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Mistaken Identity by Ray S

On an October day some years ago a second son was born to Ethel and Homer. They say he was almost ten pounds which seems like quite a lot for the slight mother. She later used to tell the story about dancing at parties when she was in her 8 1/2 month and how observers wondered how such a little woman with such a huge belly could keep up the Charleston dance step. Seems as though everything came out alright, no pun intended.

The new member of the family thrived on the love and attention from Mom and Dad. The older brother adjusted to the baby’s intrusion on his one-time monopoly of fair-haired first born (seven years difference) Apple of Everyone’s Eye. The seed of sibling rivalry was beginning to germinate but then manifested into an attitude of seeming denial of the little brother’s existence. If necessary the obligatory special occasions would be observed; that is, birthdays, Christmas, and Easter, etc. This pattern persisted into old age.

Early childhood revealed the physical differences between him and the girl next door.

The father’s dutiful instruction on the care and hygiene of the foreskin. How to pee standing up to the toilet. All quite SOP for his age.

Then some matters developed interesting turns. For instance, no one, least of all the child, thought there was anything odd that he had his own Patsy-Ann doll with a doll-sized truck full of little dresses lovingly sewn and/or knitted by mother. An actual talent for painting and drawing came along with a fascination for paper dolls. As time past he couldn’t manage to catch a ball much less win at kick-the-can or sports in general. The end result being a lifelong disinterest in sports or anything competitive.

One day after an exploratory adventure with two neighbor brothers he discovered you could do lots more with certain body parts besides eliminate one’s waste. And it was good!

As he developed emotionally as well as physically way in the back of his mind he became aware of being different.

He, through self awareness, ridicule, bullying, and abuse from older peers questioned his proscribed identity, and this happened before he even knew the words describing one’s sexuality. Ultimately with a contraband copy of Dr. Kinsey’s Report the revelation of twenty some years of mistaken Identity came home to roost. And the struggle went on until the day that the door fell off the hinges of the closet where he and so many other aged fairies resided. The mistake was theirs.

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Goofy Tales by Ray S

Ten A.M. and it is getting hot already. Today is a holiday and the Eda M. Fisher Junior High School is closed. I am home alone at our one bedroom studio apartment. Mom and Sylvia are at work even though it is Washington’s Birthday holiday.

I am trying to figure out what I can do with the day besides make up my studio couch bed, clean up the kitchen, and squeeze some fresh Florida orange juice.

Too early to go to the movies at that big theater on Collins Avenue with the funny name, CINIMA, and I am so new to that school I do not know anyone to pal around with.

Instead of getting dressed for school, I just put on my bathing trunks, and with that, the idea surfaced that it could be interesting to investigate the roof top deck of this modest two-story apartment. I could check out the hot water solar heat apparatus; see what the place is like where I’d heard people went to sun bathe.

The more I thought about this adventure the more possibilities crept into my imagination. What if I decided to take a sunbath and if no one was around why not risk being discovered doing so nude? What a wickedly wonderful thought for a lonely 14-year-old boy whose thoughts were now soaring into unknown territory. I couldn’t understand why the idea of being discovered by another like-minded but older man came into my head.

Up the stairs, beach towel in hand, and on to the threshold of the unknown. The rooftop was divided into an area of solar heat water pipes and then a space with a privacy fence and benches all around for socializing and sun bathing. Quite nice and a degree of privacy.

Anticipation, being the dominant emotion, the thrill of doing something forbidden, the possibility of discovery and whatever would or could follow, seemed to move me magically into some other world.

Beach towel in place on the deck in a seemingly remote corner, I dared to slip out of my trunks and exposed myself to dear old sol and whatever might transpire. I became aware that all of this activity was causing a pleasant feeling of arousal, and as I lay there with my eyes closed basking in the warmth of the sun, my hand helped with this newfound feeling of well-being. The day was off to a good start.

