Tag: Will Stanton

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Marriage by Will Stanton

“Ah am again’ a man marrying a man or a
woman marrying a woman.  It ain’t right;
it ain’t natural.  Marriage should be
between one man and one woman, just as it always has been for thousands of
years!  Ah believe in traditional
marriage!”    

At least those people who hold such beliefs and who make such statements are consistent : they generally are ignorant of the facts concerning most things.  Facts mean nothing to them.  Throughout history, so-called “traditional marriage” has not been anything like what these people say.  On the contrary, usually marriage has been quite different.

In most early societies, marriage was a private agreement between two families.  Neither the Church nor the State had any say in the matter. Of course now-days, a bride’s family is shirking its duty if they do not provide the groom’s family with a number of sheep or horses.

Often, not even family-consent was necessary for marriage. Two people who simply regarded themselves as being married were viewed by the Church as having a valid marriage, provided neither one was a slave of course.  It was not until 1754 that England preferred to have couples obtain a marriage license, although that was not regularly enforced. Even in socially backward countries such as America, authorities initially simply inferred marriage from a couple’s behavior rather than requiring either a license or a church wedding.  Just living together was all that was needed.

Considering that so many “good Christians” would like to alter civil law to conform to their religion, they would be upset to learn that the type of marriage most often mentioned in the first five books of the Old Testament was not one-man, one-woman, but instead was one-man, several-women.  So, in today’s “traditional marriage,” how many women should a man be allowed to marry?

If a man chooses only one woman to marry, then he is allowed to either divorce his first wife or add another wife or concubine if the first wife does not produce a child.  After all, producing offspring is the only reason to marry; no one else should want to marry.  

Early Christian records document some same-sex marriages.  It is said that, in the 4th century, Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus were united in a church service.  They even are portrayed close, side-by-side in a religious icon.  

When the Church later promoted two-person marriages, the Church would nullify a marriage if the man was impotent, but not if one of the spouses was sterile.  One wonders to what extent the Church went to determine which was which.  In 18th-century Ireland, one aristocratic lass insisted upon marrying the great castrato singer Tenducci, only to employ the law of the time to divorce him when she discovered the greater pleasures of a fully intact man.  The New York Court ruled in 1898, however, “It cannot be held, as a matter of law, that the possession of the organs necessary to conception are essential to entrance to the married state, so long as there is no impediment to the indulgence of the passion incident to this state.”  So apparently, two guys who are partners don’t have to keep trying to make babies.

Only in more recent times have American legislatures and courts felt obliged to intrude upon what has been, in truth, real traditional marriage.  Black slaves in America could marry, but only with the permission of the slave owner.  By the 1920s, thirty-eight states had laws prohibiting marriage between whites and blacks, Mulattos, Japanese, Chinese, Indians, Mongolians, Malays, or Filipinos.  Twelve states prohibited marriage to a “drunk” or “mental defective.”  There even was a prohibition to marrying any  (quote) “drunkard, habitual criminal, imbecile, feeble-minded person, idiot, or insane person.”  If we adhered to this “traditional” concept of marriage today, that would eliminate the right to marry to most members of the GOP and all of Fox News.

In conclusion, and to paraphrase conservative pundit George Will, what is the cost / benefit of so many Americans believing in, and subscribing to, the hate-filled, irrational rantings of so many so-called “good–Christian” politicians, voters, and  preachers?  The cost to American society, and especially to the civil rights of GLBT citizens, is clear.  But, I see no true benefit from having millions of Americans standing foursquare with bloviating ignoramuses. The recent statement  by  a  North-Carolina,  Baptist  minister who said, “Ah could just puke!  Can you imagine kissin’ a man?” is redundant proof that high authority allows for someone of extremely low IQ to insert himself into the debate concerning human civil rights.

© 01 June 2012 


About the Author 


I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.





