of my heart that remains in New York was extracted that first Xmas Day of my life in this country, when some kind family took pity on my friends and me, poor hopeless helpless imigrantes, and invited us to their home.
How on earth we had met these people I don’t remember, but their chauffeur-driven Cadillac carried us in a style I had never known to a mansion somewhere on Long Island. There were Xmas lights in the trees with bigger, richer lights blazing in the windows. Our gracious hosts had gifts for each of us, and managed to make us feel like much-loved daughters returning home for the holidays. 
I can’t remember their name or where exactly they lived, but I have never forgotten that Xmas and that family’s kindness to strangers. So, yes, New York does hold on to little pieces of my heart.

And anyway I was madly, secretly, in love. Infatuated with Lucie, the woman I had followed to New York as I would have followed her to Timbuktu.
And I did.

Well, I followed her to Houston: much the same thing.
This was as strange and foreign a world to me as New York City but in a very different way, and there for the first time in my life I encountered blatant discrimination.
I worked as a waitress at a diner in a new sprawling outdoor shopping mall in a completely white part of town. On my second day, I served coffee to two black people. Now this was the early sixties and racial discrimination was no longer legal, but I guess Texas, along with many parts of the South at that time, simply ignored that little detail. I was told to refuse to serve them any food and ask them to leave.
Needless to say, that was the end of my job at that café, but if I thank Houston for little else, I am grateful for it slapping me in the face with the realities of certain aspects of life in the Land of the Free.

I finally broke free of my obsession with Lucie, who married a multi-millionaire Texan and now lives in Venezuela.

Yes, I had scattered bits of my heart about, but it was intact enough to engulf Denver when I arrived here, and later, my beautiful Betsy.

1954’s #1 hit was Doris Day singing:

          Once I Had a Secret Love
          That lived within the heart of me
          All too soon my secret love
          Became impatient to be free

          So I told a friendly star
          The way that dreamers often do
          Just how wonderful you are
          And why I am so in love with you

          Now I shout it from the highest hills
          Even told the golden daffodils

          At last my heart’s an open door
          And my secret love’s no secret anymore

My love is certainly no secret, anymore.

1/23/2012


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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Cops in the Sky and the Tale of the Best Little Boy by Donny Kay

I’ve always thought that there existed someplace in the sky a special police force. I’ve referred to that agency as the “Cops In the Sky”. I’m confident they exist for the sole purpose of taking away my status as the best little boy and in so doing heaping their judgments on me and confining me in a prison greater than the prison that I’ve created for myself in this goofy tale of the “Cops In the Sky and the Best Little Boy.”

Let me tell you a tale, goofy though it may be…

When I was born my oldest brother was 22 and his first child was only months away from being born making me an uncle before I was a year old. My nephew Jerry was my best friend as well and together we joined the Cub Scouts and my brother was the Den Daddy. I’ll never forget our first camping trip when we loaded our camping gear as well as that of several other boys in the back of my brother’s DeSoto Suburban.

On the way to the mountains we were playing in the back of the car and I snagged off a tag from a sleeping bag I had borrowed for the camp-out. Just barely being able to read I was able to figure out the message on the tag which I was then holding in my hand which read, “Do not remove under penalty of law.”

What’s really goofy about this tale is that somehow at the age of seven I envisioned that there were cops-in-the-sky whose job it was to come after little boys like me who removed tags from sleeping bags in the back seats of family cars on the way to the mountains. My upset continued into the night and was the source of my not being able to fall asleep, confident if I didn’t remain watchful the cops in the sky would come out of the forest of trees and take this seven year old away to some kind of prison for those who removed “do not remove” labels from sleeping bags!! Plus, how would I ever explain to the people my parents borrowed the bag from how such a good boy could have put them in possible jeopardy as well with the cops in the sky.

What is even goofier about this tale is that I was the little boy who never got in trouble! And, here I was, the one most likely to be arrested and taken away to prison before the dawn of my first overnight camp out! I still have reservation whenever I purchase a new pillow or blanket and remove the label, confident that someone’s watching over me and an alarm someplace is going off! And this was happening to me, the little boy who was such a good boy, not to be confused with a goody-two-shoe. I felt like such a phony!

In addition to the incident with my sleeping bag my anxiety was compounded as a child hearing that Santa Claus always knew who was “naughty or nice” and that God knew all of our thoughts and actions, especially the naughty ones. I was doomed because some of my thoughts weren’t always nice and certainly bordered on naughty especially when I fantasized about cowboys, and duos like The Lone Ranger and Tonto or Batman and Robin. How could I, the little boy who was always so good ever be found out for naughty thoughts like those!

Growing up as the youngest child of older parents created circumstances for me where I was required to spend a lot of time with my parent’s friends who were all older and whose kids were grown. By the time I was eleven or twelve I was already thinking I’d make a better older person than a kid! Typically, there were no other children around. I would need to sit and read or color or play with my toys in a corner until I went home with my parents. What I often heard was ” Donny is the best little boy!”

I remember once hearing this comment just as I was removing the lid from a crystal candy dish in an adjoining room. I then heard the host commenting that “as the good little boy that I was I would only take a single piece of candy from the dish”. How could the best little boy be thinking my thoughts at the time which were to load my pockets with the entire dish! I saw myself as a fraud. I was such a phony.

The more I lived with needing to be “the best little boy”, the more I was conflicted by the judgments of me being phony. I soon realized that if others ever figured out how or even worse, who I was as a little boy who liked cowboys, I definitely would be taken away forever by the Cops in the Sky!!

Looking back I realize how formational these experiences were, especially when it came to my sexual orientation. How could “the best little boy” ever be a homosexual. I have lived confident that the Cops in the Sky knew and were watching every time I hurriedly pulled onto 13th avenue, merely having driven through Cheesman Park or when I would buy a men’s magazine; expecting that the same alarm that went off when I pulled the tag from the sleeping bag as a seven year old was going off somewhere signaling I was about to get caught by the Cops in the Sky and it would all be over for the “best little boy.” My reputation ruined. Cast away by any and everyone who ever had known the “Best Little Boy.”

In looking back on my life there is a continuing theme in terms of the tale of my life. The fear of being caught by the Cops in the Sky and then judged and condemned created a paranoia in me that hasn’t served me in the best of ways in terms of living in integrity with myself. Coupled with the notion of being “the best little boy” kept me in the closet far longer that I should have ever agreed to. After all, several of the family and friends I’ve come out to have said “I always knew you were gay”, and not once have those legendary cops that existed in the Tale I created ever seemed to notice my actions. As well, life was intended to be lived and not restricted by living up to expectations like being the best little boy.