“Hey, Kid! What are you doing?” The jarring voice of a would be teen Venus standing over me in the altogether called. When I came to my senses I was confronted with, “that’s what girls looked like without clothes.” It certainly wasn’t anything like the showers at boys gym class.

If in retrospect I had any knowledge of a Botticelli nude–female, that is–this specter looming over my prone body would have fit the bill. She knelt down beside me and whispered, “Here, let me show you what we can do with that.”

Perhaps 15 minutes later Venus was joined by a boyfriend. I imagined his name was David. They spread their towels on the deck, he slipped out of his bathing suit and suddenly the spirit of Eros overcame me again.

It was at this moment I realized that I could and would wait for my David to come and carry me away to somewhere where the gods know how to play anyway they want to, and Venus, lovely as she is, could climb back into her clam shell.

© 23 February 2013




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One Monday Afternoon by Ray S

Yes, it is Monday afternoon, but not your ordinary Monday afternoon.

This is the appointed day and time that all of Ornithology Under the Sun had been ominously anticipating with great foreboding and some thinly veiled anger. Questions abounded, rancor and suspicion prevailed under a facade of collegiality.

As the procession ascended to the locked and sealed grand steel door of the upper room, which would be their aviary for an untold length of time, or at the least, until it became critical to replace the newspaper on the floor.

The space was tastefully designed to be semi-grand, suitable for such occasions as this one today. The forest green walls were quite high meeting a spectacle or frescoed ceiling blackened by a depiction of the final scene from Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” There was even an ever so realistic representation in the northeast corner of Tippy Hedron in state of shock and awe.

One by one the cardinals approached the conference table and took their assumed perches. There was much chirping, screeching, and clatter until the entrance of Super Card occurred. As he ordered silence he recognized Herr Cardinal on his left. He brought up the matter that all of these birds hadn’t had enough time to get familiar with each other and how that could color the selection of the new Supreme White Cardinal, you know, the one with the largest top knot and blackest feet–as if all of them hadn’t been preening for this moment ever since “Its Supremest” had resigned and flown the coop, so to say.

Then there was a lengthy discussion about modernizing the office allowing genderization of the highest perch to others, the brightest colored cardinals. This matter reached fever pitch when the U.K. Cardinal brought it to the groups’ attention of what a besmirchment the Scot Cardinal had made of his office. And should the possibility of other-than-male cardinals fly to the exalted throne, we wouldn’t have to concern ourselves with big cardinals fooling around with fledgling red birds.

The astounding thought that a non-male Cardinal could get elected sent the birdy-conclave into total standstill. Then Super Card reminded the males that they were no longer in the majority inasmuch as some of them were somewhat diversified in their mating habits and that this college already included five or six discriminating non male cardinals. End of subject!

A knock, or should I say, a secret peck on the Great Steel Door announced the semi-cardinals arrival to install the traditional birds’ nest under a newly drilled ceiling hole. Upon the election of the new S.W.C. (Supreme White Cardinal) the ancient custom designating the completion of its selection was signaled by “one if by land and two if by sea.” Oops! Wrong story. The signal actually is “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” A special Black Forest Cuckoo flew in for the procedure.

As the hour of decision drew nigh, anguish was rampant among the cardinals. The newspaper on the floor was almost indiscernible. Something had to happen and suddenly it did.

The black bird-obscured ceiling fresco split open to reveal a large white wing guiding a beautiful white pink-eyed dove into the room. It fluttered and glided above the cardinals’ top knots, from one to another. Then as plain as the beak on your face it lighted on the shoulder, or to be anatomically correct, the right wing of the one cardinal in the room with the greatest degree of understanding when it came to matters of cardinal-gender and wisdom.

Here was the new and revolutionary S.W.C. (Supreme White Cardinal) that would lead all of birddom into an enlightened era of “Birds of a Feather All Flock Together.”

© 10 March 2013

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What Is Your Sign? by Ray S

     Besides the classic “Do you come here often?”, “What is your sign?” seems to serve as an opening to a conversation at the local or, more often, an out of town watering hole.