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The Essence of GLBTSQAHZICAEUC? by Will Stanton

I’m baffled.
“Essence: the quality of a thing that gives it its
identity.”  “The Essence” sounds
singular to me, one essence; but “GLBTSQAHZICAEUC?” sounds like a lot of
different kinds of people.  So, how can
there be one essence?  I imagine  that we can argue logically that there is an
essence supposedly common to all human beings, but I doubt that the person who
suggested this “GLBTQ”-topic meant all of humanity.  Somehow, he meant to speak to a singularity
applied to people of various orientations or persuasions.
Over the years, I have had time for rational evaluation of
human sexual orientation, and long ago I came to the well supported conclusion
that there are no true categories. 
Sexuality is fluid and covers a wide spectrum.  Orientals such as East Indians have known
that for centuries.  I’m not sure that
all members of Western psychological professions have managed to come to that
realization.  For the longest time in the
West, professionals were convinced that human sexuality is binary, male and
female; and any deviation from those two categories was supposedly
abnormal.  Awareness to the contrary and
consequential studies in this area have been belated, although there has been
an increase in research that has revealed much information, assuming that
people are truly interested in learning about it.
Contrary to my undergraduate studies during the Dark Ages of
psychological debate, when, for example, one of my professors denied the slightest
influence of genetics upon how one thinks, feels, and behaves, we now are
obtaining through modern research-methods an astonishing quantity of
information confirming and, to some extent, explaining genetic influences upon
human development.
Despite these scientific revelations, some people still
engage in a false debate of “nature vs. nurture,” that is, is a person
the result solely from how he was born or what he learns?  The premise of the argument is false. Instead,
humans are the result of nature with nurture.   The myriad of factors forming an
individual’s personality and sexuality seem too complex to speak of one essence.
Considering physical development alone, researches have
discovered that there are at least one hundred genetic influences in the womb
that contribute to more than thirty physical intersex states.  We now know also that genetic influences upon
brain and  endocrine system development
have a discernable impact upon how one feels and thinks.
So, how to approach this topic?  I suggest that “GLBTQ” is too limiting, just
too few choices to place all gay-ish people into one of those categories.  And with this topic, what was meant by
“essence?”  I can image that, in the
1970s and 80s, “The essence” could refer to patchouli.  I sure smelled allot of that essence when I
was around gay people during  that time.
Let’s start by looking at some of these lettered designations.  I suppose to be an “L” one must be female, or
at least some semblance of female.  Then
there is “B” for  “bisexual.”  That sounds biological to me.  Do people mean instead that a person is an
“A,” ambisexual, like a baseball switch-hitter? 
 If that person claims to
be straight but has gay encounters on the side, is that person “heteroflexible?”
Then there is T for “transgender.”  That term is imprecise and does not clarify
which way the person was reassigned.  Also,
it certainly does not refer to that minority of “Ts” who changed and then
attempted to change back again.  I know
of some cases like that and also have talked with one such person.  Would that person be a “TT?” 
How about an “S?”  I’m
particularly baffled by those thousands of young guys and  teenage boys who inexplicably have a
compulsion to take massive doses of female hormones yet have no intention of
ever surgically completing a full transition. 
They develop large breasts, wide hips, and round butts, but they still
possess their original equipment.  Some
even prefer to be the dominate partners in sex. 
A whole new term has been created to refer to this group, “shemales.”  So, I guess we need an “S” for them.  Robin Williams refers to this hybrid of many
sexual parts as “The Swiss army-knife of sex.” 
If you like Robin’s term, “S”  would
work for that, too.
Now for “Q.” I hope that no activist who has become habituated
to using the term ”queer,” chooses to be offended by my questioning its
use.  What in the world qualifies someone
to be “queer?”  Could that term be
referring to Dennis Rodman?  Does an
overabundance of tattoos and piercings make a person look queer?  Is Dennis’ palling around with North Korea’s
Kim Jong Un queer behavior?  Or, what
about the reclusive, elderly woman who has seventy-five cats inside her smelly
house?  Could she be queer?  I can not imagine encountering a person in
the figure of a president, a general, or an astronaut, and calling him or her “queer”
simply for having a same-sex partner.
Do we require an “H” for hermaphrodites?   True hermaphrodites are extremely rare.  More frequently, some varying level of
physiologically intersex state is found. 
I think we need a letter “I,” too. 
Some such individuals choose, or have been persuaded to choose, “apparent-male”
or “apparent-female” and have surgery to approximate the
appearance.  Contrary to that choice, I took
notice of a young Harvard student who was intersex.  People demanded to know whether the surgical
choice would be “male” or “female,”  The
reply was, “Neither.  I am who I am.”  That impressed me.
What factors contribute to a person being asexual?  Is it personality?  Something physical?  Lack of opportunity?  Old age? 
Do we have to come up with another “A” for this person?  Or maybe we need a “Z” for “Zero” to prevent
confusion with the other “A.”
For several hundred years throughout Europe and beyond,
there was a pervasive custom of emasculating thousands of prepubescent boys so
that they could preserve their soprano voices yet benefit from the
extraordinary physical development unique to those individuals as adults.  Many of them continued to have sex with
females, many with males, and some with both. 
There even is a small minority of males right here in the U.S. who
choose the procedure simply for psycho-sexual reasons.  Creepy, but true.  Upon what personality traits would we base
categorization?  How should we call  them? 
“Gay?”  “Straight?”  “C” for “castrato?”
What if everything is lopped off a male as has been done for
centuries with East-Indian hijras?   It is estimated that there are approximately
two-and-a-half million hijras in
India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Singapore, and elsewhere even today.  They dress like women, but they are neither
women nor men.  Should we come up with an
“E” for “eunuch?”
There probably are several more letters that we could come
up with, but let me suggest just two more. 
How about “U” for “uninterested,” someone who is not truly asexual but,
for various other reasons, just does not give a damn about sex anymore?  Maybe some guy was just divorced for the
fifth time and has given up on women (or men), especially now that he has moved
out of the house and is living in a tent.
And last but not least, how about “C?” for “confused?”  In other words, “Just what in the heck am
I?”  I bet there are allot of people out
there who simply are confused.
Well, I may not be a confused “C?”, but I am
baffled.   I just don’t know what to make
of  GLBTSQAHZICAEUC?.  Are we now obliged to come up with separate
restrooms?