So you see, even though the Tale has been exposed, it has not lost its influence in this boy’s life. Just this morning when my shelf installer drilled through the wall for his anchoring screws, and a neighbor commented on the holes in the hallway, the best little resident went running to the manager to confess his error, not the error of the installer, confident that my status as “Best Resident” in my new condo was in jeopardy. Oh, the saga continues…

© 1 April 2013

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.  

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The Facts by Will Stanton

These are the facts and only the facts. I’m not Detective-Sergeant Joe Friday from the old TV show “Dragnet,” but what I’m about to tell you are just the facts as I know them…all except the family name. I’m sure that there still are family members about, and I would not wish to make any of them uncomfortable should any of them read this. So, I’ve altered the surname.

When I met and interacted with members of the Tanner family years ago, I found them to be rather interesting. I suppose that, in some ways, they were similar to many middle-class families; however, in other ways, they had some memorable qualities.

One unusual fact was that the Tanner parents had, as it was described to me by friends, two sets of children. They had married early and had a bunch of kids. As Mr. Tanner’s career blossomed, his pay increased dramatically, and his kids were growing up, they foresaw their ending up with an empty nest sooner than they would like. The parents decided that they really wished to have more children. So, they had four more.

I met John Tanner in college through a friend of mine, Jim. John was from the first bunch of kids. He also was gay. He was majoring in modern dance, something not many students consider for a college major. Naturally, he was quite physically fit from years of dance training. His youngest brother and sister liked to punch him in the butt and call him “Iron Butt.”

John was one of fraternal triplets. That means, of course, that they all were born about the same time; however, that did not mean that their appearances or personalities would be totally alike. There have been some amazing studies of identical siblings, proving that, even when separated at birth, their appearances, personalities, and lives often match remarkably. Not in the case of these fraternal triplets. One of John’s close friends told me that one boy grew up to be a rather straight-laced, conservative-behaving young man. He described the second one as a pot-smoking hippy, although I had no knowledge of that myself. John was a totally different case, altogether.

John apparently felt comfortable openly participating in the ongoing gay culture of the time. I was not fully aware of all his friends or his activities with them, but he certainly did not seem concerned about his openness. In contrast, I never have been very adventuresome. The closest that I ever came to being fancy-free like John occurred spontaneously. I just happened to bump into him one morning, and he suggested that we take a drive together up into the hills to see the blossoming redbud and dogwood, just to enjoy the spring day. We drove out along a long ridge-road to an abandoned lane that led down the hill and deep into a woods. Some distance down, we parked and got out to stretch our legs. In our conversation, he remarked that he had noticed that I was just as physically fit as he was because of my many years of athletic training. That remark did not lead to anything intimate. What we did do, at his suggestion, was to take off all our clothes and to run merrily down the lane into the woods and eventually back again, rather like young colts in springtime. (Sorry. If you were expecting more to this story, that was all there was.)

I learned more about the Tanner family when Jim and I were invited during spring break to John’s home in Kentucky. His father had an important industrial position and apparently was making good money, so his parents were able to build a rather spacious home there in the style of a French chateau. All the interior woodwork and trim were painted white. The spotless white of the interior was complemented by sky-blue wool carpet, custom-ordered from the Burlington factory. Once inside the home, everyone was required to take off his shoes and walk about only in stocking-feet.

I am not sure if any of the older bunch of offspring lived at home; but the four younger kids did. There was fifteen-year-old Jason, his twelve or thirteen-year-old brother, a brother of nine, and an even younger sister. They all were there in the daytime; however, I noticed that Mom had arranged for Jason and the next oldest brother to sleep over with neighbors during our stay. I assume that was to accommodate us guests, although I would have been happy to make do any place in that spacious home. Jim remarked that maybe Mom was keeping the older guys safe from any unwanted attentions. I was uncomfortable with the possibility that she could think such a thing because neither Jim nor I would have engaged in any untoward behavior and certainly not as guests.

As in most families, there was a certain physical resemblance among all the offspring. This was true with the Tanner family, but there was something rather special about Jason. Before our journey to Kentucky, John had forewarned Jim and me that we would be surprised by Jason’s remarkable appearance. We also had heard the same thing from a number of John’s friends. Over the next day or two, we also discovered that Mom was very aware that Jason often attracted attention.

Now remember, I’m just telling you the facts…no exaggeration. All the Tanners were relatively good looking; however, Jason was different. He was stunning, and everyone, including Jason, knew it. His facial features were more perfect than the other brothers’. His skin was flawless and somehow had a richer, warmer color. His dark hair was luxurious, his form lithe and graceful; and his sky-blue eyes made the blue of the carpet seem faded. What John previously had told us was no exaggeration.

Now, for a mother who might have been concerned about too much attention being paid to Jason, she ironically chose to buy clothes that made him stand out from the others. I recall sitting in the living room with everyone when Jason entered. The sister was wearing a blue dress, and all of the rest, including Jim and me, were dressed in blue jeans and lighter-blue shirts or white T-shirts, very much blending in with the home’s decor…that is, all except Jason. He was dressed in startling-lemon-yellow T-shirt and little shorts, which beautifully complemented his handsome face and long, tanned legs. Jason stood out like a peacock among crows. I really suspect that she consciously tended to dress Jason in a more eye-catching manner than the others. She recognized his exceptional appearance and proudly chose to emphasize it.

This perception was substantiated by what Mom, herself, told us. She seemed eager to relate to us an incident confirming what an astonishing impact Jason’s appearance made upon other people. She had gone shopping, and Jason accompanied her into a small shop. No sooner had the two of them entered the little shop than the woman by the counter loudly exclaimed, “Oh…my…God! You…are…so…beautiful! And your eyes! They’re…so…blue! How old are you? If I wait three years, will you marry me?” Apparently, Mom was not offended, and innocent Jason was pleased but mystified.

Once home, he asked his mother, “Am I really beautiful?” She answered, “Yes, you are very handsome, but you must not let that go to your head and make you arrogant.” Ironically, her own pride may have gone to her head, for I still find it curious that she told us this story. So obviously, all those comments about Jason that we had heard from John and his friends really were true.

