Tag: Nicholas

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Getting Touchy by Nicholas

This topic seems naturally to lead into intimate areas of body contact which I do like, just in general. I do like being touched. Not only for the human warmth of touch but also because I agree with the sentiment that our skin is really our largest sense—or sex—organ capable of innumerable delights. So, it isn’t so much a matter of don’t touch me here, there or anywhere but who’s doing the touching. With some people, please, don’t touch me anywhere. With others, I have no idea where the boundaries are (assuming we’re not frightening any unintended neighbors).

But if I can broaden the meaning of ‘don’t touch me there’ to include subjects not wanting pursuit or questioning, I do have those. Call them preferences or phobias or private areas, don’t go there. This is where the psychological sun don’t shine. Now we’re into intimate areas of the heart and mind, hopes and fears. And that’s a way bigger deal than body parts.

One is writing. I have long seen myself as a writer and even once made my living by writing. Problem is, I hardly write. I wish I could write. I wish that I could just sit down and write something beyond what someone once dismissed as disposable writing—meaning journalism or journaling. But I don’t want to go into it. PLEASE, don’t touch me there.

The future is another one. I’ve never had any great confidence in the future. If I have one, I have no idea what it is or how to make it happen. The future will sort of unravel on its own, as I see it. I much prefer the past which was loads of fun or the present where I can at least run away. So, please don’t touch me THERE.

A related taboo area is health. I’m in good health as far as I know. But what do I know? Every ache, I’m convinced, may signal that my last breath is near, the start of that downhill slide. And as for hospitals, please, don’t TOUCH me there.

And of course there’s politics. I’m pretty moderate in my politics and believe that political opponents should be tortured and annihilated only in rare circumstances. But those circumstances seem to be getting less rare. So, you better NOT touch me there.

As you can tell I am far touchier about non-physical touch than about physical touch. Physical touch usually stays on the surface and is, when not an assault, a pleasure. But verbal, psychological touch almost always aims deep. When someone says, “I just wanted to touch on that,” you know something’s up and you better pay attention. In general, just don’t touch me there.

April, 2013

About the Author

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

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Gay Music by Nicholas

I don’t know what gay music is. In a narrow sense, gay and lesbian music is that music composed or performed by gay or lesbian musicians presumably for gay or lesbian people. There’s quite a lot of that. In a wider sense, gay music is what makes me feel gay, i.e., in the old sense of happy and inspired. There’s quite a lot of that music too. Then there is the music by which I became gay identified or queer (i.e., disco and such) and there’s plenty of that.

If gay music is that music by gay song writers, composers and performers then that can include Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey and many others singing the lesbian blues about how they do not need a man and want to find a good woman. In contemporary times, this category includes k.d.lang, Melissa Etheridge, Joe Jackson and others singing their love songs to their own kind. Then there are the Kinsey Sicks and Romanovsky & Phillips, et al. singing their musical parodies. And the musical Fairy Tale of Zanna Don’t, the gay musical that made it to Broadway (or somewhere near).

I have to mention the many choruses of men and women, sometimes together, sometimes separate, who perform a wide range of choral musical styles in nearly every large city in the country for the benefit of lesbian and gay communities.

Does gay music include composers Benjamin Britten, Aaron Copland and Leonard Bernstein (more or less openly gay), Chopin and Tchaikovsky (probably gay), and John Cage and John Corigliano (totally out and gay)? And everytime Michael Tilson Thomas steps onto the podium to conduct—whether he’s wearing his leather or not—does that make it gay music?

And there’s Liberace. Nobody knows what to do about Liberace.

There’s also music that brings out my gay identity, or memories of that, from those wild disco days. Abba (definitely not gay) was great to dance to. Sylvester (very definitely gay and no relation to our own Mr. Silvester) practically invented disco music. And Madonna—everybody knows what to do with Madonna.

There is also other music that sometimes makes me gay for no apparent reason like Beethoven (rumored to have had an inordinate interest in a nephew) and his 7th Symphony or his Emperor Concerto for piano. And the whole world of opera, though relentlessly heterosexual, just drips drama and costumes fit for any queen.

