Tag: Ricky

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Breaking into Gay Culture, by Ricky

Interesting topic this is. It makes me think of many possibilities but, I reject most of them because I don’t want to break into anything. A prison sentence might follow on a charge of burglary.

The word “gay” includes the entire range of homosexual behaviors for both females and males, just as the word “mankind” includes both genders. However, for the purposes of this presentation, “gay” just refers to the male homosexual culture. The obvious reason for this is that I am gay and I know nothing about lesbian or transgender issues or culture.

While I’ve only admitted to myself that I am gay since about June of 2010 and thus began to associate with gay males and having a limited exposure to “gay culture,” I have 64 years of exposure to gay stereotypes, jokes, comments, putdowns, movies, music, history, biographies, porn movies and videos, miscellaneous sex play, and 27 happy years of heterosexual marriage which produced four wonderful children. As a result, my views on this topic are from those of an outsider still putting together pieces of a puzzle when I am not sure what the puzzle is all about or if I have all the pieces. In a way, the situation is similar to looking for a map to lead you to a destination but not knowing what the destination really is.

This may seem strange or even unbelievable to gay men that knowingly have been gay their whole lives and lived with that knowledge without the benefit (or perhaps burden) of being “in the closet.” However, this is my story and I believe I have explained my perceptions and exposed my biases with regard to the topic. So, just what is “gay culture” anyway? Is it just a culture of disease, loneliness, and death; or is it something else?

I am not convinced that there even is an “over arching” gay culture. I had some blood tests done but that only revealed that there are heterosexual antibodies throughout my system. (Wow! I am immune to straightness.) In an attempt to culture gay organisms, some of my various bodily fluids were smeared onto Petri dishes. No growth of gay organisms appeared. So, how can I break into a gay culture if none exists, can be grown, or found?

All I know for a fact is that most (if not all) gay men seem to like to play with the penises of other men. If that were all, then that is the definition of “gay culture.” But, I am aware of subcategories of gay behaviors and preferred activities which would put the lie to such a simplistic definition.

Some straight or gay men are cross-dressers. Some men like pornography (stories or videos) but not all gay men do. Some like gay themed movies. Some love operas. Some love men older than they are. Some love younger men. Some like “golden showers.” Some like to party hardy. Some use the noxious weed or drink to excess. Some are into the BDSM scene. Some are homebodies. Some are homeless.

Some love to travel the world and can afford it. Some are major philanthropists while others are dirt poor. Some are bikers or leather-men. Some have “fashion sense” while others (like myself) could care less about fashion. Some are effeminate and others the epitome of masculinity. All have their faults and foibles with some holding what people would classify as loose morals. Yet others have the most amazing sense of morality and have higher standards than the heterosexual world. Some are spiritual and others not so much. Some live “in the closet” and others are openly gay now or throughout their entire lives. Some were (or are) married, while others lived the bachelor life.

Many are highly successful executives or entrepreneurs while others teach, fight fires, or police society. Nonetheless, with all the gay men I have met personally, I discovered that every one of them is a fine and decent person.

All these various subcategories exist and any one gay man might fit into several groups but no one person fits into all of them. Unfortunately, there exists “conflict” between some of these groups, which is a totally unbecoming and unnecessary practice for gay men. The conflict seems to be over who can or cannot be a member of a particular category of gay men or in other words, who is a member of that particular narrow and exclusive “culture.” Hence, my assertion that there is no one answer to the question of “what is gay culture” and so there is no way to break into it. The best I can hope for is to find a group of gay men who share my desires, likes, and dislikes and to be around as many of them as I can manage.

Therefore, here are my desires, likes, and dislikes and you tell me where I fit in. I desire to live a good and decent life trying to be a better person today than I was yesterday. I try to live the Boy Scout Law and be: Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty (that’s a hard one for me), Brave, Clean, and Reverent. I try to keep my Boy Scout Oath: On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong; mentally awake; and morally straight.

I like gay themed movies, stories, books, and videos; some opera; classical music; 40’s, 50′, 60’s, and some additional decades’ music (but I’m very particular about which music). I do not like to eat cooked spinach, stewed tomatoes, yellow squash, or most fish.

I have seen lots of gay and straight porn videos and, frankly, they don’t turn me on anymore so I don’t enjoy them like I used to. I like talking with friends and going out to dinner even though I cannot afford to do it so much, but I go anyway. I like to travel and visit places, but not alone. I am not into leather or biker stuff although I do like riding my Honda scooter. I like adventure movies featuring children and teens, space movies, and Disney movies. I do not like the “slice’em and dice’em” gratuitous blood and gore movies. I like to read adventure novels, fantasy novels, and science fiction novels. I don’t drink, smoke, or do illegal or recreational drugs.