     Generally those questions don’t result in a discussion of politics, current events, or religion. The basic motivation is to pick up an interested participant for some hopeful liaison more historically referred to as “hanky-panky.” This applies to everyone straight or gay.

     In retrospect I must admit my fifty-some years of matrimony never afforded me any bar hopping time, and before those days I was underage and much too shy to venture out into the worldly world, straight or gay!

     When Eros finally did rear his torrid head, there was no conversation just the signal of the adjacent rubbing knees in a darkened movie palace. So much for leading conversations. In this case actions spoke louder than words.

     Last year I finally ventured into what was purported to be a gay bar with a very distraught friend who was recovering from a bad dream and some form of rejection. Nothing a double martini couldn’t remedy. End result, he got drunk and the Black Crown was over populated with women not of the LGBT persuasion.

     With due respect to those of you “Horiscopians” from Aquarius to Capricorn, you may have something there with your crystal balls, but at the bar your contact probably doesn’t have time or the inclination for fortune telling and you need to get down to business.

     But if you do run across an interested soul mate remind them of the Sunday, February 10th, 2013 birthday horoscope which concluded with the following:

     “Use caution with over indulging. If you are attached, try to walk in your sweetie’s foot steps. Move often. Pisces draws you in. You enjoy his or her reverie.”

     Now that’s on the right track!

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Wisdom of GLBT Identity by Ray S

     There is something intoxicating and dangerous about the forbidden. That has always been my pervading attitude while spending a lifetime in the confines of my padded cell closet of denial. That is until the closet door would squeak open just enough to allow a taste of the forbidden fruit (no pun intended) of gay indulgence.

     As far as wisdom and identity go I am reminded of a recent opportunity I had to hear a presentation by noted author and gay sex counselor Dan Savage in response to a note card from the audience which stated quite candidly, “I don’t want to be gay.” There was a vocal gasp from those in the entire auditorium. It was truly amazing, but with great aplomb Savage proceeded to elaborate on how it is a long process to accept the gay identity, especially when a person young or older is struggling with the social and sexual conflicts of homosexuality in American society.

     Here is the knowledge; that is, knowledge offered. First study and read and talk about the subject. Then, learn that it is not a learned trait, but a natural phenomenon within the development of the fetus. If one can get this far he will slowly begin to accept the reality. As he said about a number of sexual processes–”take it slowly.”

     After this step of learning and wisdom comes experience, understanding who you are, and being comfortable with being “different” especially when you learn you are not alone. This process can be very lengthy and some of us have difficulty slamming that closet door shut.

     In our growing up years there is a natural emphasis on our developing sexuality–in both the straight and gay worlds. With experience most of us discover that there are great rewards in the knowledge that homosexual relationships are much more than physical lust and needs.

     The wonder and beauty of our deep and abiding love for our chosen special person is universal in both worlds. This reads very idealistic and not always easily attainable, but certainly a rewarding goal to be strived for.

     This to me is the wonderful revelation of LGBT identity.

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Bravest Things by Ray S

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is to humiliate yourself in the presence of others by acknowledging your mistreatment of a friend or owning a personal failure. This isn’t the conventional concept of bravery, but it is real, deep down inside.

Then there is the bravery you feel as you proceed to follow a base impulse and move on ahead to who knows–a tragic mistake or absolutely exhilarating, spine tingling successful wild chance that leaves you dancing on clouds celebrating your brave choice. Sound familiar?

Could be acing a final exam, winning an athletic competition, or a coming out on top in a brawl, winning the favor of new mates–even sounds like sex. Dream on bravely.

The bravest thing could be facing your worst enemy–yourself. That is where it all begins and ends. It is up to you, so be brave and forge on.