We did see Jason and the family one more time when they came to the university for John’s graduation and his modern-dance recital. John was dressed only in a primitive wrap about his loins and nothing else. As he went through his solo routine, his family watched. I can imagine that, under their quiet appearance, they were somewhat uncomfortable…all, that is, except Jason, who seemed to be enjoying it immensely. From time to time, he would turn to glance at Jim and me with a big, mischievous grin.

That was the last time that I saw John, Jason, and the rest of the family. I learned later that John had gone to New York City and threw himself into the local lifestyle with gay abandon. I also heard that, on occasion, he would dance nude on top of bar counters, apparently proud of his own body and for the titillation of the bar crowd.

Those were the days when we did not have the facts about certain matters as we do now, and John’s lifestyle came back to haunt him…big-time. His story ends on a very sad note. His close friend reported to us that John ended up back in his parents’ home in Kentucky, dying of AIDS; and he passed away with his head in his mother’s arms, one of many tragic losses during that era.

Since then, I have lost track of the Tanners. I had no particular reason to stay in touch. I still have, however, lasting memories of the family, exuberant John, and, of course, the astonishing Jason. I always have wondered what happened to him. So many years have gone by since that trip to Kentucky. I have a feeling that he lives in his home town, and I want to believe that he has done well for himself.

I wonder what would happen if, by chance, some acquaintance of his came upon this story on our blog. It might ring a bell. He might approach Jason and say, “I found this story on a blog, and it reminded me of your family. Are you the Jason in this story?” If so, I hope that he is not offended that I have written about his family or is embarrassed knowing that he made such a lasting impression on people. I certainly have not forgotten, and that’s a fact.

© 15 February 2013

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Nudity: A Story Noir by Ricky

In the Naked
City, there are many stories; this is mine.

     This particular topic caused me some difficulty in finding memory points from which to start. One of the problems facing me on this issue is that whatever I write might be quite revealing. So when one strips down the topic to its underlying components, there remains nothing hidden from public or private contemplation of the sum total of the subject so disclothed.

     Fortunately, some things cannot be bared in this life. The detailed workings of human thoughts are not displayed for all to see but, the results of those thoughts can be a strong indicator of what those thoughts were. Thus, allowing any witnesses to the activities viewed to speculate on the thoughts that prompted the actions; essentially the actions become a window in which thoughts are laid bare. Hence, we can easily detect (or at least infer) naked: greed, fear, display, lust, hatred, desire, power, and jealousy in others. Ironically, our language usage does not allow the terms naked: joy, happiness, intelligence, strength, or love and beauty (except in the context of pornography). The concept of nudity is generally associated with societal negativism and so the social majority perceives or associates nudity with something undesirable, dirty, nasty, and perverse.

     It would not be fair or accurate to blame organized religions for the negative view of nudity considering the hundreds of years of art featuring nude statues of men, boys, women, and girls that exist (or existed) in many religious and public parks and buildings. In addition, the palaces of monarchs and museums contain many paintings, statues, and carvings that are not only art, but also interpreted by some of our era as being erotic, highly erotic, or even pornographic. So it is not the fault of organized religions of this attitude towards the pubic display of the human body, but the fault of the individuals who rose to positions of power within those organizations who promoted their idea of morality and decency contrary to centuries of acceptance. 

     People change the concepts and attitudes in societies, not the organization itself. Organizations and governments cannot do anything of themselves. The people in leadership and bureaucratic positions within those entities cause acts of liberation or oppression—people thinking something and then causing their thoughts to become doctrine or law which then result in actions of change. In other words, people cause the problems not organizations; just like, “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.”

     In my babyhood, it was somewhat customary for a baby to have a bare-skin rug photograph taken. Mine is in my baby-book. In today’s paranoia, anyone possessing or taking such pictures could easily be charged with child pornography depending upon the intelligence (or lack thereof) of the district attorney.

     So, enough fluff; here is my revealing account—take notes for there will be a test at the end.

     From birth to age 1, I was fairly presentable at all times, however, once I learned to dress (or more accurately undress) myself, I enjoyed baring my soul and body around the house and even outside sometimes, if mom wasn’t watching me close enough. Obviously being in my birthday suit at bath time was a given and strangely enough, quite enjoyable. But, being bare for the frequent application of pain to my backside (for disciplinary purposes) was definitely not enjoyable, (I was a slow learner of obedience).

     After a fateful spanking when I was 4 or 5, my parents could not easily get me to remove my clothing for any reason as I was so afraid of another such spanking. Ironically, I had no reservations about trying to see others in a state of undress. I did not begin to “grow out of” that fearful frame of mind until I entered puberty at age 9 ½.

     Right after turning 10 my father took me to visit his brother and my cousins in Washington State. My uncle had a steam bath in his back yard and one evening one of his adult friends, my father, my two cousins, and I took one. It was my first time being naked (not nude) in front of a group of males. I was shy because of the adults (and that spanking) and mostly kept myself covered up. The adults didn’t bother to cover and neither did my younger cousins (who mostly pranced around) — I was so self-repressed, but I did do a lot of peeking.

     It wasn’t until I turned 11 that my next very significant disclothing event occurred with full intent and purpose. That was the summer I learned how nudity affected the process of reproduction (while being naked with my instructor) after which a neighborhood girl and I decided to try it. Fortunately for us (or unfortunately depending upon your moral code or at least point of view) she said that my slight penetration was painful, so being a “gentleman” (howbeit a nasty one) I quit trying.

     From that time on until I was 21, all my naked comings and goings were with my peers (except when at 16 my father added himself to my group of playmates. He was only involved with me and not my other friends.) In high school gym, the mandatory gang shower after class resulted in many naked boys successfully avoiding embarrassing erections while showering, all the while sneaking peeks at each other’s nude equipment. At the time, I was the only boy in my gym class (all four years) who was not circumcised, so I was constantly catching careless boys looking at me. At 21 years, two female peers introduced me into the “Joy of Totally Naked Sex Club”, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but still missed male with male oral action. When I got married at age 25, there followed many years (27years and 9 months) of much nudity.

     After my wife passed away, I discovered a place a little NW of Boulder where men could be naked out in the woods without harassment. I also went several times to a hot springs once owned by a nudist club south of Colorado Springs originally named “The Well” but now known as Dakota Hot Springs.

     This is my story from the Naked City and I certify that it is the truth, the whole nude truth, and nothing but the naked truth.

