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I Gave Up, by Ray S

Over the years, if I try I can remember instances where it seems a situation is impossible or insurmountable. The solution promises only frustration and so you give up, move onto a problem that is solvable, and of course, of far less complication. If it’s too hard to deal with, you find something you can. The result is an accomplished challenge—even if it’s loading the dishwasher. The resulting sense of having done something puts you in a more positive frame of mind so you can face that first problem that you gave up on.

There are any number of ways to give up. Don’t answer the phone, turn off the damn computer, or drown the problem in some form of alcohol or narcotic of your choice. The latter seems very extreme, and a visit with your shrink or priest has its advantages.

Once upon a time apparently I had a secret desire that initially I didn’t even recognize. Just a fleeting half wish thought.

My little girl was on school holiday and I asked her if she would like to go on an errand with daddy. Yes! We were going on a ride to the city to deliver a package to the mother of one of my clients. When we arrived at the lady’s apartment it was a fine old pile dating back to the first part of the last century.

Upon answering our knock on her door we were greeted by a gracious and charming seventy-five year old that could remind one of the Queen Mother. After we delivered the package to her, our hostess invited Carolyn and me to visit and see the apartment. Finally at the conclusion of the tour Mrs. Anderson presented my daughter with a little gift. A small needlepoint canvas with the legend “Be a friend to have a friend.” We thanked Mrs. A. for her thoughtful and unexpected gift and went down the long hallway, down in the elevator to the lobby and out the big font door.

We both thought at the same time, “What would it be like to live in such another world as this?” The thought was so very wishful we dismissed it—not even considering it something to give up on.

A mere matter of some forty years or so has passed, and the now widowed daddy with both Caroline and her brother married with families of their own, found he needed a new address, something with no garden to till, no grass to mow, no snow to shovel. The apartment hunt was on.

Out of the blue my computer-wise daughter called me with a question. “Dad, do you remember when you and I went to that lady’s building to deliver a package and she gave me a gift?” She went on to say, “Well, guess what showed up on Craig’s List, a rental in that old building you took me to when I was six or seven.”

The rest of the story you have already guessed. The last place in my world that I will ever reside in is where I am now quite by chance and Craig’s List plus a wish-thought so very vague that at the time didn’t ever merit giving up on.

Be careful what you don’t wish for you may have to give up—or something!

© 19 October 2015

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Madame Rosa, by Ray S

“Madame Rosa,” her real name is simply Rosa. But I’ve given her the grander and dramatic name because she reminds me in some imaginary way of the gypsy woman with the crystal ball on a table, who is about to tell you of your past and future. No, she is not a mystic or a seer. In fact, she has had a very productive career in the fields of counseling, self-esteem, personal and family matters, as well as group presentations.

I write all of this so you might know just a little of her background. Rosa has the strength of personality and will of a woman who knows who she is and always has been. She is a helpful, generous, loving individual that minces no words about her philosophy as it may apply to a client’s problems or concerns.

The irony of Rosa’s story is that it has been some eighteen months to two years that she has had to accept that she is mortal like the rest of us having survived two strokes and a heart attack. After much thought and determination, true to her sense of will power, she announced to family and friends that she had had enough of doctors, hospitals, and pills and is setting about to die, as almost at her command—she was, as usual, in control.

Now, instead she seems to have met her fate realizing that she was not the only one in control. Madam Rosa and the crystal ball are no more—replaced by a despondent shadow of the persona that she once was. It is just a waiting game now.

Recently I took her a Christmas gift and we had a good visit. She managed to open the box and take the many-colored scarf and wrap it around her shoulders. Her smile reminded me of other good times we had met at her kitchen table for what I called “tea and sympathy.” She always had the right answer.

One time, when we went to lunch, she asked me to run by a number of stores. It was that frantic time of the year between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Her niece had unpacked and set up the crèche in a niche in the living room. It was complete, even the guiding star above the manger. Somehow, though, the fluffy white clouds were missing in the unpacking and this would never do. Onward and upward we hit at least three different stores until we found a supply of Angel Hair. What surprised me was that I thought angel hair, a spun fiberglass, had been outlawed and was a thing of Christmas Past like tinsel ice sickles. Remember how the perfectionists insisted each strand must be hung perfectly straight and one must never get caught tossing a handful up to the top of the tree.