So, it seems there’s gay music all over the place, in all genres and in every era. From Bessie to Beethoven, from zany to somber, we love to listen, play, sing, dance and are probably responsible for much of the funding for whatever orchestras and opera companies are surviving in the U.S.
Gay music—there’s just no end to it.

February, 2014

About the Author

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

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Still Learning – Just One Nugget by Nicholas

When I feel I need a little break and need to see a little craziness, I hop onto an express bus to Boulder to spend a day in a place just different enough to be interesting. Boulder reminds me of a mini-San Francisco. Good restaurants, intriguing food shops—like the well-scented spice shop—a really good bookstore, and street people who don’t seem so desperate as they do in Denver.

What really draws me to Boulder is the labyrinth in a downtown church. I love walking labyrinths. This one is a copy of the Chartres cathedral labyrinth in France dating from the middle ages when labyrinth walking was used as a substitute for making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. This is an 11 circuit labyrinth, meaning you walk 11 circles in fragments, winding up eventually at a center.

A labyrinth is not a maze. You don’t have to find your way or figure out anything or make any decisions. You just follow the path as it winds its way around and through the quadrants to the center. It’s a walking meditation. In the Christian sense, the path, which is laid out for you, leads to God at the center. You only have to follow. I’ve never met God at the center and I don’t know what I would do if I did. Probably ask him to move so I could get on with my walk. Labyrinths pre-date Christianity, having been used in many forms by pagan religions for eons. The Christians just glommed onto a good thing when they saw it.

And as I’m slowly walking, I’m wondering why am I doing this, what can I get from it. Just one crumb of understanding, I say, give me just a little nugget of wisdom in this calm place where all I have to do is follow the path to the center and back out again. The slower the better. I’m not looking to understand everything, the whole enchilada, just a bit here and now. And the answer came: I’m doing this because walking the labyrinth is comforting. Its stillness, its calm, its reassurance give me a stillness, a calm, and a reassurance. Just follow the path, you don’t have to find it, it’s there at your feet. Keep your eyes open and follow. One step at a time.

So, I’m still learning. Still trying to figure it out though that’s something I don’t really expect ever to do. I suppose, maybe I even hope, my last words will be “What’s going on here?” It’s not the answer but the question that truly counts. Not the accomplishment but the wondering.

Yes, still learning. I just learned a whole lot about the writer William Faulkner, enough to realize that I knew nothing about an author I thought I did know something about. And I learn more yoga every week and sometimes everyday. And I’m always learning about loving and being loved. And I just got a new I-phone which offers me more to learn than I ever knew I needed to know. It’s not a phone or a device; it’s an extension of my brain. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. My brain could use an extension but I’m not sure I want it to be in an Apple computer.

I heard a saying recently that I think everybody in this room will like and feel free to adopt as your own. It goes: It’s not how old you’re getting; it’s how you’re getting old.

I hope I am getting old with wonder and openness and a desire to learn more because there is so much more out there to learn and experience. Like walking the labyrinth to discover that I need to walk the labyrinth. And maybe I’ll learn a little something, just a crumb, just a nugget. Not God.

Keep your eyes open and follow your path.

© 25 November 2013 

About
the Author 

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

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To My Younger Self by Nicholas

Frequently, I have conversations with myself. This is one I imagined between myself now and myself prior to coming out. It’s kind of a distillation of thoughts and counter-thoughts that occurred years ago or last month or yesterday. It’s a dialogue for one person.