© 11 April 2011


About the Author


Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while his parents obtained a divorce; unknown to him.

When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he 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, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Tinker Bell by Phillip Hoyle

     Come with me to the past, not the far distant past of ancient winged gods, not that old era of medieval European romances with its cherubs, not even the Victorian age with its fancy furniture and tiny winged creatures. Come with me to my own past, to a time of enchantment, to a realm of magic and mystery. Journey with me to meet a fairy, one who traveled about in his white Toyota he affectionately called Tinker Bell. Follow us to the restaurants, pool halls, bars, apartments, homes, and mountain tops where my fairy with earthy humor and habit lived. Hear my fairy tale if you can spare the time.


     He was short, pudgy, and round-faced; his black hair thinning, his black eyes pushed a little too close together, and his black cowboy boots neatly polished; his smile broad, his voice medium-high pitched, and his wit quick; his rhythm perfect, his movements efficient, and his hopes tricky. He had no wings, he couldn’t fly, and his fairy wand wasn’t very long. Still it worked magic; I mean he worked magic on me.

     I saw him first at the restaurant where my wife worked, where they both waited tables. I sat in her section. She introduced me to several employees. She introduced me to Ronnie, my fairy. We went dancing, my wife, my fairy, several other employees, and I, out for an evening of two-stepping after their shift was over. It happened several times. My wife kept both of us guys busy. When one of us tired, the other one took over to help her achieve a spinning fix to supplement the Diet Cokes she drank. I had my one beer or two beers or rarely three beers. Ronnie had his. We danced under a neon moon, beneath howling coyotes, in the subtle light of ads for Budweiser, Miller, Tecate, and Coors. I learned never to waltz after one beer; I couldn’t keep my balance with the turns. I also learned I could still do the two-step, the Schottische, and the Cotton Eyed Joe even after two beers, not that I could do any of them very well. And there were the more challenging line dances. We laughed and danced and laughed at ourselves. We three occasionally ate breakfast after the bars closed. We loved being together.

     One afternoon at the restaurant I overheard Ronnie say, “I love to shop.” I later called to ask if it was true. “Yes, it’s my favorite activity,” he assured.


     “Clothes?” I clarified.

     “Especially clothes.”

     “Then I need you next Wednesday afternoon.” A friend had sent me several hundred dollars to spend on clothes so I wouldn’t embarrass my daughter at her high school graduation. I dreaded shopping sprees, forays that always left me depressed and with few clothes. I couldn’t imagine spending that much money in one day. They’d have to dial 911 and haul me off to lock up in University Hospital.

     On Wednesday he picked me up in his car Tinker Bell, and we began to shop. Ronnie was a shopping wiz.

     “What’s your favorite color?”

     “Grey,” I responded.

     “No, that’s not good. It washes out on you; not enough color given the silver in your hair.” Not waiting for my protests or ideas, Ronnie quickly walked down a rack of shirts. He pulled out the bright colored ones: turquoise, deep purple, red. “Go ask for a dressing room,” he instructed all the while piling his arms higher with selections for my new non-embarrassing wardrobe.

     I tried on many shirts and several pants. To my amazement, everything fit except for one pair of trousers. Perhaps they were mismarked. I was amazed, impressed.

     “I need a sports coat.”

     We went to another store and finally found a silk jacket he approved.

     “I want a belt I saw down in Old Town at the Pendleton Shop.” We drove there but they didn’t have it in my size. Ronnie tried on a black cowboy hat. It looked neat. He looked adorable, handsome, even luscious to me. “I’ll get it for you.”

     “No you won’t; it costs too much.”

     “That’s okay.”

     “No, but I will let you buy me some swimming trunks and a tee shirt.”

     We left without a hat but made our way to another store. We both got swim trunks.

     In weeks to come, I ran around with this fairy in his magical car as he wooed me. He’d call to see if I wanted to go play pool. “Sure,” I’d say. He took me to big pool halls where the lights shone brightly. We would share a pitcher of beer and play terribly to one another’s delight. He always took me to very straight establishments. I wondered what folk thought of us. Our friendship grew on these outings. We talked about interesting details of our lives.

     One day he called. “We need to go to the park for a picnic.” So he picked me up. We stopped by a grocery store for bread, cheese, a bottle of wine, and a copy of World News, that tabloid that always features ETs and UFOs. I’d always scoffed at tabloids, but that day in spring, sheltered from the sun by newly leafed trees, I found it utterly delightful. Oh well, alcohol mixes well with sunshine and silliness.

     I recall so clearly the night I was driving my fairy north on Wyoming Blvd. I reached over and rested my hand on his rotund belly. We talked and laughed. Soon we started having sex together. He made me pledge there would be no feelings. While I had already declared I loved him, I had said so in a non-sexualized context. I readily agreed to keep a damper on the feelings. Doing so was a relief for me in that it removed the threat of a complicated, destructive relationship that could ruin my marriage and career. Still, it’s really not nice to have an affair with a friend of one’s spouse.

     As my tutelary spirit, he was a thoroughgoing latex queen, surely the result of having a brother who was HIV positive. We must have had the safest sex any couple of guys had, yet still it was hot, demanding, giving, creative, passionate, and satisfying. In some ways he was a demanding bitch; he was also the funniest man I’d ever known so well. Taking off his shirt he said, “I’m Indian up here, but from the waist on down, I’m just a damn Mexican.” His torso with its smooth bronze skin and dark little nipples sported hardly a hair, but south of his belly button border, he had rather dense black hair. I liked it all.

     He taught me well. His instruction was direct, thorough, and thoughtful; he interpreted his actions, taught his philosophy, and provided adequate safety. He flavored it all with his fine humor. And he was interested in my whole life. I was a good student. I astounded him with the magic of my own directness. I’d never been so clear about my sexual needs. I urged, commanded, improvised, and pleased. Our relationship seemed pure magic as I discovered the gay sex I’d long read about. I was utterly delighted, felt like I was flying, on and on.

     He asserted that any man will do anything in sex as long as it doesn’t cost him financially or socially. His life goal was to show this truth to as many straight men as he could. “All men are pigs,” he gleefully oinked as he sought his next relationship.

     Did the affair free my imagination? I suspect so. Here’s why: My fairy liked my wife. He liked to play with me. He offered me many new experiences. He seemed insatiable. He messed with me; I with him. We developed an honesty of desire with one another. We laughed our way through it all. He was a metaphor as well as a real experience!

