Tag: Life Story

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Memorials by Michael King

My first memory of a memorial was when I was four or five. In rural Kansas there would be a fenced area with trees on the side if the road surrounded by wheat fields. Sometimes headstones could be seen. The one I remember was overgrown with tall grass and weeds when we arrived on Memorial Day.

It was the custom for families of those buried there to come, clean away the weeds, cut the grass and place flowers from their flower gardens on the graves of their relatives.

It was a beautiful day and I was unhappy to have to stay in the car while my parents and older sister were outside working on making the graves nice and neat. The reason I had to stay in the car other than insuring that I stayed out of the way was that I had asthma and my parents tried to avoid anything that might cause an attack. I’m sure that included an excuse to prevent me from running around like a normal boy of my age. I felt fine.

I looked out and noticed a child’s grave next to the car. It was a much smaller area covered with tall grasses and weeds. Since no one was there to properly groom the area I felt sorry that no one cared and wanted to do something about this sad situation.

I lowered the car window and got my sister’s attention, explained my concern, and convinced her to trim the grass. She got a sickle and was busy swinging it back and forth cutting the grass when I managed to open the car door and got out to watch. I got too close and on a back swing the sickle caught the skin along my eyebrows and tore it to about the center of my scalp.

Dr. Whalan in our little town had reattached my thumb when my father cut it off when I was two. I had stuck my hand out to touch the pretty blade he was potting in the mowing machine. Dr. Whalan later treated me when I was bitten by a spider and was in a coma for days. Now after I got scalped he gently worked the scalp and forehead skin back in place and told my parents that it would heal with less scaring without stitches. He was very skillful in that regard and over the years treated numerous face wounds that would have left me with some horrible scars. Most of the scars I have hardly show for which I can thank the country doctor.

After that first experience having to do with Memorials and Memorial Days I recall many: the poppies representing Flanders’ Field, many funerals, watching the laying of wreaths, standing by friends as they watched their loved ones being placed in a crypt or in the ground, and more recently when funerals have become celebrations of the lives of our friends.

The following is what I read at Bobby Gates Memorial celebration.

After I retired I found myself with no particular activities, no friends, as most were from work or lived far away, and I didn’t even have a plan or a direction. I attended the PrideFest and was given a card about the Prime Timers luncheon. I went and began my first association with a gay community. Bobby was the president of Prime Timers. Among the many things that he sponsored was the “Coffee Tyme” at Panera’s. Soon we became friends and when Bobby found out that I was almost totally un-knowledgeable in practically everything, he became my mentor. Of course at the time I wasn’t that aware, but looking back practically everything I found out, every activity I got involved in and most everyone I met had a connection to Bobby. I think he had been that way with many, many others. He organized activities, coordinated events and invited participation and friendship, thoughtfully sent birthday cards, etc., etc.

For me he introduced me to many restaurants, always surprised that I had never been to any of them. He introduced me to Front Rangers. He introduced me to movies. He was one in the coffee group that introduced me to the Denver Church and Jim Chandler. And he introduced me to my partner, Merlyn. Often he’d call me about an activity and asked if I needed a ride. I can’t imagine how my life would have been without Bobby.

I honor one of the most compassionate, thoughtful, and generous friends anyone could ever have. I feel that I have truly been blessed by his friendship, his kindness, his nurturing, and the love that he bestowed on everyone.

Even though Bobby didn’t have financial wealth, a couple of weeks ago Bobby’s son Marc and I were talking about how rich Bobby was in friendships, activities, experiences, and attitude.

I expect that we’ll meet again and that our friendship will continue. In the meantime I will continue to be thankful for the many ways he touched my life and continues to be an inspiration and an influence

I give thanks for Bobby

© 28 January 2013

About the Author

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

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Don’t Touch Me There by Merlyn

I did not like to be touched anywhere by anyone when I was a child. Touching each other was something we did not do in the house I grew up in. It always made me feel real uncomfortable. When a teacher or someone would stand in back of me and even rest their hand on my shoulder, I would want to run away.

People can touch each other in a lot of different ways. Experimenting with other preteen boys it was okay to look and touch each other physically, but I would not even think about sharing any affection with them by holding hands or hugging each other. My emotions would not allow that kind of touching. It would be against everything I was taught up to that point in my life.

When I became a teenager I learned what it was like to share affection and touch each other with one of my girlfriends. From then on I could not get enough. Most of the time there weren’t any limits where we touched. It felt good and we never really cared if someone saw what we were doing.