That was one of many memories of the driven persistence Rosa had when her mind was so determined. Lost in my reminiscence of happier days, I could only hope and wish for a good measure of that drive she once had to return since she has found one can’t choose to die at will. Doubtless the time will come as it will for all of us and when it does, here is one of a host of friends that will recall Madame Rosa with the Angel Hair.

© 25 January 2016

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Once in a Lifetime, by Ray S

        In
retrospect, which can be daunting in itself, there has been a multitude of
“onces” all succeeding in importance over the last one subject to the time and
place on the road of your life. With all of these one-time “onces”
cluttering our mind, we can’t see the forest for the trees; i.e., the miracle
of birth. Contrary to some popular beliefs it only happens once and we, being
present, don’t even have the slightest memory of this once in a lifetime
happening. From there on out it has been a script written by the fates and
whims of those whose paths have crossed ours.
One could recall the adage “life’s a crap
shoot.” Perhaps your “ONCES” occurred by your will, but keep in mind, nothing
has ever been for sure until it happens.
So, what is the best of all of you
“onces?”  Assuming you can recall more
than one. Entry into this world on your part consisted of responding to a slap
on the bottom and the ensuing cry as you took your first deep breath. Since then
one challenge after another has kept us crying and/or laughing—the latter being
the best medicine for all of life’s following “personal events.”
In the meantime, at some point you realize
that the world as we know it is having its own life, and that we must “stop the
world and get on” for the ride. This is when chance can take over making for so
many “ONCES’S” over which we have no control.
And so it goes. Take stock of especially
the good and happy “onces,” let all of those other RIP and consider them
learning experiences—there’s not one thing you can do about them except try to
profit by those mistakes.
Bringing this piece full circle (no, I’m
not leaving this veil yet) in spite of the burdens of our ongoing lifetimes, “now” is the only “once” that counts, and it consists of being here among dear
and crazy, thoughtful, loving and verbose friends at Story Time. Thank you and
peace.
© 22 Nov 2015 
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Acceptance, by Ray S

Ever since I was old enough to reason, or maybe un-reason, my person has been split right down the middle. Picture an amorphous form waiting to take its shape of the character in this scene or act of the particular time in my life of this play. It is like going onstage when you hear your cue, sort of sink or swim, and you keep looking for direction and there isn’t any. Then a lot of directors appear, the play becomes complicated, and the form becomes an enigma.

In another scene there develops the discovery of the body and other like bodies. At this time it is taken for granted; no awareness of the condition except it is pleasurable and fun. (Boys will be boys.) It will be in another scene when labels appear—like pansy and sissy. “Queer” wasn’t a popular term at this time.

All the while the other side of this split enigma was craftily shaped into an acceptable heterosexual form. The deep seated need to fit in and be like everyone else took over and a fully, if not flawed, developed actor emerged on the stage. If there was any conflict burdening this act, it was sufficiently ignored so as to successfully convince this actor and his companions that he was a he. There never was an option if you had to play this role.

The big scene (known as chewing the scenery in theater talk) came when the subjugated enigma half rises in protest, and we see the two halves shouting at each other. The straight one screams, “I don’t want to be gay!” The gay half waits patiently through this anguished tantrum until his accomplice, Eros, rears his head.

All the while a play within a play has been unfolding. Everyone goes to college, everyone has a sweetheart—hetero that is. Every sweetheart finally secures an invitation to matrimony. The act and actors are quite convincing. It is all going well according to the traditional storyline, even to the advent of the securing or arrival of an heir and heiress.

Meanwhile Hetero and Homo carry on their secret conspiracy, and the act progresses. The final act or death scene arrives for the actor playing the role of the long-suffering wife.

According to tradition there is a play script for how to get into the sincere role and character of the bereaved.

If you look closely, the enigma halves have started to merge. Still, as a result of living a lifetime of the many roles this show has required, there remains a deep resentment from having had the guilt tacked on to the charade that this bit of theatre produced.