So what over-arching gay culture do I belong to? Or, am I just an uncultured gay man?

© August 2010

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I 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, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Where Do We Go from Here? by Ricky

In the beginning was The Center. Within The Center lived The SAGE. The SAGE was troubled for there were many senior citizens who wanted to speak out and share their wisdom with anyone who would listen, but their efforts to speak were thwarted due to sheer randomness of contacts and little opportunity to share their wisdom. So there was much listlessness, lack of purpose, and frustration in the senior community. The SAGE was not happy with the situation, but knew not what to do. One day, Jackie Foglio, a young female college student, came to visit The SAGE and presented a plan to help the senior community organize to share their wisdom. The SAGE recognized value in the proposal and sanctioned the formation of a group-program to get the senior community to share their wisdom and history with others – and so it began.

It started in another place and later continued in a small room near this room six years ago. The first seniors to gather were very few in number and all male. In fact, there were more words in the room than people doing the speaking. The spoken words described personal memories of each senior’s life related to a topic used to trigger the memories of each senior.

At first, spoken words were all that was necessary but all such group efforts evolve with time. Eventually one person after another chose to prepare their spoken words in advance, writing them down on paper to ensure clarity and to maintain focus on the memory inspired by the topic.

After a relatively short time, women began to join the group. What a positive impact that had!

As time progressed, the quality of the writing improved for most seniors attending the group. It was also decided that the group was neither to become a “writers group”, teaching seniors how to write better, nor to be critical of another’s writing. Once again evolution happens and now many words are straying from personal life memories and occasionally delving into topics which have nothing to do with one’s own life.

In 2011 I joined the small group of seniors in the small room near this one. I discovered that writing my story was to be preferred as I am prone to either ramble or forget parts. I also found that either telling or writing my memories to be very therapeutic, especially since I’ve been in the “coming out” process since October 2010. I believe some others in this group are experiencing the same.

Soon after joining, I began agitating for an idea that had previously been discussed but nothing had come of it – publishing our stories. I suggested a small paperback book for The Center to use as a “thank you” gift to financial donors. A lack of funding cancelled out that option. Eventually, The SAGE and The Center, decided to host our stories on their website and our group’s blog began.

As the size of our group grew, so did the number of submitted stories to the point that every author would have at least one story each month. Sadly, as some seniors have left the group and other seniors joined, the volume of submitted stories to the blog has greatly diminished. There are a few legitimate reasons for this that I will not list here, but the net result is that the blog now represents basically five group members. This is not sustainable in the long term as we do not have all the wisdom and experience that this group of seniors collectively has.

Group dynamics and evolution are still operating. Since the beginning, our group has added a strong social component to the story telling purpose. So I ask, “Where do we go from here?” or perhaps I should ask, “Where are we heading? Where should we go from here? Do we want to keep the blog? Will you all support the blog by submitting stories?” In my opinion, the answers to these questions will determine not only the future of the blog but also of the group itself. Please give it some thought.

© 11 January 2016

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I 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, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Terror, by Ricky

Not to “down-play” the feelings, but terror is nothing more than extreme fear. Fear caused by circumstances that are too horrible to even think about, like: being buried alive or being a passenger on an airliner that is falling to its doom from 40,000 feet or catching the Ebola virus or discovering too late that vampires, werewolves, and zombies are real. Since these thoughts really are too unsettling to think about, I will write about other forms of terror. (Those of you with weak hearts or stomachs may wish to skip reading this posting. Going to read on are you?? Well then, you have been warned.)

Among the less fearful terrors in the animal kingdom are the Wire Hair Fox Terror, the Boston Bull Terror, and the Scottish Terror.

Moving up the fear ladder, most of us can remember Dennis Mitchell, commonly known as Dennis the Menace. His neighbor, Mr. Wilson, considered Dennis to be a Holy Terror. Another such boy you may recall is Johnny Dorset who was made famous by O. Henry in his book, The Ransom of Red Chief. Johnny is such a Holy Terror that his kidnappers have to pay the boy’s father to take him back. Even “The Little Old Lady from Pasadena” is known as “The Terror of Colorado Boulevard”. Hmmmmm. Here’s a thought. Before their son was old enough to know right from wrong, would Joseph and Mary have described a mischievous Jesus as being a Holy Terror?

If you stop and think about it, we all have been a terror at one time or another. Most notably when we try to open a small letter or package where the instructions tell us, “To open, tear along the dotted line.” The act of doing so identifies us as a tearer. People who are very good at tearing are known as tearerists.