I was 64 years old the first time I allowed myself to have a emotional connection with a man. I will never forget what it felt like to wake up and realize that I had allowed myself to be relaxed enough to fall asleep in his arms.

Most women welcome a non-sexual hug, and I enjoy giving them one.

With men, I sometimes still have a hard time being natural and relaxed when it comes to non-sexual physical contact.

At this point in my life about the only time that I don’t enjoy having someone touch me is when I can smell and feel their perfume, or when I’m near the #15 bus.

© 22 April 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 Wisdom of LGBT Identity by Michael King

Wisdom seems so often be something we notice when we look back on where we’ve been and compare it with where we are now. For me it now seems that had I made different choices earlier in my life I would have taken different paths and would have lived a very different life. Where I find myself now is probably in the best place I could be. And short of winning the lottery and having lots of money I could ask for nothing more than the life that I now live.

I have it all, a loving and totally accepting family, the most kind and loving companion and lover, opportunities to write, paint, travel, cook and explore the antique and junk shops. My health is good. I have many wonderful friends and am constantly involved in activities. I have peace of mind and feel blessed. I am thankful.

As my life unfolded I guess that I was always moving closer to having a gay identity, however I felt there was no need to identify myself as gay until I actually had a gay lover. If someone had come into my life earlier that I loved, I’m sure that I would have told the whole world. I had experiences with both men and women and decided that it was the person, not the plumbing that mattered. I just didn’t meet anyone with whom we had a mutual loving relationship until I was seventy.

When I finally had my first boyfriend, he was introduced to my family and I let everyone I saw know that I was in love. Our relationship lasted all of two months. I was still glad that I was identifying as a gay man and even though my relationship with Sheldon didn’t work out, I gained so much from the experience.

My youngest daughter describes the way I live my life as authentic. I am now in the best place that I’ve ever been and I see the wisdom of being the best me that I can be which finally includes being a flaming queen, free to be me in any way that feels right knowing how much I am blessed.

In reflection, the path that I rather blindly followed was probably the wisest. Everything came together as I matured step by step. I was following my path not knowing where it would lead. I tried to sincerely live each day as honestly and as well as I knew how. I felt I was getting direction and guidance although it often seemed to take a long, long time.

Perhaps the key to wisdom is to look inside, follow that gut feeling and trust that eventually everything will work out and come together while growing and watching the almost magic of life unfold.

I feel closer to the truth, the goodness and the love that comes from the inner awareness of my connectedness with being on an adventure into eternity. And now as a gay guy who is so happy to be me.

© 3 December 2012




About the Author



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

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One Monday Afternoon by Michael King

Almost every Monday afternoon I go to the GLBT Center for the “Telling Your Story” activity. There are from twelve to eighteen men and women who write or tell a story based on a topic. The topics may be very unusual or fairly mundane. I have been involved now for about three and a half years and have found that this program has been for me very therapeutic. When I first started attending it didn’t seem to make a difference what the topic was, some past suppressed painful memory would come to mind and It would be all I could do not to choke up and break down in front of the group. Most were of almost forgotten childhood traumas that I hadn’t thought about for 60 or more years. I wasn’t aware that I had so much baggage but afterwards I felt a relief and a freedom. This process continued for a couple of years but seldom occurs now.

Now I am challenged to write whatever comes to mind without preplanning and I just let the story unfold. I’m getting to know myself more each week and sometimes have fun just being silly with the story. Other times I am exposing myself in ways I wouldn’t have even weeks ago. I’m seldom concerned what other people think which could never have been the case up until a couple of years ago.

There have been Mondays that I recall the dynamics of the group when someone’s story particularly stood out. Cecil’s stories often are very captivating as are numerous others. I think that Cecil with his accent and Donald with his shy approach, Ray’s theatrical voice, numerous others with wit and humor along with the incredible variety that always happens every week makes for one of the best programs I have ever experienced.

For me one Monday afternoon stands out more than all the others. I wrote about an experience that had occurred during the week before. I was told later that stories shouldn’t have a surprise ending. The story was particularly emotional and personal. The topic for that week was “The Interview.” I wrote it in July and later submitted it for the blog. It was put on the blog on November 7th. I have reread it several times and not only do I still get choked up, but I also think it’s the best story I have written. I can still feel the electricity (for lack of a better term) that went through my body and soul as well as the effect on the others in the room when I read the last sentence one Monday afternoon.