For a curtain call at the end of this drama, a person has emerged onstage to declare, “I am me.” I celebrate my gay place in its entire acceptance knowing that it is my life and not the lives of all those other characters I tried to fit into.

It has been a long, tedious story to relate, the play filled with regrets and joys, but the best result in this script is finally being able to be me. Like it or not!


 © 21 December 2015

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Depressed, by Ray S

Now, class, in order to understand better the many words that begin with the 4th and 5th letters of the alphabet please open your Depressed dictionaries to page number—oh no, you figure the page number with all of the clues I’ve already given you.

We need to start a list of the words that either begin with the 4th and 5th alphabet letters or sound almost like them and your interpretation:

Depressed—getting down low, or is it low down?

Digressed—not concentrating on your homework

Disappointed—oh well, better luck next time

Diverted—keep your mind on the ultimate climax

Demented—what happens when you have too much fun

Devoted—when you’re fortunate enough to find a loving partner

Demanding—watch out for those dominatrixes

Dormant—sorry, the wrong letters and a sign of my depressing condition

Distraught—at least I got the letter ‘D’ in there, and this word is more than enough to describe my depression

Depraved—well that is a matter of which way the pendulum swings when it comes to opinions and teachings of a lot of people about the Gay Way when in reality it is simply (though not always simple) another version of the Gods’ and Demigods’ way of varying the mix of the earth’s beautiful creatures. Also there is the constant reality of the depressing state of world and national affairs.

And then you could touch upon the despicable: like Donald Trump or guns in hands and who and what they kill, and of course, the Democrats and those elephant worshippers.

My, my, Class, you’ve done quite well with this exercise in DE words. For your next week’s lesson, I want each of you to choose one of the DE word subjects and prepare an essay to be read in class—no more than 965 words each.

Class is dismissed and perhaps Depressed.

© 7 December 2015

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Compulsion, by Ray S

Let’s see, where do I start? And for that matter does
anyone care?
Answer: Well I do, or I wouldn’t spend the moment to
write about it and let you know how my roommate and I had the be-Jesus scared
out of our innocent little WASPish souls.
Late springtime in central Florida where our school
was lost on some country crossroads. As soon as dinner time was over, everyone
returned to their dormitories to do assigned homework and then lights out at
9:30.
“Hey Billy, they said at dinner announcement time that
those students who wished to could attend a tent meeting—something called a
revival. We just needed to sign up with Mr. Butler. Do you want to go? I don’t
know what they do, but they sing all those goofy church songs like Brighten the
Corner, In the Garden, and Jesus Loves Me. Stuff we never did when I was home.
It wasn’t a difficult choice to make; we could be
excused from homework. So began our big adventure into the world of being born
again. Trouble with that idea was that as two fourteen year olds we had never
known our moms didn’t already do the job once. Did they leave a part out and
these folks could fix it for you? I wondered if they could repair my Ranger
two-wheeler; make hair grow on my chest.
The tent was full of people stomping and crying and
waving their hands, and some were even dancing—which was not allowed at the
school. And it sure was awful hot in that tent.
Billy and I slipped inside, by the rows of chairs with
their swinging and swaying occupants, close to the tent wall and tried to
disappear. I had never seen people in this state except that time my big
brother took me to the movies to see “Reefer Madness.”
The singing stopped and the people sank into their
chairs. Then a big man dressed in a white suit, a little black string time with
beads of perspiration running down his forehead began shouting something about
hellfire and brimstone—whatever that was.
We both started to wonder why we were here and what
had we gotten ourselves into. And how could we escape? When several ladies all
dressed in flowing white dresses—sort of like angels I guess—passed among the
crowd holding out little baskets. Then they all sang a song and swayed a lot.
The big man cried out for all the little ones to come
forward to receive the word. We tried to shrink into the tent wall. This was
all so different and now we were being compelled to participate in an activity
totally foreign to anything we had ever learned.
They made us kneel down and mumbled something. Then we
were pushed aside to make room for more lambs being led to whatever. At this
point Billy and I found an opening in the crowd and headed for the tent
entrance.
Once into the cool evening breeze, heavy with the
scent of orange and grapefruit blossoms, our familiar world came into focus and
we had escaped from the clutches of hellfire and brimstone. The experience
being such that if that is the way Jesus loves you, we politely declined. Stick
with God is Love.
In more recent days when we are sometimes blessed with
our own reasoning, I acknowledge any number of compulsive actions—some bad and
some really great, at least at the time.
But ever since that formative religious compulsion, I
have learned to think for myself and find my own direction to “salvation,” if
that is on the timetable. All ashore who are going ashore!
© 9 November 2015 
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I Gave Up, by Ray S.