To paraphrase FDR, “The only thing we have to fear is…” in two years Republicans may again control Congress and the Presidency. Now that is a fear worthy of producing terror!

© 17 November 2014

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I 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, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Any Writing Is Experimental (Attack of the Giant Cootie), by Ricky

As
one of our group members stated in his writing to this topic, “all writing is
experimental.”  The Muse finally struck
me upside my head and so, what follows is her experimental writing.  She hopes you will find this, amuseing as this story is based on an
actual event I witnessed while my family was visiting a close friend in Tucson
a few years back.
Attack of the Giant Cootie
“Daaaad!
Someone just drove into our driveway.”[I wonder who that could
be.]
“That’s
my friend Rick and his family.  They’re
from South Dakota.”    [He doesn’t like to meet strangers so I
didn’t tell him to forestall any whining.]  “Didn’t I tell you they were coming for
dinner?”
“No you
didn’t.”  [I don’t like to meet strangers.  That’s probably why he didn’t tell me.]
“Don’t
worry son.  This fact is
interesting.  We have two boys, a girl,
and another boy in our family.  They have
two girls, a boy, and another girl in their family.  The oldest girl is your age—10.”  [Hmmmmm. 
Wouldn’t it be interesting if their girls married our boys and their boy
married our girl?]
“Yuck!  Girls! 
I’ll get cooties and they only play with dolls and dress up.  I hate that stuff.”[I
am going to be sooooo bored.  I need to
find a hiding place until they’re gone — even if I miss dinner!”]
“You’ll
be fine.  Don’t make a fuss, and make them
feel welcome.”  [Just
don’t embarrass me in front of Rick.]
“Will
they be staying the night? 
[I’m not sleeping on the couch or floor so THEY can use MY bed.]
[Silly question.  We don’t have room for 8 kids and 4 adults.] “No.  Just for a
visit and for dinner.”
“Ok
Dad.  I’ll be good.  Wait! 
Is that their oldest daughter? 
She’s huge!”  [A
giant cootie.]
“Yes.  That’s her.  She is rather tall for a 10-year old.  Her mother told me that she is as far above
the normal growth curve for girls as a girl’s normal growth curve is above a
boy’s normal growth curve.  Since you’re
short for your age she will appear quite large next to you.  But, she is also a tomboy, so she’ll probably
like the same things you do.” 
[I hope they get along.  I can’t
stand it when he whines about anything.]
“Yeah,
but her size bothers me and she still has cooties.”  [What’s a tomboy?]
“Now
listen!  These are my friends and I
expect you to be nice.” 
[I hope he obeys me this once.]
“Okay,
I’ll do my best.”  [Dad
can’t see that I have my fingers crossed behind my back].
“Uncross
your fingers and let’s go meet our guests.”
…..
“Glad to
meet you too, Mr. Dawson.”  [What
happened?  He shook my hand then my tummy
feels funny and it’s harder to breath.  Why
do I feel this way?]
“Nice to
meet you, Mrs. Dawson.”  [I like her smile.  She seems friendly enough.]
“Hi.”  [Ugh!  I’m shaking hands with a giant cootie.  If she were any taller my neck would break
from looking up at her.  I gotta get away
from her and wash my hands.  I think I
might pass out.]
“Are you
okay?”
 [He looks pale like he’s going to
faint.]
“Excuse
me; I need to use the bathroom.”  [She
sounds sincere, but…]
“Are you
okay, son?”  [I
hope he’s not getting sick.  He looks
pale like he might pass out.]
“Yeah
Dad.  I’m okay.”  [Just a few more feet to safety. Okay. I’m
locked in the bathroom.  I’m safe.  Just splash a little cold water on my
face.  Ahhhh that feels good.  I’m breathing easier.  A bit more water should do it.  Oh yeah. 
Now I can breathe okay.  Even my
tummy is feeling better but is a bit tingly. 
I wonder what happened.  It
started when I shook hands with Mr. Dawson. 
Why did that make me feel funny and not be able to breathe easy?  Did the giant cootie have anything to do with
it?  Did she make it worse?  Uh oh. 
It’s all starting again.  Maybe
more water in my face…Yeah.  That’s
better.  Mr. Dawson is a good looking
man.  Oh no.  Here it comes again.  I need more water.  Ahhhhh.  That did it. 
I’m alright again.  I guess I
should not think about Mr. Dawson.  Oops.  More water. 
Who’s that knocking on the door?]
“Are you