     So what better fairy for a tale? Boy-like, feminine, free, and facile, he flew me into a world of stardust and dreams. Together we sailed on ragwort stems and soared on the backs of birds. Often we flew on one another’s backs. Then we cooled down and moved on with our lives, still liking one another well but eventually losing touch. But the magic and mystery in the utterly open presentation of ourselves to one another have rarely been matched in any relationship I have found.

     One evening Ronnie and I flew to the top of Sandia Mountain. We looked at the array of city lights that increased as the sunset faded; the turquoise and purple tones of the mesa and mountains lost their brilliance and eventually turned black. We talked and laughed as usual. Then Tinker Bell carried us down the mountain onto the high plain at its eastern foot. We pulled off onto a side road for sex play. Ronnie amazed me; I amazed him. Our affair developed. He kidded me about my age promising to push me off a cliff at the top of the mountain when I began losing my mind. I suggested he’d get arrested for it; better that he should wait until winter and leave me up there to freeze. He could claim I simply wandered off and he couldn’t find me in the dark. Our intimacy may have grown too intense for Ronnie. I accepted his need to distance himself from me. He had warned me that if I got enough man-to-man sex, I’d want a lot more of it. I agreed that such was true and wasn’t upset about the prospect. He cooled it. I found another interested party. But Ronnie still was the magical and mystical one, a combination of nutty and practical, of entertaining and instructing, of passionate and cool. Fairies appear and disappear. So it was with Ronnie. He didn’t completely disappear. He still lives in New Mexico, and I still fantasize his being involved in my eventual exit. I hope I’ll have enough memory to find my way down there when my mental grasp starts to slip. My imagination of the scene suggests being carried once again to the top of the mountain by Tinker Bell, kissed by my fairy, embraced in his latex grasp, and gently left behind to my own fate some winter night. It would seem a kind and gentle way to say goodbye; and one could say he and I already did that. Should we ever meet again, I’ll insist that he take the gift of a cowboy hat to wear at my sendoff and to remember me by.


Denver, 2010


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 Carlos

     The great spiritual leader Paramabhansa Yogananda wrote, “Every day and minute and hour is a window through which you may see eternity.” The message is quite profound: you have to know yourself in order to see eternity, to come into the kingdom. Although it would have been very convenient if I could have embraced my God-given gift of being a gay man by sequestering myself from the world, I required the guidance of a mentor to goad me into the eternity of my self-awareness. In an act of synchronicity one Monday morning, my mentor made his appearance, providing the inspiration that was to coalesce within my life. He became my Prometheus as I prepared to pummel off a promontory and soar through uncharted currents on my journey toward self-empowerment.

     When I was but a child, maybe 8, my uncle grabbed me by the testicles and drew out a pocket knife threatening to castrate me. After all, I wasn’t an overly masculine child, and that offended his sensibilities. I preferred the quietness of solitude, and I believed and I knew that if I were quiet enough, I could understand the chanting of the cicadas as they raised their incantations like Gregorian chants up to the sun. I knew that if I lay down upon the earth, I could feel the sunflower seeds shaking off winter’s darkness as spring rains caressed them out of slumber. Later, when I was a naive but sexually germinating boy in high school, I landed my first job as a dishwasher at a greasy spoon in my hometown in west Texas. Clearly, others already suspected what I was so fearful to recognize, that I was destined to venture after the passion that at that point in my life had no name. On the first day of the job, the cook and I were alone, cleaning up the back kitchen. He approached with what at the time was a sinfully wondrous sight, his massive dick upraised and pulsing in his hand, pointed in my direction, clearly inviting me to touch, to savor, to worship. With some hesitation, I touched it and loved it…that is until my Catholic guilt compelled me to run out like Little Miss Muffett distracted from her dripping curds her creamy whey upon discovering the forbidden and potentially dangerous spider within reach. I walked to a nearby church, prostrated myself before a statue of a crucified Christ festooned in a scanty white loin cloth, daring not to entertain ill thoughts, and I asked for redemption, for penance, for a sign. In spite of the absurdity of the situation, He did not descend from that cross in rage nor did bolts of lightening strike me dead as I had half expected. He simply peered into my soul with his all-knowing unconditionally loving glass eyes, and in that moment of incomprehensible insight and compassion, I still felt stained]. If only I had known then what I know now…that God always answers my prayers with a yes, a not yet, or an I-have-something-better-in-mind-for-you. After all, my redemption was still out of reach.

    On a spring Monday afternoon in late March, just before Easter, I left the hallowed halls of my classes at the University of Texas thinking about poetry and philosophy, logic and art. The air was thick with the aroma of sweet chaparral and sagebrush; the sky was a rapturous vault of blue. I walked oblivious to my bus stop when he caught my eye, a chiseled, blue-eyed, stud-of-a-man wearing a loose-fitting jumpsuit, conveniently unzipped down to his chest as well as a twirled mustache that only made his beguiling smile that much more delicious. He winked at me behind his black sunglasses and signaled me with his head to follow. Being aroused by possibilities of the unknown, I gave chase. I don’t know if I was shaking in trepidation of eternal banishment, imagining my neighbors’ wrath or whether I shook in anticipation of finally giving in to my temptations…probably both. I was determined that the intoxicating melody played out by the musician’s panpipes would envelop me, and that I would discover the joy of forbidden fruit even if it resulted in a fiery descent into pandemonium. I walked dutifully beside my satyr, enticed by the sensory and sensual testosterone emanating from our pores. We found a quiet place and chatted briefly, being circumspect lest we compromise too much. Our brief conversation enveloped in euphemisms culminated with my agreement to broach my inner sanctum. On that Monday afternoon my infatuations found new heights; we limited our passions to shy touching and ever-so-gentle brushing of the lips rather than torrid love-making since I was so obviously inexperienced; however, I knew deep within the core of my being that this man would in time pull me out of the quagmire of my fears. Over the next few weeks, our quiet interludes metamorphosed into a passion no longer cloaked in the aura of strawberry candles glowing from ruby-red globes or passionate crescendos from Tchaikovsky’s tragic, but romantic orchestrations. He became my mentor, my safety net, the one man who embodied all men. That afternoon was the beginning of a new life for me, and I understood the mysterious spirit that compels the barren-looking tree to bud with intoxicating liqueur every spring, thus enticing the bee to the sacred calyx of its blooms on their synchronized quest toward eternity. I started to awaken out of my blissful ignorance, and more importantly, I started to look at my accusers, daring them to threaten to castrate me again. In spite of the fact that I preferred to practice my violin rather than play war games with olive-hued plastic soldiers, I learned I was a man that March afternoon. I learned that what we call chance, may, in fact, be the logic of God. No one, not my uncle, not the fathers of the Church, and not the sanctimonious bullies within any arena or playground would ever again scapegoat me for their own failures. I recognized on that Monday afternoon that if I intuitively longed to touch a man’s engorged penis or enraptured heart and feel their strength, it was my destiny, my legacy.