Over
the years, if I try I can remember instances where it seems a situation is
impossible or insurmountable. The solution promises only frustration and so you
give up, move onto a problem that is solvable, and of course, of far less
complication. If it’s too hard to deal with, you find something you can. The
result is an accomplished challenge—even if it’s loading the dishwasher. The
resulting sense of having done something puts you in a more positive frame of
mind so you can face that first problem that you gave up on.
There
are any number of ways to give up. Don’t answer the phone, turn off the damn
computer, or drown the problem in some form of alcohol or narcotic of your
choice. The latter seems very extreme, and a visit with your shrink or priest
has its advantages.
Once
upon a time apparently I had a secret desire that initially I didn’t even
recognize. Just a fleeting half wish thought.
My
little girl was on school holiday and I asked her if she would like to go on an
errand with daddy. Yes! We were going on a ride to the city to deliver a
package to the mother of one of my clients. When we arrived at the lady’s
apartment it was a fine old pile dating back to the first part of the last
century.
Upon
answering our knock on her door we were greeted by a gracious and charming
seventy-five year old that could remind one of the Queen Mother. After we
delivered the package to her, our hostess invited Carolyn and me to visit and
see the apartment. Finally at the conclusion of the tour Mrs. Anderson
presented my daughter with a little gift. A small needlepoint canvas with the
legend “Be a friend to have a friend.” We thanked Mrs. A. for her thoughtful
and unexpected gift and went down the long hallway, down in the elevator to the
lobby and out the big font door.
We
both thought at the same time, “What would it be like to live in such another
world as this?” The thought was so very wishful we dismissed it—not even
considering it something to give up on.
A
mere matter of some forty years or so has passed, and the now widowed daddy with
both Caroline and her brother married with families of their own, found he
needed a new address, something with no garden to till, no grass to mow, no
snow to solve. The apartment hunt was on.
Out
of the blue my computer-wise daughter called me with a question. “Dad, do you
remember when you and I went to that lady’s building to deliver a package and
she gave me a gift?”  She went on to say,
“Well, guess what showed up on Craig’s List, a rental in that old building you
took me to when I was six or seven.”
The
rest of the story you have already guessed. The last place in my world that I will
ever reside in is where I am now quite by chance and Craig’s List plus a
wish-thought so very vague that at the time didn’t ever merit giving up on.
Be
careful what you don’t wish for you may have to give up—or something!
© 19 October 2015 
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the Author 
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Mud, by Ray S