© 20 April 2013   

About the Author 

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Being Held by Will Stanton

It was a balmy evening, and the scent of tropical flowers permeated the air. Through a gap in the high jungle canopy, distant stars twinkled in the dark sky. Parrots, macaws, and a myriad of mammals sang their evensong, the music of jungle depths. I lay dreaming in my hammock, drink in hand, and with a sense of contentment.

Andy joined me, sensuously sliding into the hammock with me. I’d known Andy since he was little. It was a curious relationship over the years, Andy and I; at least, some people thought so. Actually, some people worried that Andy was not very trustworthy and said so. Joe, the guy who brought provisions to me from the village, frequently looked askance at me and made critical comments. I knew that he genuinely was concerned, but I grew tired of it; they didn’t understand. That’s why I moved way out here so Andy and I could be pretty much alone.

Andy certainly was affectionate, though. He snuggled against me for warmth and gently flicked his tongue in my ear, giving me a slight, chilled shiver. Andy could be rather dominating at times, but I had to be careful how I responded. If I rejected him too abruptly, he could become rather temperamental. So, I usually let him go ahead, wrap himself around me, and hug me. He was strong, but that was not surprising. He was grown now.

That night, Andy seemed more interested in me than usual, and a little rougher. He gave a little squeeze, and it left me breathless. “Not so hard, Andy,” I said; but Andy’s hug grew stronger. Was he trying to engage me in a little sadomasochism, or what? He brought his head around to face me. I didn’t like the look in his eyes, cold and determined. I actually began to be rather frightened. Was Andy as dangerous as some people said? A hug is one thing, but making my ribs ache was quite another.