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Cooking by Ray S

  
        Call it puppy love, infatuation, envy, or hero worship. One day on my way to a design consult with my client Don I realized I must be in love with the guy. Of course, he didn’t know it and the only time we got physically close was several years later when I kissed him goodbye before he moved to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. So much for unrequited love.

          One of the clinchers that turned me on about him (and there were many) was that he was a refugee from the Cordon Bleu and a disciple of Saint Julia Child. The fact was I had been summoned to consult on the decor of the newly modernized 1901 vintage kitchen. Besides the professional style appliances the focal point, as the designers say, was a framed poster of the famed Ms. Child. No NFL stars portraits or macho icons. This was my kind of guy.

          We picked up on the Cordon Bleu theme and ultimately covered the kitchen walls in blue denim vinyl. Of course it was washable. I’m nothing but practical with my clients.

          From the kitchen we moved on to complete the master bedroom. Never got any further there beyond the very butch wallpaper and paint colors. The final challenge was to create a library in what had been the front parlor.

          By this time a beautiful Platonic friendship had developed, but no more cooking on the romantic side.

          Many years have passed and we still exchange Christmas cards. Many changes have resolved various conflicts of my approach to sexual orientation, and my love for Don mellowed to occasional fantasy about what should have been and never was.

          The one bonding element for me is our mutual appreciation for cooking especially when done in the nude.

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The Interview by Ray S

Q:  “Can I, or may I come over and interview you
for a piece I am doing for the station?”
     Although I’d known
Betsey was on the broadcast staff of the local fine arts FM radio station as
well as a musicologist that did background talks for the symphony, I was at a
loss as to what I had to offer.
A:  “Well, yes, it would be good to visit with
you, but what have I got to contribute to your job?”
     Her response informed
me that she was doing a general interest piece prior to the opening night
festivities in Central City at the Opera House. 
Someone had mentioned to her that a mutual acquaintance had long ago
been an usher or something on the Opera House staff.
     “Local color, human
interest,” she said.
     With the old what
goes around comes around feeling I said, “Ask away.”
Q.  “How did you learn about a summer job at
Central?”
A.  It was my junior year at college and a
sorority sister of my future wife told me I might be able to land a job
starting the end of May.  She was a voice
major and had worked at the Central City Opera box office in the men’s
department of the D & F store on Arapahoe St. in downtown Denver.
Not
looking forward to another sweltering summer in the Windy City, I jumped at the
chance to be in the midst of real live theatre and opera at that.
Q.  “So you got the job.  What did you do?”
A.  Once I boned up on the history of Central and
particularly Opera House, I would have washed dishes or scrubbed the Face on
the Bar Room Floor.  Seemed like the
business manager needed an eager and possibly rational gopher.  I lived in the ushers’ dormitory, ate at West
Matinees “Olde Fashioned” dining room on Eureka St. across from the Teller
House.  Every morning we breakfasted on
Miss Hanah’s  huge cinnamon buns.
My
routine was to drive my boss down to Denver every day to the office in the City
and County Building, run errands all day, and we would return to Central in
time to open the box office at the Teller House.  I couldn’t believe my life had been so
transformed.  I felt like an apprentice
to my employer learning all about what makes the show get going.
Q. “What
was the production that year?”
A.  The board and artistic director had to rile
the old guard by announcing it would be Strauss’s “Die Fledermous,” outraged
that grand opera had been replaced by an “operetta.”  As it turned out after the opening night
performance the house was sold out for the season, showmanship surpassed KULTUR
with a “K.”  Then to add insult to injury
the second 1/2 of the season was to be “Diamond Lil” starring in her original
role, Ms. Mae West.
Q. “I’ve
heard it was a beautiful production. 
What stands out in your memory?”
A.  For me the whole opera scene opened up, it was
a wonderland come to life.  The music is
unforgettable, the singers, from stars to chorus and orchestra, all so genuine,
professional, and talented.
Learning
to know the director and his staff.  Most
all major cast members brought their families so they needed baby sitting
too.  It was one big party in the cast
housing, but strictly business in the theatre.
    The
experience and opportunity to immerse one’s self in this high altitude
opera/theatre realm was like moving into an alternate life. So much happened
that summer in that wonderful old opera house. 
And to me, that I couldn’t believe I had my own voyage through a musical
looking glass. Guess I was forever stage struck and the battery died in Betsy’s
recorder.
     End of Interview!