okay in there, son?”  [I
wonder what’s taking so long.  Maybe I
should have THAT talk with him after our guests have gone.]
‘Yeah,
Dad.  I’ll be out in a minute.”  [Out,
but hiding somewhere else in the house.]
…..
[Ahhhh.  They’re all in the livingroom.  I promised dad to be good and make them feel
welcome so I can’t hide in my bedroom they’ll find me and dad will be
angry.  Where can I hide?  Hmmmmm. 
The kitchen? No, it’s too open. 
The hallway?  No, that’s even more
open dummy.  The closet?  No, I’m already in there.  The attic? 
That’s dumb.  We’ve been told to
stay out of there because of the spiders. 
I hate spiders worse than cooties. 
I know!  I’ll hide under the
dining room table.  That way I can hear
the conversation in the livingroom but not be seen so if I’m questioned later I
will know what was said.  Yeah, that’s a
great plan.  I’ll just crawl under the
end nearest the window and they won’t be able to see me from the livingroom or
the kitchen.  Owww!  Gotta remember not to raise my head too much
or I’ll hit the table again.  Now, I’ll
just relax and wait.]
“Hi
whatcha doing under there?”  [Is he
playing at being a spy?]
“Owww!  Just looking for a nickel I dropped.”  [How did she find me?]
“Oh.  Sorry I startled you.  Do you want me to help look for it?”
“No.  I just found it.”  [Lucky for me there really is a nickel
under here.]  “Owww!” [Dang it!]
“Did you
bump your head again?”  [What
a klutz]  “Your name is Jason, right?”
[Why is she standing so
close to me?  I’ll get big cooties.]  “Yes.  And your name is Suzie.”  [’ll just backup a step to get more
space between us.]
 “No, my name is Susan. 
No one calls me ‘Suzie’ except my grandmother.”  [Why is he backing up?  Is he going somewhere?  I’ll just follow him.] 
  “Oh, sorry.  Are you
really only 10 years old?”  [She’s
coming closer.  Danger! Danger, Will
Robinson!    I’m being attacked by a giant cootie.  I’m going to backup two steps this time.]
“Yes just
turned ten last November.  I’m very tall
for my age.”  [There he goes again.  I’ll just follow his lead.  My dad said not to make fun of his size but
I want him to say it before I believe it.]  “Are you really 10,
because you look younger?”
[She’s closing in for the
kill.]  “Yes I’m 10 and I can’t help that I’m short for my age
right now.  Dad says that I’ll grow like
a weed in a year or two.  I can’t wait
for it to happen.”  [Okay
this time back up THREE steps.]
[Wow.  He sounded irritated by my question.]  “Do you get picked on
by bigger boys?”
 “Yes I do.”  [I
move back THREE steps and she follows keeping one foot between us.  She is scaring me.  I’ll back around the table this time.]
[He’s backing away again
like he’s afraid of me.]  “Well, in my class, I don’t let any of the bigger
boys pick on anyone.  When they tried, I
made them back down.  If you were in my
class, I would protect you from them.”  [I
like this little guy.]
[I like her attitude but…] “If you did that, it would be worse for me after
school.  The bullies would pick on me
even more whenever you were not around.”  [Ooops.  The wall is at my back.  I can’t back up any further.  What can I do?  Wait. 
There’s a chair.  I’ll drag it
over here and stand on it.]
[Now what’s he up too?  Standing on a chair so he becomes taller than
me?  Because I’m so tall does he think I am
going to pick on him?]  “At recess at my school, I play baseball, football, and
basketball.  Do you play any of those?”
[She likes sports?  Weird.]  “I’m too small to be much good at any of them but I do like
to play them.  Do you want to go into the
backyard and play catch?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll go
get my glove and ball and another glove for you too.”
…..
“Well son
they’re all gone now.  What did you think
of them?”
“I liked
the family.”
“The whole
family or just Susan?”
“All of
them.  You were right, Dad.  Susan was okay and does like the things I
like.  We played catch and other games.”
“And what
about the cooties?”
“Well.  Susan is okay, but all other girls have
cooties.”
“Even
your sister?”
“No.  She is okay too.  But all the others DO have cooties.”
“Hold
that thought, son; at least until you are 18.”
© 7
September 2015 
About the
Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I 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,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
Posted on