Denver, March 2013

About the Author

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

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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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The Swim by Ricky




The first time I remember swimming is when I was 1 ½ or 2 years old. My parents took me to the beach, probably a beach in the city of Hermosa Beach, California. Unfortunately, I had a bad experience there where some waves kept knocking me down. It scared me so bad that I became afraid of the water.

When I was ten, the first time I went to the beach at Zephyr Cove on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe, I got second-degree sunburn on my back and legs. Especially painful were the back of my knees. I was bed ridden for three or four days and could not go with my stepfather to help on our tour boat. I don’t know why, but mother put some type of sunburn oil on my skin. She also put vinegar on me to “cool” the burn, which worked until it evaporated. In spite of her help and the soothing effects, I really did not want her to touch me, as the pain was so great when she did so. After those experiences, I was not remotely interesting in swimming ever again. At 10, I was already a wimp.

I eventually joined the Boy Scouts and wanted to be able to swim 50 yards in order to obtain my First Class badge. Towards that end, I took a Red Cross swimming class one summer. I learned to hold my breath and swim the length of the pool while under water. I found that very fun – grabbing a breath, diving down five feet to the bottom of the pool, and then traveling the length gradually rising to the surface by the time I reached the other end of the pool. However, I could not hold my breath long enough to swim 50-yards.

One good thing that happened was that I met a boy who lived not too far from me. We walked home together and began to engage in sex play. He told me that he had seen by balls several times at the pool as they were hanging out one of my swimming suit legs a little bit. Actually, I was not wearing a swimming suit; I was using a pair of gym style shorts that were a tad too small for me. That is to say, they showed lots of leg, and apparently, some testicle. In my defense, I did not own a swimming suit then and the “gym” shorts were all I had. But after that day, I also wore underpants for the rest of the classes.

A month or two later on, my Scoutmaster tried to teach me and help me learn to swim. At one point, he asked me to float for 5-minutes; I could not. He then said to do the Jellyfish Float. I told him I do not float; I sink. Naturally, he did not believe me. So, I took three deep breaths, held the last one, bent over and grabbed my ankles, and promptly began to sink slowly to the bottom of the pool. When I stood up, he said that never saw anyone who could sink doing the Jellyfish Float. A couple of weeks later, one of our assistant scoutmasters, Jim Leamon (a game warden) was able to pass me on the swimming requirement. He worked with me for a few days using skin diving flippers to strengthen my legs and improve my coordination.

I took leave from the Air Force when my son was 3-years old. We went to some town in southern Florida and stayed in a motel that had a swimming pool. We had not put his inflatable “floaters” on his arms yet, when he just jumped into the pool. We were stunned. Before either his mom or I could move, he was paddling like crazy with only his eyes above water. That scared us, so we enrolled him in a Red Cross swimming class when we got back to the base.

My wife related that during the class, all the mothers had to wait outside the fence surrounding the pool while the class was in progress. At one point, the kids were supposed to be holding on to the edge of the pool practicing kicking their legs. Deborah looked up and there was Destin up to his eyes in water again. He had let go of the pool edge and the teenage instructors and lifeguards were not paying attention. She began screaming at them and at first they ignored her and gave her looks like “what’s wrong with you?” Finally, one of them heard what she was saying and rescued Destin before he drowned.

At the same Air Force Base, all of my then three children were on the swimming team (because it included free lessons). At their first competition, my oldest girl came in first in her race and my second oldest came in second in hers. However, poor little Destin came in last in his race. His group had to hold on to a foam flotation board and kick their way across the pool. My son was not kicking but “running” so his upper leg was greatly retarding his forward movement. It took him about 15-minutes to travel the length of the pool. I am not sure he was responsible or if the wind eventually blew him across.

As you may discern from this list of swimming tales, I may play in shallow water, but I definitely do not like to be in the swim.

© 10 September 2012 


About the Author



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, lived 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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Coming Out Spiritually by Ray S

     My muse took the week off when she learned what I wanted her to address. She looked askance at me, and allowed as how someone lifted her Ouija Board years ago. I can’t complain too much though, she’s really tried hard for me.

     Spiritually, I’m not sure how to explain the word relative to coming out. We have all had some sort of “ah ha” moment when after a long and arduous trip we’ve leapt, crawled, ran, or stumbled out.