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Down by the River by Ray S

     Sometime during the latter half of the
19th century the designer of New York’s Central Park took on the project to
plan a bucolic suburban community west of the city of Chicago.  Riverside was appropriately named due to the
proximity of the Des Plaines River.
     It is a quaint town replete with streets
that meander like the river—so much so that visitors always lost their way in
this would be enchanted forest.
     Civic buildings patterned in the
Medieval/Gothic revival mode.  Added to
the mix was the requisite Alpine chalet and Victorian gingerbread styles.  All in all quite a charming big city get away
for a weekend in the country (with apologies to what’s his name).
     Growing up in this never never land in the
1930’s was in retrospect a  fabulous
experience, but at age 10 I took it all for granted and always managed to find
the trail of bread crumbs home after school.
    I recall a winter’s late afternoon with the
gas street lamps casting a golden glow on the snow.  I trudged home but pausing to make a snow angel,
in hopes some unsuspecting good Samaritan would find me and offer to save me
from a death of frost bite.
     At a bend of the river there is a great
depression and sledding hill called the Swan Pond where everyone gathered when
the snow was good to go coasting down the hills. And when it was good and cold
so the river froze there was ice skating.
     Ultimately the little town grew to be a
full blown bedroom community for office workers and professionals commuting
daily to the Loop on the CB&Q.
     Along with Chicago’s Century of Progress,
there lacked sufficient progress to prevent that city’s use of the Des Plaines
as a waste disposal.  Often barely a
trickle, and source of malodorous bouquet, sometimes when we ventured to the
river’s edge we found many curiosities to wonder about.  Why were there always those white balloons
washed up on the shore?
     Under the railroad trestle there was a
colony of men camping. These were the flotsam and jetsam of the depression
called hobos.  We stood at a distance and
stared and they didn’t object to our quiet intrusions.  The only time you might have occasion to
converse with one of these men is when they came around to the back door to
collect some food the housewives would leave on the steps.  Remember, this was the NRA.
     Mother either didn’t know or trusted all
was safe as her progeny dawdled about the shores of the river, the Hobo camp, and
scampered across the railroad bridge if a train wasn’t imminent.
     So goes the remembrance of Down By The
River.

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Over the River and through the Woods by Ray S

Nostalgia is my trunk in the attic full of fantasies, make-believe, and many memories, some of childhood days and some more recently of wonderful straight and gay adventures.
In fact this life has been quite a trip over many rivers and some really interesting trips to the woods.

Remember the first time you skinny dipped with the other boys at Y Camp?  Exciting alright!  The revelation that all 13 year olds were not born  equal.   Some even sported strategic pubic hair; and some, it turns out, were blessed with being hidden behind the door when God passed out the genitalia–and later to learn that that’s as good as it gets. Beware of the latent pubic hair appearing on the palm of your hand or you’re going to burn in hell if you don’t stop playing with yourself.   Oh the joys of sin and early youth.

Originally my fertile imagination always conjured up visions of Currier and Ives 19th century nostalgia when “Over the River, etc.” reared its bucolic head.  “One Horse Open Sleigh” and all.
With growing exposure to birds and bees one learned that they were not the only creatures in the bushes.  Oh to run naked through the fields of lush green grass and exploring passion in the primeval forest lie nude with a newly discovered lover.

The rivers still run and woods still conceal soft beds of leaves to sleep upon with the fairy queen of your choice.

As for me my trip isn’t over yet.  There is much too much nostalgia creation coming my way before I close the lid on the old trunk and make my way out of the attic.
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