     God, that mischievous trickster, smiled upon me for no longer denying the gift He had bestowed upon me. And on that Monday afternoon, I recognized why only I had understood the chant of the cicadas or been moved to tears by the gyrating dance of sunflower seeds beneath my feet. And from that day forward, I re-birthed myself enfolded in a sublime awareness that I would always look with anticipation for the next adventure, for the next ride, prepared to turn my world around.

© 3/1/2013

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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New Jersey Memories by Betsy

The
place of my origin is New Jersey. I spent the first 15 years of my
life in a community called Mountain Lakes. At age 15 my family was
forced by circumstances to leave this lovely place and move to the
deep south to a totally different existence. I have had no ties to
New Jersey since I left there–left no relatives behind, and lost
touch with school chums. But I do have memories and lots of them. I
have not had reason to put them down on paper until now. So I am
happy for today’s topic. Isn’t that what telling your story is
about–recording memories?


I
have no idea what Mt. Lakes is like now. But in the 1930‘s and
1940’s in spite of the Great Depression and the Second World War,
Mt. Lakes was an idyllic place. I did not realize it at the time
since I had never lived anywhere else and had nothing else with which
to compare it.

There
was a mountain there (by Colorado standards, a hill) and two
lakes–the Big Lake and Wildwood Lake. Located about one hour by
rail from New York City, this was a middle class community of
business men, housewives, and their two and one half children. There
was an elementary school and a Jr. and Sr. High school, a couple of
stores down by the depot,a post office, and a gas station.
Otherwise it was strictly a residential community.

Our
home was the perfect place to play and to have adventures. We shared
the end of a cul-de-sac with two other houses. We had huge back
yards and beyond that was the lake. On the other side of our street
Fernwood Place was a woods called the Bird Sanctuary. The cul-de-sac
was at the top of a small hill, so to get to the lake or into the
Bird Sanctuary I always was going down hill.

At
the edge of the lake my father had gardens. Flowers and vegetables.
Some of my happiest memories are of the hours spent “helping” my
Daddy in the garden.

This
is also where my Daddy taught me to split logs. (Charlie McConnell
was not one of the business commuters to NYC. Rather he owned a
lumber mill in nearby Rockaway.) I was a rather puny child, but I
learned that splitting the largest logs had less to do with size and
strength and more to do with technique. Daddy taught me that
technique which I have never forgotten and often have put it to good
use.

Our
neighbors on one side were an elderly couple, the Moores. On the
other side was the Noyes family. Their two older children, boys,
were my age and my brother’s age. The three boys avoided me as
they did most girls, except for when they got it in their heads to
play a game about pulling each other’s pants down. Then they would
come looking for me and I was no where to be found.

Among
the other enlightened activities we did that I remember was to go to
the Moore’s back yard which had quite a steep hill, lie down at the
top and roll all the way down. This sport usually took the form of a
competition. Being the puniest, I usually won. I remember Bobby
Noyes throwing up everything he had in him on the Moore’s lawn at
the end of one of those episodes.

Going
to and from school required a walk of a little over a mile. I would
start out through the bird sanctuary, follow the stream then turn
left at the bottom where the stream met the road. I loved the Bird
Sanctuary. It was a wonderful place to be alone or play with
friends. I do not remember ever being taught anything directly about
caring for the natural environment, but we all seemed to grow up with
an innate sense of respect for the wonders of nature which could
always be observed in the Bird Sanctuary.

I
had a rowboat, my brother had a canoe. It was my job to caulk the
seams of my beloved boat and paint the thing every year. That was a
hard job but I was mighty proud of my boat because it was mine.

I
must have learned to swim early in life because my mother gave me
quite a lot of freedom on the water. I give her credit for this.
She had lost her brother to drowning when he was 11 years old. She
must have had to face fears both rational and otherwise. I do
remember well, though that there were no non swimmers or not even poor
swimmers in that community.

Fishing
was one of my favorite things to do. I would rise at sunrise, go to
the kitchen, take out a piece of uncooked bacon, grab my fishing pole
and down to the dock I would go. This was not a sportsman’s lake
full of wild fish. But there were fish there. Out in the middle and
deep down there were bass. Closer to shore there were perch and sun
fish. I could look down over the edge of the dock and see the
sunfish nests. Perfect circles on the sandy bottom, with depressions
in the middle. I would hang my bacon-baited hook right over the poor
baby’s nests and almost always catch something. They were usually
big enough to keep, so I would take two or three of them (they must
have been the parents) and prepare them for breakfast. I was quite
proud of myself and had no compassion for the poor babies left
parentless. What WAS I thinking. I loved the feeling of
self-sufficiency. Sun fish are pretty tasty too. I think I got the
fishing out of my system. I have never enjoyed fishing in my adult
life.

In
the winter the lake froze over. At least that is my memory of it.
The reality is that in my 15 years there the lake probably froze over
maybe a few times, not every year. But I have fond memories of
skating on that lake. The school was at the opposite end from our
house. Between me and the school were various friends and school
acquaintances. On weekends we would gather out in the middle of the
frozen lake somewhere and play crack the whip. Being small I was
usually put at the end of the line or close to it, and at the crack
of the whip, screaming gleefully, but holding on tight, I was
catapulted across the ice at great speed.

Then
we would go over to Powell Street with our Flexible Flyers. The
street was blocked off for sledding. Up and down, up and down all
day long.

Every
summer my parents would take us to the beach at Cape May in southern
New Jersey. We would stay for about a week. That must be where I
fell in love with the ocean and the surf. I loved to body surf (I
still do). I think today Cape May is a gambling Mecca, but back then
the boardwalk and the beach and the surf were magic to me. The
Jersey shore was paradise.