Remember those walks we took, long meditative walks through the leafy, green forests of Ohio where the ground was wet and the air was wet with summer heat and I felt free, I said?
We spent hours walking softly through the soft shade of the soft forest just taking in the quiet, said he.
And i: You always had an independent streak, like the day you took off on your bike to crash through the neighborhood boundary and go riding through other neighborhoods in the city.
And he: You later took that desire for independence out into the world, to get out, to seek out, to discover and explore.
And i: We went into the city, we rode the Rapid into downtown, we went places to look at books and eat ice cream.
And he: You were courageous.
And i: That was courage?
And he: You didn’t have to.
And i: You were curious. Alone but always curious.
And he: But independence turned into loneliness, unloved and unloving, on my own. Things could be different.
And i: Yes, things could be different. I came to my senses, finally coming to myself. Yes, I had to.
And he: Eager to join the world, not just travel through it.
And i: I started seeing meanings and patterns that told me who I was, why I was, and who we were. I was brought up to see meaning, to find meaning, and suddenly it was there.
And he: It was a busy time, full of thoughts and actions never before taken or taken seriously. Hush, I said, listen, don’t talk, be quiet.
And i: We went to the woods and the river.
And he: I found release. Release to be a kid and play and release to grow up and own it. To make decisions and own them and own what followed.
And i: I found love, to be loved and to be loving.
And he: And I found love where I hadn’t thought it could be found before.
And i: Coming out was really a coming into: coming into love, relationships, fun, community, history.
And he: You won’t leave me now, will you?
And i: I won’t leave you and you won’t leave me because I can’t leave you and you can’t leave me.
—An homage to William Faulkner

About the Author

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

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It Was Worth It by Nicholas

Now, I suppose, the pain will just go away. My back that has been actively aching for two weeks will quiet down. Now that I have humbled myself, or even humiliated myself, to go to the doctor, pay the copay, explain my little discomfiture, have him ask his questions, poke his pokes, squeeze here and squeeze there, and listen to my insides, all to tell me nothing seemed to be amiss. I know what’s going through his mind: why are you again bothering me with your imaginary complaints? He must think I’m just a whiner. It’s just one of those pains, after all.

I knew that. My diagnosis coincided exactly with the doctor’s. My aches were not threatening my life. My joints aren’t crumbling, my vital organs are not rotting with disease, and whatever needs to function, seems to be functioning. It’s not cancer, it’s not kidney stones, it’s not cirrhosis of the liver. I am not going to die—not soon and not from anything I presently know, anyway. But I had to hear it from the doctor because he’s the one, not me, who spent thousands of dollars and many years to get the MD. I guess it’s a matter of point of view. His point of view is what counted, not my aching back or side or whatever.

Most times that’s why I’ve gone to the doctor—to be told I am OK, never mind how shitty I’m feeling. Like I once told a friend who was under some kind of weather: you’re really doing better than you feel. It’s all a matter of point of view. I walked out of the office feeling much better than I did walking in. Maybe it’s the benefit of humility. It was worth the copay.

And, by the way, the mysterious, persistent ache seemed to later be cured by a prolonged soak in a hot pool at the Lake Steam Baths where the swirling jets of hot water gently pummeled my stiff muscles and ligaments or whatever into quietude. Next time I’ll just go there.

Point of View: Denver, 2013

About the Author

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

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No Good Will Come of It by Nicholas

‘No good will come of it’—now that’s a really sweeping statement. Even bad things can have good consequences or side effects. But this is definite and universal. There is no hope, no chance of redeeming value. It’s a lost cause. Give up, get out, I’d turn back if I were you. Absolutely no good will come of it.

It’s hard to think of where this sweeping judgment could apply. Since the only absolute I really accept is to never say never, I am pressed to think of situations of no good whatsoever. Only a few situations come to mind and that surprises me because, as a pessimist, I am sure there must be plenty more.

One such situation is the closing of bookstores. There is no substitute to browsing bookshelves in stores and in libraries. You get to touch, handle and sample any part of the book you’re contemplating. You find other books that you never knew existed. Internet shopping can give thousands of titles in a flash but they’re just titles, most of which are irrelevant and planted by search engines paid to flaunt them. Looking for something on the Internet is like trying to find that postage stamp you mistakenly threw away in a garbage can. You have to plow through a ton of rubbish to find that little thing you need. This advance is not an improvement.

If that example is small, here’s a bigger one. Very clearly no good will, or has ever, come of the combination of politics and religion. Religion can sometimes produce good and even politics can sometimes produce good. But put the two together and, you can be sure no good will come of it. Uniting religious fervor and self-righteousness with political power is a recipe for disaster. Islam is showing us that now; Christianity had its romp with power and violence centuries ago. Christianity now is kind of a toothless tiger but countless millions had to suffer and die to take the teeth out of that tiger. Islam once saved Western Civilization from itself (see Christian violence above) but as it comes more to be identified with politics seems to have degenerated into being hardly civilized at all. Religion with power makes for no good.