Body Parts, by Ricky

        Here I sit in a room full of senior gay citizens who perhaps
metaphorically are drooling over the potential erotic stories that today’s
topic “body parts” could inspire me and others to write.  Well as much as I hate to fall into the
obvious nature of this topic I will share at least one body-part story not
previously related.
One
day when I was about 5 ½ years old, my Aunt and Uncle Phillips along with my 5-year
old cousin, Timmy, visited my family.  It
was decided that they would be spending the night with us, so Timmy and I ended
up sharing my bed.  This was the first
time I recall anyone sharing my bed with me so there was some adjustment to be
made to the falling asleep routine.  He
and I began talking quietly about whatever came to our minds.  By this age I had been traumatically fixated
on my small body part and very curious about other’s equivalent parts.  As a result, I eventually suggested that we
play a game where we would take turns naming body parts.  Timmy agreed to play.  So we began with all the standard parts:
head, shoulders, knees, and toes; each taking turns naming one part at a
time.  It soon became rather funny so we
would laugh together after naming each part.
Upon
exhausting all the possibilities except one small part; it was Timmy’s turn to
name the last small part.  He didn’t want
to name it so he would say there aren’t any more parts; and we’d laughed.  I told him yes there was; and we’d
laugh.  We ended up laughing ourselves to
sleep and never did name that part.
The
next morning at the breakfast table, my Aunt Marion told everyone that we had
been doing a lot of laughing in my room last night.  She then asked what we were laughing
about.  I hadn’t learned about lying my
way out of difficult situations yet so I told her that we had just been naming
body parts and it was funny.  Nothing
further was said about it by anyone.
The
largest body part I ever wrestled with was tubular, weighed about 15 pounds,
and was at least 7-feet long from beginning to the rear orifice.  Of course I’m speaking of the exhaust pipe
and muffler I had to attach to the body of my 1952 jeep wagon.
When
the hood latch broke off, I went out and obtained the spring loaded hood clamps
that were used on the jeeps of WW2. 
Installing them was easy.  The
purchase and installation of the muffler, tail pipe, and hood clamps I did all
myself; and without adult supervision. 
At one point I even had to change the universal joint on the drive
shaft.
Another
body part I was involved with was rather personal and fun.  A few high school girls and boys also liked
it, but most preferred their own.  This
body part was about 5’ 10-½“ and weighed about 150 pounds.  In reality there were two body parts.  The first was the body part of “Grandpa
Kwimper” in the high school play of “Pioneer
Go Home”.  (The movie “Follow that Dream” starring Elvis
Presley is the same story.)  The second
body part was the body of “Tom Jones”
of the high school play of the same name based on Henry Fielding’s famous novel
with the same title.  Other than the
occasional Boy Scout skit, these two plays represent my only venture into the
world of entertainment.
During
my life I have used my body parts in several endeavors:  deputy sheriff; baby sitter; Air Force NCO
and Officer; Sunday School teacher; substitute teacher; dutiful son;
mischievous son; husband; father; emergency funds supplier; friend to many; and
at the moment—storyteller.  While my life continues from here, this story does not.
© 27 March 2011 
About the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I 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,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
Posted on

True Colors, by Ricky

Oh say, what is truth? Can you describe for me what color is? Is it true that we all see the same color when looking at an object? Can colors lie? In normal daylight my car looks to be colored either burgundy or brown depending upon what angle one is looking at the vehicle. In twilight, it looks black. So what is the color of my car? Is it burgundy, brown, or black? Officially the manufacturer states the color is burgundy. Thus under different lighting conditions and angles the color shifts, in essence, lying about itself.

Electromagnetic radiation has many frequencies. Visible light is but a small range of those frequencies. The cone structures in our eyes perceive those frequencies and pass the information on to one’s brain where we “see” images containing what we call color. If you and I both could see just one specific Ångström of light, would our brains interpret it as the same shade of whatever color the frequency represents? Or, because of differences in our brains, do we each “see” slightly different colors?
What is true about colors? In my youth, the color red was for firetrucks, stop signs, and anger. Now firetrucks are safety-green or yellow. Back then, yellow was for cowardice, warning, and jaundice. Nonetheless, I Am Curious Yellow made it into the movies. Green is for: go, money, cheese on the moon, grass on the other side of the fence, and envy. Blue has always been for: eyes, the sky, depression, music, and calm. Violet is used to name little girls, a flower, and as a young female character in Ronald Dahl’s book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Brown is used for dirt, a comic character named Charlie, and of course—yummy chocolate.
One place where colors are “true” is when they are lined up in a rainbow. The colors are always lined up the same each time. They are dependable and bring me a feeling of happiness whenever I see one. 
Colors are very useful. English has many “colorful” words, if they are used correctly. Two such words are Crayola Crayons. When used as nouns, they bring children and adults some joy when making colorful pictures on paper or walls or floors or white shirts.
Before you think up some other colorful words for this lame piece of fluff. I’ll quit writing about it. See ya’ll later.

© 29 February 2016


About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I 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, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Bumper Stickers, by Ricky

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”*

Hiking along the chosen road, I am thinking about how can I incorporate into my life a bumper sticker admonition, “Practice random acts of kindness and commit senseless acts of beauty.” Traveling on, I soon perceive why this road is less traveled.