As
I grew into adolescence in Mt. Lakes even though I lived in this
setting, with parents who loved me, friends, security, etc. I began
to realize that I was not like my girl friends in that I did not find
the boys exciting at all. The girls were exciting, but, I sensed
that’s not how it’s supposed to be. The rest is history, either
told in other stories or to be told. But I will always be grateful
for those first 15 years of my life living in a place where I could
learn to love the outdoors, have adventures, take risks and survive,
and develop values that have stayed with me my entire life.

About the Author

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

Posted on

Scouting for Fun by Ricky

(Three tales filled
with truth, wisdom, courage, and humor.)
Click on the image to enlarge.

     Some adults have memories of their time in the Boy Scouts. Like always, there are those memories which remind us of good, bad, embarrassing, and funny incidents occurring during campouts and even the weekly troop meetings. The following are three of my favorite memories. All these events occurred from 1963-65, while I served as the Senior Patrol Leader of BSA Troop 456 of South Lake Tahoe, CA (Golden Empire Council) where I pretty much ran the troop under the guidance of the Scout Master, Bob Deyerberg. 

1.  One of my responsibilities as the Senior Patrol Leader was to ensure that the Patrol Leaders were properly training and testing their assigned scouts in the requirements for rank advancement. One night I was sitting-in on an oral test of a second class scout working towards his first class badge. The scout, Paul, was doing very well answering the questions correctly until he was asked to name ten edible wild plants. Paul named off nine very quickly and then (like many of us presented with the task of naming ten items on a list) he had a “brain lockup”. After much silence and some very minor harassment (I mean encouragement) by his patrol leader, Paul finally and confidently blurted out—“road apples”. After the rest of us finished laughing and explained to Paul exactly what a “road apple” was (horse droppings), he managed to name a correct one and passed that test.

2.  One summer campout, we were camping near the ruins of an ore crushing stamp mill along the Carson River in the desert near the eastern edge of Carson City, Nevada. During the second night, all scouts were gathering around the fire pit for our campfire activities. Bob, our Scout Master, was acting strange which is to say that he had a shopping bag with stuff in it but would not let us see what was inside; very mysterious and so unlike him. After we had held our fire starting ritual and finished our singing, it was time for stories. A few scouts told some simple ghost stories while others told funny ones in their turn.

     At last it was time for Bob to reveal the contents of the bag he was guarding. The contents were: an enameled bowl of a size used to water a pet dog; a short length of cotton clothesline; and stick long enough to span the diameter of the bowl; and a block of paraffin. While telling his story, Bob placed the paraffin in the bowl and set the bowl close to the campfire so as to melt the paraffin; then cut the clothesline into three ten-inch long pieces and tied the tops to the stick with the center piece in the middle with the others a short space on either side.

     This is the “Reader’s Digest” version of his story. In ancient times a large tribe of Indians lived in this area; on the desert of the Carson Valley. They hunted in the desert and also in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for game to feed and clothe the tribe. One year the desert game became scarce and the mountain game was virtually non-existent. Hunting parties returning from unsuccessful hunts reported seeing the tracks of some gigantic beast. They believed that this beast must be either killing the game or scaring the game away. The tribe brought the matter to the attention of the tribal chiefs.

     This tribe was lead by three chiefs of equal rank and authority. Each chief contributed his talent to the group of three and thus they led with confidence and the tribe prospered. The chiefs were named: Brave Eagle, Wise Eagle, and True Eagle. The three chiefs concluded that they were the only ones who could defeat this beast so they set out alone into the mountains to hunt it down. Several weeks passed before they found the beast sleeping. After locating the beast, the chiefs set up a relay as each of them in turn acted as bait for the beast running themselves nearly to death as they tired the beast. Finally, the last of the chiefs to run, Brave Eagle, led the beast onto a thinly frozen lake; the beast broke through the ice and drowned.

     The chiefs had been gone much longer than the tribal members had patience so after two weeks the tribe sent their fastest runner, Swift Eagle, to go find out how the hunt was going and if everything was alright. In spite of being fast, Swift Eagle could only but follow the trail signs left by the chiefs who were quite swift themselves. So, he could only slowly catch up to them. When he finally realized that the beast was chasing the chiefs, Swift Eagle tried to run even faster. At last he found the first of the three chiefs, Wise Eagle, on the verge of death. Swift Eagle began lamenting the impending loss of the chief saying what would the tribe do without his wisdom. The chief told him to cut some hair of the back of his head to burn at council fires so his wisdom would always be with them. So he cut the hair and the chief died.

     Swift Eagle came upon the other two chiefs in turn and those chiefs also had him cut off some of their hair before they also died. Swift Eagle returned to his tribe, told them of the chiefs’ fates and their command about what to do with their hair. The tribe obeyed and they once again prospered.

     By the end of the story it suddenly became clear to me what Bob was intending to do. He placed the stick with the pieces of clothesline across the bowl of the now melted paraffin and announced that we were all going to put some hair from the back of our heads into the bowl so we could burn it at every one of our “council fires” at the close of each troop meeting. As I was the oldest and the “leader” of the troop, Bob selected me to be cut first to set the example. (At the time, I was a sophomore in high school and really didn’t want to explain why I was missing hair on the back of my head to my peers, but I couldn’t “wimp” out.) Then one by one, every scout present had a fifty-cent coin size of hair cut by Bob from the back of their head. Bob went last and I got to do the honor. Bob was cut and cut and cut. I didn’t go overboard but his cut spot was larger than a fifty-cent piece.

3.  That same summer our troop was camping along the Carson River but about 25 to 35 miles east of Carson City. George was an 11-year old, fair skinned, short, skinny boy with “toothpick” arms and legs and was completely ill equipped for his first scout campout. George’s biggest problem was what some swindler sold to his parents as a sleeping bag. Desert nights can be very cold and George’s sleeping bag was not designed to be used in temperatures under 70° and George did not appear to have even an ounce of fat on his frame to help keep him warm.

     Ultimately, to keep George healthy and not to be so discouraged that he would quit, Bob swapped sleeping bags with George. As a result, Bob spent the night sleeping next to the campfire he had to keep refueling throughout the night until he moved into his car to escape an early morning cold breeze.

     George did not appear to be your run-of-the-mill boy. His interests seemed to center on bugs, little critters or creatures, and aquatic life forms. Even so, no one treated him disrespectfully or made fun of him behind his back; at least I never heard of any.