Another situation from which no good will come is the arbitrary, unilateral use of military or covert violence by one nation against another or against individuals one government deems dispensable. I am a member of the nation currently most guilty of this offense. From toppling democratically-elected governments in the 1950s to suit US interests (i.e., oil and money) to trying to squelch popular revolutions for independence (e.g., Vietnam) to sending drones to pick off individuals designated as enemies, military power almost always creates situations worse than the ones it supposedly fixes. All those actions have generated more threats to American interests and security than did they stop. National self-interest can be its own worst enemy.

Jumping from commerce, theology and international relations to the personal level, repressing one’s sexual or gender identity guarantees that no good will come of it. One pays a steep price for tampering with something so basic and innate as trying to smother a natural and irrepressible side of personality. By tampering I mean refusing to be gay or lesbian or your true gender. Your own life can be reduced to emotional squalor and others’ lives around you will get caught in the back splash. It is simply dangerous not to be who you are.

This has really been more of a hodgepodge sermon than a story but I hope some good can come of it.

© May 2013

About
the Author

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

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Hitting a Milestone by Nicholas

The first thing I wanted to do on reaching 60 years of age was look back. Look back on just how I turned out to be me. As I’m writing this, Quicksilver Messenger Service—does anybody remember that ‘60s rock group? —is singing “What are you going to do about me?” Good question. What am I going to do about me? A little self obsessed, maybe, but there’s no apologizing needed for that in this day and age.

In 2006, I turned 60 years of age. This was one of those milestone “zero” birthdays, like 30, 40, 50. Only this one seemed to hit me as more of a milestone than the others ever did. I wasn’t sure if it marked another mile but I sure felt the weight of the stone.

I like to say that I faced my 60th birthday instead of that I celebrated my 60th. There was a celebration, of course, one of the best parties I’ve ever had. It was put together by my sisters and Jamie and was quite a wing-ding, with catered food, champagne, a huge cake and lots of family and friends to share it with. In fact, I extended the celebration to all that year long, not just one day. It was not just another routine birthday passed with a day off work, a bike ride in the mountains, a special dinner with Jamie, a few cards and presents and then on to the next day. No, this one meant something.

This birthday was different and needed to be marked differently. This one presented challenges. It demanded to be paid attention to. Turning 60 was truly a cusp of something, a turning point. I am now closer to my departure from this planet than am I to my arrival upon it.

I felt that I’d crossed a threshold, stepped over a line, a boundary to somewhere though I was not sure where. If the past was a burden piling up behind me, the future seemed a foggy mystery and unknown territory. I was in a new country without a map and with loads of hopes and fears but not sure what direction to take.

Suddenly, I felt a sense of being old. Now I was one of the old people, a senior citizen. I was now entitled, if I summoned the nerve, to boot some young person out of those seats at the front of the bus reserved for old folks. I’ve never done that, of course. But I was old and everybody knew it. No more anonymity, I was marked with gray hair, sagging skin, a bit slower to take stairs, and a few more bottles of pills on the shelf. Now with this birthday and every birthday hence, my age was a matter of public policy. I was officially a statistic, a “boomer,” a term I despise. This birthday and the party to commemorate it left me with an uncomfortable self-consciousness.

And some confusion. One morning I was bicycling along the South Platte River, following the familiar path when suddenly the way was blocked and I was shuffled off onto a detour around a huge construction zone. I followed the detour hesitantly, not knowing exactly where I was and fearing that it was taking me too far out of the way. But the route was well marked so I continued to follow the signs. Eventually, I got back to the river path and I knew where I was.

That’s the way I was feeling on this birthday. I don’t know where this path is leading and this one is not marked at all. Am I on another detour or is this the main path? I’m trying to work my way to a point where I can see where I’ve been and so I can figure out where I’m going. At least that’s the aim.

I have this sense of the past, my past—which has grown rather bulky—and I do not want to let go of it. I can’t let go of it. I like my history and my memories. I like what I’ve done, embarrassments and failings as well as achievements and successes.