Not far from the fork in the road, (which I pick up and place in my knapsack) ancient and majestic oaks grow o’er the way, eventually shutting out the noon-day sun and providing only a dim twilight to illuminate the way forward. Thick and thorny underbrush steadily crowd in from both sides, forcing travelers towards the center and ever onward. Retreat finally becomes nearly impossible as thorns grab and tear if one attempts to go back.

The road, now a trail turned path, twists, writhes, and bends to and fro so often all sense of location and direction become scrambled. The very air grows thick and ever more oppressive with the deepening gloom and each forward step. One can almost feel malice emanating from the surrounding forest, feeding rising fear and urging speed to hurry forward to path’s end, leaving this cursed wood behind.

A state of depressed desperation occupies my mind as the trail seems to end at the mouth of a small abandoned mine. Tracks in the dirt ahead clearly indicate the path continues into what ultimately becomes a large cave. Passing through the entrance, I travel not far, when blocking my progress forward and any egress to the rear, are four large and starving trolls.

While I fight the urge to panic, which can result only in mental paralysis, the trolls force me deeper into the cave. Once near their cooking pots, just like in all the stories I’ve heard, they begin to argue on how to cook me for their dinner. Before their discussion can lead to some rash action towards me, I decide to turn on all my charm and personality in a ploy for them to release me unharmed. I do not use my good looks because I believe trolls are not influenced by human beauty.

I manage to convince them that I can supply unlimited food almost immediately, if I can but leave intact. At first they are against my plan, then skeptical, and finally in agreement. I leave the cave and fight my way back through the thorns to the divergent point of the two roads. I search all around until I find some appropriate old wooden planks and make a sign along the road less traveled but near to the divergent point.

My plan works perfectly. The next year, I replace the sign with a beautiful but fake U.S. Forest Service information sign, thus fulfilling the bumper sticker’s admonition. The sign is the senseless act of beauty and feeding the starving trolls is the random act of kindness.

The sign reads: “WARNING! Troll Cave Ahead. Enter at your own risk!”

The sign tells the truth, but the foolish don’t believe the warning and eagerly travel to the cave anyway. Thus, I provide our society with an act of kindness by slowly and steadily removing fools from the gene pool and proving once and for all that old cliché, “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

Yes. I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference to the trolls, me, and many fools.

© 5 January 2015



*From The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, 1916

About the Author  

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I 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, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Exploring, by Ricky

Boys and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and civil-unions because it is part of a boy’s job description. I began my career as an explorer in January 1949 when I began to explore my home by crawling about on the floor and tasting small objects I encountered. Eventually, I reached other rooms as I began to walk and could “disappear” if my mother turned her back for more than 2-seconds. I don’t think the term “baby-proofing” existed yet so drawers and cupboards were never off-limits to me. Mom did empress upon my mind, via my behind, exactly which bottles and boxes were dangerous to me.

Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 3, I learned without spankings that spiders with the red hour-glass emblem were very dangerous and to stay away from them. I suspect what I actually learned was, “if it has red, stay away.” Once I began to open doors and explore outside the house, it was child’s play to open the gate in the fence and do some serious exploring. I quickly learned to take the dog with me so no one would notice I was gone.