     But to put it simply for myself the moment really materialized into reality when I learned how wonderful it is to affirm my friendship and love for my GLBT companions with a sincere kiss and or caress, and the swelling in my chest when I saw the stars and rainbow stripes flag bravely flying next to the red white and blue of our other flag on the suburban porch of a neat neighborhood brick bungalow–how proud they must be and how curious and proud I was to see their statement and maybe come to know them.

© 23
February 2013

About the Author










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To Be Held by Betsy

When I was an infant, the scientists–physicians and psychologists–who knew everything there was to know about mothering, all proclaimed that holding your baby too much was not a good thing. The consequences of this seemingly natural human behavior was, in fact, risky. Babies could grow up expecting to be held all the time. They would become dependent on being held, they would become “spoiled.” Also at the time cow’s milk or cow-milk-based formula created by humans and promoted by the forces of capitalism, was better for a human baby than human milk which was, after all, only poor mother nature’s formula for what is best for a newborn.

Years later when I became a mother the same thinking was prevalent–except for the milk ideas. There had sprung up in recent years a group of rebel mothers called Le Leche League. The group promoted breast feeding among new moms. They had a book which described the benefits of not only the milk, but also the process of delivering the milk, not the least of which was to hold your baby close while feeding him. They held the notion that there is a reason the female human body is configured as it is. That properly and naturally feeding your baby required holding him close.

I actually heard many mothers at the time say “The problem is that if you breast feed your baby, you will become completely tied down to him/her.” When I told my doctor husband this, he had the perfect answer. “Well, a mother SHOULD be tied down to her baby. That is how a baby survives and thrives.”

My oldest child did not have the benefits of breast milk for very long. The pediatrician instructed me, a very insecure novice mom, to begin supplementing the breast milk with formula after two months or so. Why? Well, baby needs more milk and it was believed baby could not get enough milk from its mother alone. I soon learned that once you start the process of bottle feeding, baby learns really fast. It’s much easier for her to suck milk from a bottle than from a breast. It flows much, much faster out of a bottle and, well, they don’t have to work so hard to get it. Then, of course, they don’t want the breast milk, demand for the rich liquid plummets, and the milk-making machine quickly becomes non-productive.

I later learned that breast milk is the best, there is plenty of it as supply usually meets with demand, and it works perfectly for about one year, longer if one wishes, and if the feeding is supplemented with a source of iron.

Actually, in a society driven by corporate profits the truth is the main problem with breast feeding in that the milk is free, so long as the mother is properly nourished and hydrated. No one is buying anything. No one benefits monetarily from that method of feeding, no one except baby and mother. No corporate profit is to be made. Baby and mother alone benefit.

It seems that to be held IS important–not just for babies but for children and adults as well. Being held promotes healing, comfort, security, well being of all kinds. It is hard to imagine how it ever came to be regarded as detrimental. Yet the notion continues in some minds.

One of the first complete sentences my oldest child ever uttered was, “I want to behold.”

Of course when we first heard this we asked, “behold–behold what? A star in the East.

What do you mean, “I want to behold? Oohh! You need comforting and reassurance. You want to be held.” we said, realizing that our brilliant three year old was not familiar with the passive form of the verb to hold.

Holding in a loving way and being held is loving behavior. What adult does not want to hold a kitten or puppy immediately when he or she see it. I think holding each other as an expression of love is something we learn or at least become comfortable with early in life. I think we could use more of it in this troubled world of ours. I’m all for it.

Denver 2013

About the Author

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

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Details! by Donny Kaye

One of the first television shows I really enjoyed as a kid was Dragnet with Sgt. Joe Friday and his partner, Frank Smith. One of his iconic lines for which I remember him most is, “Just the facts ma’am, just the facts!” My formative years were influenced by Joe Friday especially living with a mom who seemed to be able to find objection as details were shared. When I stuck to the facts I was more inclined to be allowed to do what I wanted to do than if I embellished at all with details. It seemed that the details of who I heard something from or where I heard it often resulted in restrictions that weren’t at all favorable to the interests of a young eight, nine, 10-year-old boy. I remember being banned from Jimmy because I attributed my use of SOB to him when questioned by my mother as to “where had I heard that language,” totally disregarding that my father used it frequently. Plus absolutely no credit was given me when using the term appropriately, in reference to my male dog. Our clubhouse was suspect, as was the far north side of our neighborhood where my friend Eddie lived and where I first tried puffing on a cigarette, not fully. Appreciating how detectable the smell of smoke was! I also learned that there were times when I could embellish with details, often which were made up, and I might receive favorable judgment and consequently, allowance to do what I wanted to do. What I realize now some 55 years later, is that those formative years and ability to stick with the facts as well as to embellish with detail when thought necessary became a way of life for me especially as a closeted man with stories that couldn’t be told without, what I presumed, severe implications and consequence. Leaving out the details of one’s life makes for a rather bland and unremarkable life experience. While at the same time trying to keep straight all of the embellishments thought necessary to cover that which seemed so necessary along life’s way, make for an interesting dilemma when trying to recollect the stories of the past. The experience of Storytime at the Center each Monday has helped me to reconnect with the richness of who it is that I am as a man who has recently come out of the closet. Beyond the opportunity to reclaim the stories that are my past, this experience is helping to create an attention to life’s details that is unparalleled.