     The next morning after sleeping in his car and around the campfire, Bob was not in the best of moods (understatement). About mid-morning he had to keep telling some of the scouts to stay out of the water. One scout had discovered crayfish in the river and soon several scouts were trying to “harvest” a few for lunch. Some “fished” with strips of bacon, but some waded right in and came out wet into chilly air; hence the stay-out-of-the-water order. Nonetheless, about an hour later, Bob looked about and spied George up to his knees walking in the water wearing his socks and leather shoes. Bob told him to get out and when George complied Bob asked him, “Why were you walking in the river?” I suspect George was simply pursuing his interest in aquatic life, but his reply was, “Well, I’ve always liked water sports.”

I’m the boy wearing a hat.
At the time, none of us knew Jim Nabors was gay.
Boy Scout Memorial in Washington D.C. — Notice the naked adult male.
The BSA prevented me from becoming a delinquent.  I thought the program was to create good citizens, not to teach discrimination.

© 7 March
2011





About the Author


Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles.  Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grand-parents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children.  His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.  He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.

Posted on

Mistaken Identity by Michael King

     There are numerous times I have been mistaken for someone else which I will disclose at the end of this story. I will in the meantime discuss my experiences with my own identity.

     Looking back, I believe that much of the way we think of ourselves comes from the way we think others see us. Early childhood expectations from those around us, the labels given to us, the comparisons we draw from observing other people and the successes and failures relating to our attempts to live up to being how we think we should be.
When I was in my thirties I changed my name. I don’t remember ever liking the one I was given at birth.

     I loved my grandfather but being named after him wasn’t what I would have wanted. My middle name was from a dead great, great uncle, I think. Somehow I never felt comfortable being George Albert King.

     My father’s name was Francis Frederick King and I felt uncomfortable that my younger brother was given that name with a roman numeral II after it. I felt that rightfully that should have been my name even though I didn’t like it either.

     In college I had a friend whose name was Michael. I couldn’t have let myself even think about my feelings for him. He was so stunningly beautiful that people would make strange sounds when seeing him; the girls especially. Not only was he good looking, he was a wonderful person. I felt so honored to be his best friend. I can see now that I was in love with him and probably he was with me. Our wives were also the best of friends. I had wished that I had been named Michael but the idea of changing my name didn’t occur to me for another dozen years. I did however name my son Michael.

     When I was 33 I had a vision that changed my life. As a result I changed my name. Two years later I went to court and officially became Michael Jon King. Almost immediately after I started calling myself Michael I became aware that people acted very differently to me than they had when I was George. I felt different about myself and it seemed like I was finally being who I really was. I also had a better sense of how I wanted to become and by now have actually changed myself into the person I feel I really am. I owe a lot to this to the “Telling your story” group as so much of my baggage, the pains of the past, the delusions I had created have been recognized and in recognizing this has brought about a clarity of being the who that I am and has given me a freedom and a peace of mind that I had never known before. I have self-respect. I didn’t know what was missing previously but felt something was. I was too burdened with trying to be what I thought I should be and wasn’t being who I am.

I’m glad that I had a family. I glad I had the failures that taught me so much, and, I’m glad I had successes. I created a mistaken identity for myself in many ways.

     The mistaken identity that I mentioned at the beginning of this story has been because I have received many calls from collectors mistaking me for some deadbeats with the same name as mine who don’t pay their bills.

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.

Posted on

Goofy Tales by Merlyn

     This tale starts on a cold windy and snowy Friday night in Jan 1979. I was driving truck hauling meat out of Denver. To the east coast, there was a big storm passing east of Denver.
I had a load that wouldn’t be ready until 6 pm; around 5pm Colorado closed all of the main roads going east out of Denver.

     At 6 pm I went down to Curtis picked up my paper work, fueled the truck, hooked up to the loaded trailer and did the pre-trip inspection so the truck was ready to go when the roads opened. There wasn’t any reason to go thirty miles and sit in the truck waiting for the road to open so I went back home.

     I always liked to have some kind of music on when I was driving and there were so many places that you could not pick up anything that I would recorded my favorite radio station on tape while I was listening to the road reports, I would play the tapes when I got tired of listening to the tapes that I had owned.
Around 5 am they opened I 70 and I got out of Denver.

     A few weeks later I was on the last leg of an east coast run. I had made my last fuel stop in Omaha, ate a good meal, It was a beautiful clear moonless night, the road was dry and the sky was full of stars life was good. I was less than nine hours from being home and I was looking forward to having a good time in Denver before I left out again.

     It was around midnight when I pulled back onto westbound I 80. I only had to make one more stop at the scales entering CO for my port slip. Nebraska was one of the best states to drive across at night back then, I 80 was in good shape and late at night then the cops would see a bunch of trucks running together driving in single file doing around 72 -75 mph they would leave us alone and let us go about our business.

     I could hear a couple of drivers talking on the CB. One of them was telling a story, now being a good story-teller is a skill that carries a lot of weight on (CB) Channel 19.

     The driver that was doing the most talking was a good old southern boy with the kind of voice everyone likes to listen to. I caught up with them slowed down and fell in about a block or so behind them.
He was headed for Seattle I would be dropping south on I76. When you drive coast to coast it’s not unusual to meet someone and spend a day or more running together.

     We would spend the next 5 hours 350 mile with him doing most of the talking.
At some point I changed the tape in the radio, and someone came on the CB and asked me what station I was listening to. I told him it was a station in Denver. The CB was quiet for a while then someone came back on and he said he could not pick up anything but though he heard something about the roads being closed around Denver on my radio when I was talking. I decided to have some fun. I said I wasn’t paying attention it.
I waited a while backed up the tape turned the volume up and keyed the mike so everyone could hear them reporting about I 70 I 25 and I 76 being closed.

     You never know how many people are listening on a CB but all of a sudden we had 5 or 6 drivers talking about if the roads were going to be closed ahead maybe we should stop somewhere before we got stuck in a snow storm waiting for the roads to open.
As we went past an exit a cop turned on his blue lights for a second and told everyone to drive carefully when we got to the storm. He knew there wasn’t any storm ahead of us.

     Since I was the only one picking up the Denver station I was telling everyone that the snow was letting up on I 80 and I 76 and they may be open for a while before the worst part of the storm got there.

     Three of us turned onto south on I76 the weather was clear and nice, it was warm when we got to the CO scales. I waited until then to tell everyone about how I had recorded the radio station and we all had a good laugh.

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.