My exploration of kindergarten began in September 1953. I looked over my classmates for a suitable playmate (I mean classmate) with which to be friends and chose a girl of all people, Sandra Flora. I loved to color and play with all the messy artistic stuff. In first grade, Sandra and I were sent to a fifth grade class to be an example to the other kids on how to work quietly. I’m sure I did not measure up to the teacher’s expectations as I kept getting out of my seat, quietly of course, and going to the book shelves trying to find a book with lots of pictures. Being unsuccessful in finding a book to keep me interested, I think the teacher became frustrated and eventually sent us back to our class.
Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived eight-year old), was sent to live on my grandparents farm in central Minnesota while my parents were arranging their divorce. Suddenly, I had a whole farm to explore that summer (and ultimately), autumn, winter, and spring in rotation. Eighty acres of new frontier for the world’s greatest explorer and trapper to collect beautiful animal pelts and bring them in for the women back east to wear. (Okay, so they really were not bison or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints, just right, under the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like bison or bear hides only smaller.)
1956 was the year of my awakening to the expanded world of exploring everything on the farm: the barn, milk house, hayloft, silo, chicken coop guarded by a vicious rooster, granary, workshop (nice adult stuff in there), equipment shed where various farm implements were stored until needed, and the outhouse (the stink you “enjoyed” twice a day). State and county fair time brought other places to explore: animal barns for varieties of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc., judging of canning, 4-H, displays of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, bailers, rakes, yucky manure spreaders, thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway in the evenings.
As summer waned and school began, I met and made a few friends.
I rode a school bus for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new. One of my neighboring farm friends and I were part of the “space race” as we would design rocket ships every evening and then compare them on the bus ride to school the next morning. Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploring of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never were caught).
Another schoolyard “exploratory” activity involved games. One favorite among all students (townies and farm boys) was marbles. Our version involved scooping out a shallow depression next to the wall of the school, placing the marbles we wanted to risk (bet) into the depression, and then stepping back a distance (which increased with each turn) and attempting to roll a “shooter” into the depression so it stayed. If more than one boy’s shooter stayed in, the two “winners” would roll again from a greater distance and repeat the process until there was only one shooter in the depression. The winner would then collect all the marbles in the hole and the betting process would begin again. Sadly, I don’t remember the name of this game.
The second game we called Stretch. I can’t speak for the townies, but all self-respecting farm boys had a small pocket knife in one of his pockets all the time (including at school). In this game two boys would face each other and one would start by throwing his knife at the ground at a distance calculated to be beyond the reach of the other boy’s leg. If the knife didn’t stick, it was retrieved and the other boy took his turn. If the knife stuck, the other boy would have to “stretch” one leg/foot to touch the knife all the while keeping the other leg/foot firmly in place where he had been standing. If he was successful in touching the knife without moving the other foot, he retrieved the knife, returned it to its owner, and then took his turn of throwing the knife. If he could not touch the knife, he lost the game and another boy would take his place challenging the winner.
The third and fourth games were “King of the Hill” and snowball fights (obviously reserved for winter recess). I trust I do not need to describe these. In all of these games, we boys were “exploring” our limits or increasing our skills.
The elementary part of this school was of the old style, a “square” three-story edifice with one classroom located at each of the corners of the first two floors and storage rooms on the third floor. The restrooms were in the basement and (miracles of miracles) the rope to ring the bell up in the cupola on the roof ran all the way into the boys’ restroom. “Yes,” even during a pee break (raise one finger and wait for permission) I would occasionally “just have to” “explore” pulling on that rope and then run back to class, (mischievous is in a boy’s job description).
Once I turned 10, I began to explore the woods around our home sites in South Lake Tahoe. My Boy Scout Troop provided many opportunities to explore not only the great outdoors but also my own leadership skills and camping abilities. About this time, I also began to explore other boys; not sexually, but socially; learning to interact with them and developing an understanding of what “boy culture” is and is not. Well, to be completely honest, of course there was a little pubescent sex play occasionally, but not on troop hikes or campouts.
During those halcyon days of early adolescence, more and more I learned that it is not what a person looks like on the outside but what a person is on the inside that really matters. Therefore, I now explore the minds of new acquaintances by getting to know them enough to determine if they are friend or faux material.
Those early years of exploring my environment’s people, places, and things shaped my personality and instilled within my mind, a large dose of curiosity combined with a love of knowledge. Those who know me best can certify that I ponder on the strangest things or ask unexpected questions on unusual topics in my searches for answers. If that bothers some people, it is just too bad, because this is who I am; a curious little boy trapped in an adult body.
© 29 April 2013

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I 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, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Acceptance, by Ricky

While I was under 6-years old, I enjoyed playing with both boys and girls whenever they were around. I was not particular as to the items we played with either. If I was at my house, we played with my toys and if at another’s home, we played with their toys, which would include dolls if the playmate was a girl.

Somewhere between 3 and 4-years old, one of the girl playmates and I played doctor and we both learned the difference between girls and boys. Of course we got caught, but the visual images could not be erased.

As I aged to 6-years old and above, I gravitated to playing with boys only as the girls suddenly had cooties. I gave up playing with dolls and chose to play more active games like cowboys and Indians or war in an obvious imitation of the movies on television. For some reason, I never wanted to play Peter Pan after I saw the Disney animated feature. Perhaps I did want too, but my other playmates thought playing it was too sissy like.

At age 9 ¾ (not to be confused with platform 9 ¾ in the Kings Cross station), another boy and I fondled each other two nights in a row. Up until then, I never desired to see another person naked, but from those two days forward, I wanted to see other boys’ genitals. I had no desire to see girls’ private areas because I had learned playing doctor that girls have nothing to play with down there whereas, all boys have a built-in toy.