Increasingly I am in a state of wonder and awe not only at who I am but who it is that journeys with me in this experience called “MyLife.” The details of my life are rich, exciting and inspired. My life is the unfolding experience of grace and passion. The details making each moment beyond what I could’ve imagined. I pay attention to the details not in a perfectionistic kind of way which I had refined over my lifetime but in regards to the quality that is brought to each of life’s moments as a result of being present to the detail if each moment. Just the facts? Awe, come on and tell me a little bit more of the juicy stuff that makes one squirm!

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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Keeping the Peace by Louis

When I was 6 years old, in 1950, living with my parents, grandmother and 4 brothers in College Point, NY, I experienced real fear for the first time. My parents’ home was a 2-family antique, we lived downstairs, an Irish woman, Pat, lived upstairs with her boyfriend and daughter, Gail. Unbeknownst to my parents, Pat was married to a sailor who was Gail’s father, but the sailor father had been away in Korea for a long time. Gail was 6 years old, like myself. We were playmates.

Morally outraged father showed up on the scene and assaulted Bill, Pat’s boyfriend, inflicting serious injuries on him for which he had to be hospitalized, Little Gail came running downstairs. My mother took her to the nearby house of a friend. My father called the police. The police showed, arranged to have Bill and Pat taken to the hospital. A little later another police officer took charge of 6 year old Gail. Of course I was downstairs terrified hearing all the noise in the upstairs apartment. Furniture was being tossed about. My father reassured me it would all soon be over. After the police were through, the four actors in this drama had all disappeared. The apartment was silent and empty for a couple of months. Our new tenants were an Irish mother, Dolores, who came from the Bronx and her daughter, Edna. They created some of their own interesting stories.

From what my mother later told me, once recovered from her beating, Pat moved into an apartment over a bar but had to wait for about two months until her daughter was released to her custody. Then Dad came to her front door (at that other apartment) and banged and banged and eventually broke the lock and assaulted Pat once more. Pat obtained an Order of Protection (although they might have used a different term way back then). When the police again arrested Dad, he agreed to counseling from a Catholic priest. The priest was also in contact with Pat. Dad “repented”, for a while, but after about six weeks, he returned to his wife’s apartment in the middle of the night and again tried to terrorize her.

Pat was practical. She went downstairs and requested the assistance of the two bar bouncers. Dad was released from prison, and showed up twice more but was rebuffed, pommeled and humiliated by the two bouncers who were glad to assist Pat and Gail, to protect mother and daughter. Finally unwanted visits from the morally outraged husband ceased. So in this story the two heroic peacekeepers were the bar bouncers.

Moral: repenting to please a priest is one thing, but sometimes force or “gentle persuasion” is a better deterrent. This whole episode made me think about the mores of heterosexuals. The whole notion of imposing one’s will on someone else or on another group of people, using fisticuffs, is totally foreign to me and to my family. I suppose that, according to heterosexual rules, Pat was a sinner, but sinners are supposed to be forgiven not pommeled by a bully. Or am I being too civilized?

I remember Bill the other sinner. He used to bounce me on his knee and tousle my hair. I liked the way he smelled. He had good posture and was handsome. I guess I had an idea of who I really was at the tender age of 6. Of course, I did not know the terms used, “gay,” “homosexual” and the long list of derogatory names.

Yes Bill reappeared in Pat’s life after she divorced Gail’s Dad, but left after about a year. I heard from another well-informed College Point neighbor that eventually, except for daughter Gail, they all died. Did all their suffering have any lasting meaning? Guess not.

In College Point, there were a large number of wife-beaters. Naturally, I was horrified by hearing their stories and so embraced women’s liberation as a needed political movement to give women more options than to be a punching bag for an abusive husband.

Denver, 2013

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.