In my first 60s—the 1960s—the world was on fire with change and excitement. There was nothing I and my generation couldn’t do to make the world a better place. Justice was on the move and so was personal freedom. The personal became the political and politics became very personal and passionate. Passion is the word I attach to the ‘60s. The music was passionate. The war and the war against the war were passionate. The drive for civil rights was passionate. The freedom was passionate.

If I hearken after any remnant of that youthful decade it is that sense of passion. If there is any bit from that era that I’d like to restore to my later years, it is that passion. Turn nostalgia around and let it lead me into the future. Grow old and find your passion. Is that wisdom speaking? Have I stumbled onto wisdom somehow?

So, yes, it was quite a party, the party of a lifetime. It was the party that marked and celebrated way more than another year on the planet. I can’t forget that party because to do so would be to forget my life, its past, present and future.

© 17 October 2013

About the Author

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









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The Sound of Silence by Nicholas

I was buying this car, I told myself, so I could get away from traffic. In the summer of 1970, I purchased the first car I ever owned, a 1962 or ‘64 or maybe ’66, golden brown Ford station wagon. Like so many others back then, I was eager to leave the city of San Francisco; I was getting out. Freedom, just like the American myth says, freedom has its own wheels and comfy seats. Gas was only 28 cents a gallon. So, I was on my way.

I headed out across the Bay Bridge, through Berkeley and out east on I-80, past Sacramento and into the Sierras. The mountains. My plan was to spend much of the summer around Nevada City where my friend Keith had a cabin. I wouldn’t have a cabin, though, since I was daring myself to go back to nature in a big way. I would spend my time in the forest hiking and camping. I had my sleeping bag and my dog and other assorted gear and planned to spend days and nights exploring the wilderness of the Sierras. I’d be living out of my car when I wasn’t walking.
The Sierra Nevada are spectacularly beautiful mountains, especially for being so heavily traveled. You can still—at least, in 1970 you could still—really get away. Really find peace and find a quiet that was absolute. It was a quiet that was so complete that it fairly roared with no sound. Oh, there was the occasional buzz of an insect, the call of a bird, a crackling tree branch, but in the heat of the day, not much else. At night, the quiet dark was broken only by the howling of the coyotes as they formed their packs for hunting.
I was alone. Alone at last. Completely alone. Oh, the sweet solitude.
It was crushing. The silence was nothing less than ear-splitting. I could feel it like a weight on my ear drums. I could hear the sound of nothing. I could hear nothingness. I had never before in my life been in a place with a near total absence of sound. There was no background noise. The only noise was the noise of nature and nature usually isn’t very noisy.
And it was scary. In the dark, I was convinced a bear was tramping through the forest to munch on my bones when actually it was a ground squirrel scampering through the leaves and brush on the forest floor.
I loved it. And it was driving me crazy. I found that I loved my solitude but I didn’t care much for being alone. Solitude is something to cherish and an experience that can enrich life. It is also a common form of torture and can eat away a psyche. Solitude can give you strength and it can kill your strength.
And now long after that brave summer, I still value solitude—from time to time, like having the house to myself or meditating on a mountainside or taking a trip to the Shambhala Mountain retreat center to sit before their big Buddha. A bit of solitude is a big help to regaining perspective. But I’m not overly keen on being alone much. When Jamie goes away on one of his periodic business trips, I relish being alone in the house and doing whatever I want when I want without having his schedule to consider. After two days of this, the house gets to be a silent, empty, lonely place.
I actually have found it is possible to capture a bit of solitude—yes, solitude comes in bits unless you’re the desert island type—in a downtown Denver coffee shop where I frequently retreat to do things like withdraw and read or begin writing little essays to read on Monday afternoons.
I’m a city person and like having people around even if I don’t know them or do anything with them. Urban solitude is more of an internal state, a sense of self and a sense of privacy even when you’re in public.
So, I don’t need mountain forests to find respite and retreat. A nice afternoon nap in my quiet basement will do, thanks. Maybe some Tibetan bowls ringing softly to define the quiet while chasing away the crush of silence.