I experienced both oral and anal sex at age 10, learned about masturbation and had my first orgasm at age 11. At 11 I also noticed that I was attracted to some boys but not others. Since, I was still in the girls-have-cooties frame of mind, I thought nothing of it. However, as I continued to age, I became increasingly aware that my schoolmates no longer believed in females having cooties. That is when I began to feel different because I was not attracted to girls, only boys. I didn’t dislike girls and had several classmates that I got along with really well. If the opportunity had presented itself, I would have willingly gone to bed with them. But no such opportunity occurred and I became more and more confused and worried. I kept telling myself that I would probably “grow out of” my interest in males and I accepted that and internalized it for years.

I remained hopeful until 2010, when I finally accepted that I was never going to change and I was, in fact, gay. But now I am confused again.

Based upon my life experience growing up, I believe that children about 5 or 6 began to prefer being around members of their own gender. It is just my opinion as I have never read anything about child development in that context. It is just a self-declared fact I “made up” based upon my observations. So, why am I confused now?

I have recently watched several “coming out” stories that pre-teen and young teens have posted on YouTube. Most of them parallel my experience at that age except for one major difference. In most cases the boys state that they knew they were different at young ages. I didn’t know at that age, so how can they know? Is my so called natural-preference-for-one’s-own-gender-when-young theory real or is it just a desire to play active “boy games” and not passive doll games? Is it really a sexual attraction these video coming out story boys feel or just a non-sexual desire to be with and do boy things that they are misinterpreting as evidence or proof they are gay? Are they, in fact, in the early stages of puberty (as I was) at ever increasingly younger ages and these desires really are “sexual” in nature or just curiosity?

I just don’t know the answer to my questions. Until some straight boys of the same ages tell their stories on how they came out as heterosexual, there is nothing to compare the experiences of the two groups. So, I’ll just accept that I am going to be confused about these questions and probably something else as well for the foreseeable future.

© 21 December 2015

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I 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, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Rickyisms, by Ricky

These are NOT “jokes” they are positively,
undoubtedly, irrevocably–infallible TRUTHS!!!
THINGS
I LEARNED WHILE STATIONED IN THE SOUTH WITH THE AIR FORCE
A ‘possum is a flat animal that sleeps in the middle of the road.

There are 5,000 types of snakes and 4,998 of them live in the South.

There are 10,000 types of spiders. All 10,000 of them live in the
South, plus a couple no one’s seen before.

There are NO cockroaches in the South.  There is, however, an abundance of Palmetto
bugs which, oddly, are found only in the South.

If it grows, it’ll stick ya. If it crawls, it’ll bite cha.

“Onced” and “Twiced” are words.

It is not a shopping cart; it is a buggy!

“Jawl-P?” means, “Did everyone go to the bathroom?”

People actually grow, eat, and like
okra.

“Fixinto” is one word. It means “I’m going to do that.”

There is no such thing as lunch. There is only dinner and then there’s supper.  (I guess no southern preacher ever told his flock the last supper was held a little over 2,000 years ago.)

Iced tea is appropriate for all meals and all occasions.  One starts drinking it when two years old. We
do like a little tea with our sugar. It is referred to as the “Wine of the
South.”

“Backwards and forwards” means, “I know everything about you.”

The word “jeet” is actually a question meaning, “Did you eat?”

The word “squeet” means, “Let’s go eat.”

You don’t have to wear a watch, because it doesn’t matter what time it is, you work
until you’re done or it’s too dark to see.

You don’t PUSH buttons, you MASH ‘em.

“Ya’ll” is singular. “All ya’ll” is plural.

All the festivals in a Southern state are named after a fruit, vegetable,
grain, insect, fish, or animal.

You carry jumper cables in your car—for your OWN car.

There are only six condiments: salt, pepper, vinegar, mustard, ketchup and
Tabasco.

Mayonnaise is NOT a condiment—it is a food group.

The local papers cover national and international news on one page, the other five
pages are for local high school sports, motor sports, and gossip.

Everyone you meet is a Honey, Sugar, Miss (first name) or Mr. (first name)

The first day of any hunting season is treated as a national holiday.

You already know what a “hissy fit” is.

Fried catfish is the other, “other white meat”.

We don’t need no dang Drivers Ed. If Mama says we can drive, we can drive!!!

A vampire and a priest decided to commit a burglary
together.  Once inside their target
building, the vampire became nervous and suspicious about the priest, who was displaying
signs of untrustworthiness.  So, the
vampire turns to the priest and says, “You better not double-cross me.”
Which knight of the Round Table was the best at math? — Sir
Cumference.
If a red house is made of red bricks, a yellow house is made of
yellow bricks, a blue house is made of blue bricks, and a brown house is made
of brown bricks, what is a green house made of? — glass.
© 14
December 2015 
About the
Author 

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I 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,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.