Today we are gathered here, my
friends, for the singular reason to address another seemingly obtuse subject,
Mud. I propose to tell you my thoughts relative to the subject as clearly as
possible. The why and how you all have gotten to this tumescent and turgid
matter is the goal.
So, here is a story:
It is a sunny autumn day; the
chartered motor coach was waiting for its cargo of special LGBT
travelers—special because of specific age requirements for membership in the
group—75 and older. See, there’s even stratification in SAGE.
Once the walkers and wheelchairs
were stowed away and the passengers secured, we were off on our gay merry way
to a very secretive and exclusive geriatric resort and playground. Upon arrival
the once subdued disposition of the passengers had been dispatched by the means
of a well-stocked happy-hour drinks cart.
When settled into their respective
wigwams, couples accommodated separately from singles (“never the twain shall
meet, maybe) it was time now. There was a rigid schedule for the compulsory Spa
Programs, and to begin, a check in with the medical staff. Then off to the
steam rooms, saunas, and massage tables, and then a relaxing rest period in the
main lodge’s social room, appropriately named the “Big Tepee in the Sky.” By
this time a rollicking atmosphere pervaded.
With the sound of rather heavenly
chimes playing the old melody “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” signaling
everyone, now clothed only in their 100% Egyptian cotton designer spa sheets,
to assemble at the entry to the Sylvan Piney Pathway for the climax of this
wonderful day.
By this time, due to the strenuous
spa program, healthful cuisine and libations, the walkers and wheelchairs were
forgotten. There had been much merriment amongst the campers as they became
better acquainted. Everyone had found it necessary to shelve their
inhabitations. (That is not hard even for 75er GLBTs.)
So tripping off on the Sylvan Piney
Pathway, aforementioned, some Egyptian cotton “wagging their tails behind them”
as the old nursery rhyme goes, the gathering was verging on a love fest. My,
such energy! There were even several lesbian ladies seen to be in the clutches
of bear hugs with gay boys all expressing their oneness with the spirit of the
day and GLBTness.
Straight, I should say directly,
ahead everyone stopped in their tracks by the view of the lovely, smooth
surface of the aspen and pine tree surrounded lake.
“We are here,” everyone shouted.
“Drop your sheets and wade in—ladies first, then queens or whatever.” It began
to look like a group baptism, but John didn’t come to this party. And like
little lemmings headed over the cliff, some hand in hand, they all immersed
themselves. The lake being only about four feet deep it took little time for
the 75ers to emerge on the other shore where the spa attendants awaited with a
battery of warm showers and soft bath towels. Then they were gently hosed down
revealing a countenance of 75 years or more, less 50 years each.
A miracle if you wish, or figment
of the imagination, but for the Happy Campers it was their annual pilgrimage to
the Little Piney Mud Lake. Take a friend to a mud bath and think young or happy
or why not both?
© 5 October 2015 
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Close, but No Cigar, by Ray S

We finished up our job early so we closed the shop and I somehow knew a little happy hour pick up was a five o’clock necessity.

The proximity of the new art beckoned me to the rooftop terrace and bar. The sun was sinking in the west casting a golden glow splashing against the fading deep blue above. So much for aesthetics.

God, it was good to be done with the shop and studio for another day. The deadline for our next show was bearing down on everyone. The frosted stem glass with its lemon twist boded a welcome respite from the last ten hours.

There I was seated at a high-top surveying the view north and south of Denver’s own gay White Way, although it was not evident that it was so gay or not. As my gaze came back to the deck it fell upon an older man—I would have guessed him fifty years or something—reading the paper and having his own martini.

Not wanting to be caught checking him out, I quickly averted, as they say, my eyes. Only trouble was that this handsome “old guy” returned the glance. Putting his paper down, he looked up at me and simply said, “You like yours with a twist too.” Was that a question or an obvious fact?

Responding as though we had been friends for a long while, I said, “Always a lemon twist—can’t stand a dirty martini—no olives!” With that he got out of his chair and brought his drink over to my high top.

“I’m Howard Rafferty. Haven’t I run across you at the museum?” Suddenly my head was spinning and blood pressure was rising. “Be still my beating heart.” Almost speechless, I answered with a wide smile and a breathless, “Uh-huh.” By now you’ve got me figured out. I’m a pushover for older men. A little love handles or tummy never did any harm. He followed up with the usual come on’s, while in my mind at the same time I’m remembering last week’s fifty minutes with my Dr. Shrink. Boy did this slam me right between the eyes—after twenty-five minutes Dr Shrink said he felt I really had symptoms of a “Father-Son” complex. You know, unresolved conflicts in the subconscious over deep-seated incestuous desires by my struggling psyche. It was an alarming discovery at the time and now dreamboat Rafferty slid right into the puzzle part that Dr. Shrink had in mind. Come to think of it, Dr. Shrink was rather fatherly himself—but that could be another story for another day.

The martini was working its mightiest for Mr. Rafferty. Guess he’d been at the bar for Happy Hour’s opening.