About the Author

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

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Visiting the Doctor by Nicholas

I like my doctor. I believe that if you do not like your doctor, you should get a new doctor. It’s a very personal relationship but I do not want my doctor to be my friend. He or she has to know a lot or maybe even everything about me, but my doctor also has to be a scientist who might someday give me some bad news, bad news that I am better off knowing. So you see there’s intimacy involved but not a buddy kind of intimacy.

I used to prefer women doctors but then I had one for a while at Kaiser whom I didn’t like and then I found a male doctor whom I did like so I don’t care anymore about the gender of my doctor. The last woman doctor I had possessed all the traits that I used to identify with not liking in men doctors. She was abrupt, arrogant, and not very communicative. One visit we were dealing with high blood pressure and she just handed me a pill and a glass of water. I had to ask what it was and what I was supposed to do with it. Then she prescribed a medication that was totally wrong for me. It took months but I finally got her to come around to prescribing a better medication that does work for me. I pushed the issue because I got some good advice from friends who were doctors themselves.

After that doctor, I found a really good doc at Kaiser who was very friendly and communicative. He was a gay doctor, of course, and though I insist on being out to any doctor I meet, his being gay made things easier. He also could practice medicine by phone and email without office visits because Kaiser had a system set up to do that. One time I came home from travelling in Europe with a nasty intestinal bug. I described the symptoms to him and he said it sounded like a pretty common problem and I could either do lab tests to determine the precise bug or he could give me a prescription to treat it. I said, in my misery, just treat it. The treatment worked.

But then I changed health insurance plans and had to find a new doctor. I got some referrals from the GLBT Center’s list of gay-friendly providers and set up an appointment. I had some questions and wanted to talk to my doctor candidates to get to know them before I signed on for any treatment. I found a doctor who was easy going and friendly. I told him I was gay and I told him I had a partner whom I expected would be included in any medical issues. He had no problem with that.

I’ve since grown to like and trust my doctor. He doesn’t over treat problems and I am learning from him when to panic and when to just take some aspirin or a nap. He has a casual style I like. When I see him about some problem, he always asks me how big a deal it is, how much something is interfering with my life. There are always treatments doctors can order up, but do you really need or want them? For example, my doctor sent me to a physical therapist to help me through a knee problem instead of to a surgeon for replacement.

Given my own medical history—which is pretty minor—and having lived through the AIDS epidemic with friends and having a husband with a very complicated and ongoing medical condition, I have learned a lot about dealing with doctors and nurses. Here are some tips:

* Nurses are your friends. Do not abuse them, don’t ever get rude or annoyed even when they do things you don’t like. They might know more about you than you do and can really help.

* Do ask, do tell. Tell your doctor everything, ask about everything. Doctors really are people too though they might think they are gods.

* For god’s sake, come out if you haven’t already. Being lesbian or gay is just not the big deal it used to be. You don’t want the closet to interfere with your care and who gets to be with you in difficult times. Jamie and I were even in a hospital in Colorado Springs recently and he introduced me as his husband and I was not denied any access to him in the ER. Boy, did that surprise me. I was still relieved to get out of there.

* Give people a chance to do the right thing. One time we were talking with a nurse in a hospital, telling her our story and she told us about her lesbian sister. She also told us about the discrimination she’s experienced as a Japanese-American.

Going to the doctor can be frightening and worrisome but it doesn’t have to be. But you have to take charge.

About the Author

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

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Three Little Words by Nicholas

Do you wanna?
Not now, dear.
Let’s do it.
Well, I guess.
Take your Viagra?
Who needs Viagra?
That feel good?
That feels good.
Not there, dear.
Oh yeah, baby!
Where’s the cat?
Put him out.
No, he’s in.
Ow, that hurt.
Cat’s right here.
More wine, dear?
Open another bottle.
Are you hungry?
Yeah, I’m starving.
That’s real tasty.
Ketchup on that?
Spice it up.
How about that?
Looks real good.
What’s for dessert?
More ice cream.
I want chocolate.
Do it again?
Let’s do it.
You did it. Stole my heart.
Please keep it.
I love you.
I love you.

© 2
July 2013

About the Author

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