The irony of this could-be fortuitous meeting as it drew to a climax was an invitation to view the original art on the walls of Rafferty’s suite. If I had been cruising a bar instead of just trying to relax before going to my apartment and preparing for meeting the boys at the X-Bar in an hour, no telling how much abstract expressionism would have overcome me.

Hastily killing the last of the cocktail, I thanked Howard, exchanged numbers, and explained I had to run so as not to be late for some other business.

Close, but no cigar!

Made it to the X-Bar and found a place at a table with my four other thirsty queens. Then went to the bar and ordered, you guessed it, another dry one with a twist from a very cute, sexy, and tattooed bar “tendress.” She sported a figure in her T-shirt that could put Venus Di Milo to shame, and MY girl had two arms—Venus could have had tattoos too if she could find those arms. She smiled so charmingly that I even forgot fleetingly that I was gay and in a crazy gay bar.

I was looking over the patio full of every shade and age of a cavalcade male pulchritude when she inquired what I would have. I told her, “Anyone of these” and quickly followed with my drink order.

My Venus looked at me and then surveyed the yard full of men and said, “One martini coming up,” and then said, “What a waste.”

Close, but no cigar.

© 28 September 2015

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Bricks, by Ray S

Victorian brick-a-brac, whatnots, antimacassars make for a stifling museum-like atmosphere. You could liken it to a visit to the mummies in the museum’s ancient Egypt department—all hushed and stuffy.

Perfectly reproduced in every detail and hermetically sealed, the era of the romanticized 19th century heralded the Post Victorian revival of the 20th century.

The restoration of the rambling home built by a gold mine owner was managed by one Sir Leonardo Q. Brickington, noted historic preservationist and design authority of this period, reportedly from the U.K.

Actually Brickington—formerly AKA in his New York days—Herbby Flassbender; employed as a stock boy and gopher for Bloomingdales display department.

What happened after Herbby completed his Victorian restoration in a little mountain town is not quite clear. However there is a rumor he went on to form a company that sold franchises for architectural plans for building historically accurate 19th century Victorian BRICK “necessities”, more commonly known as privies. The end of this story is lost somewhere in one of his creations.

Moving along, here is another unfinished story. It is 11 PM on a Friday night. The show will begin in half an hour. Long enough to find a good seat and order a tall drink.

Tonight is the opening of a new show at the Silver Pole Boys Club; a review starring BRIQUE BUFFETT and his chorus of BUFF BRIQUETTES.

The house lights dim, canned music begins and the BRIQUETTES costumed as the Village People begin to gyrate to the recorded strains of “YMCA”. The audience joins in; the boys begin the traditional striptease.

Then the stage momentarily goes dark followed by a loud thunderclap and blinding strobe light, heralding the appearance of our star Brique Buffett, his beautiful gym-built body set off by his block Rhinestone studded thong. At this point five silver poles arose from the stage floor. The pole dancing burst forth to the Village People song “San Francisco”.

The club was ecstatic, patrons stripping their shirts and dancing in the box. The poles were getting a glorious polishing and the dancers’ bikinis began to bulge with dollar bills deftly tucked in by appreciative audience.

The temperature of the club as well as the patrons kept rising. The tall gin and tonic was long gone and so was I. the tab paid, I found the front door and escaped the writhing sweaty crowd. For what some have called a “Cow Town,” tonight the Silver Pole Boys Club could have passed for a latter-day reincarnation of the onetime famous NYC Studio 54.

On the way home I wondered what would become of all that sweat, heat and craziness; and you can too.

Once we emerged from the ooze of creation, and the “First Couple” with their misguided offspring, accompanied by knowledge, dressed in snake-drag got the show on the road, and civilization was on its way. The “Ah Hah” moment was the appearance of the adobe brick. From the earth and water came the building blocks of prehistoric architecture, from which followed the culture of mankind. Good and evil (There’s that drag queen snake again.)

The resulting temples built brick by brick, have resulted in wars, power struggles, avarice, and hate; and there are the eternal temples of good bricks that will prevail. Maybe, you can work on the end of this muddy little myth.

© 12 October 2015

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