“Don’t move! I’ve got him!” came a familiar voice. I caught a glimpse of Joe running up to where I lay with Andy. A loud explosion shattered and pained my ears, followed by a loud ringing. Blood splattered across my face. Horrified, I wrenched myself away from the bloody mass that used to be Andy’s head. His body loosened, and I scrambled out of the hammock. Gasping, I lay on the ground. “Are you alright?” asked Joe. Still out of breath, I nodded.

I gradually gathered myself up and stood there with Joe, gun still in hand, and looked down at what once was my friend Andy. I was in shock, but I also could feel a sense of relief. Joe had been right all the time; Andy could not be trusted. He might have been cute when little, but it was downright foolish to keep him around after he had grown so big. Forty feet is pretty darn big, even for a green anaconda.

© 08 October 2012

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Slang in an Historical Subculture by Will Stanton

Historical evidence shows that a significantly large proportion of homosexual language and labels arises from within or from the margins surrounding a queer subculture, that they are terms indigenous to queer culture, self-generated and self-cultivated. Perhaps one reason why social scientists and psychologists scrupulously avoid using this slang is because they realize that slang arises, at least partly, from within the minority group itself and that, to some extent, empowers it. Homosexuals have not found it very difficult to call themselves fairies, queers, or faggots, whereas they do not generally call themselves perverts, or sexual psychopaths.

Some analyses of campy language are based upon the compensation model: camp changes the real, hostile world into a new one which is controllable and seems to be safer. Camp has been a way for gay men to re-imagine the world around them. It exaggerates and therefore appears to diffuse real threats.

Many theorists believe that, especially with gay men, referring to one another with women’s names or pronouns evolved as a coded, protected way of speaking about one’s personal or sexual life. If one man were to be overheard at a public dinner table saying to another, “You’ll never guess what Mary said on our date last night,” little would be thought of it.” Other theorists believe, however, on the contrary, that more flamboyant gays refer to each other with women’s names almost entirely within a queer context in which no heterosexuals were present. It operated primarily within gay culture and functioned to cement the relations within that culture. All of the camp talk of the eighteenth-century gays (“mollies”), for example, was overheard by police constables who had infiltrated the molly houses. Such talk virtually was unknown outside the confines of a molly house.

Queer language is not something that is new to modern times. In ancient times the transgendered priests of the goddess Cotytto spoke a gay, even obscene jargon of their own.

In the gay subculture of early eighteenth-century London, gay slang was a modification of thieves’ slang and prostitute slang. As today, the mollies would ‘‘make Love to one another’’, and they used other euphemisms such as ‘’the pleasant Deed’’ and ‘‘to do the Story.’’ They had more specific verbs for anal intercourse, such as ‘to indorse’ (from contemporary boxing slang,) and ‘‘caudle-making’’ or ‘‘giving caudle’’ (from the Latin cauda, a tail.) Later in the century, sodomites were called ‘‘backgammon players’’ and ‘‘gentlemen of the back door.’’ Gay cruising grounds were called ‘‘the markets,’’ where the mollies went ‘‘strolling and caterwauling.’’ If they were lucky, they would ‘‘picked up’ partners, or ‘trade’’ (both terms are still in common use today.) Or, they would ‘‘make a bargain’’ or agree to have sex (this derives from a rather obscure game known as ‘‘selling a bargain.’’) Another variation is ‘‘bit a blow,’’ equivalent to the modern phrase ‘‘score a trick.’’ To ‘‘put the bite’’ on someone was to arrange for sex, possibly sex for money, derived from a contemporary phrase implying some sort of trickery, usually financial.

The most striking feature of the eighteenth-century ‘‘Female Dialect’’ was that gay men referred to one another with feminine names such as Madam Blackwell, Miss Kitten, Miss Fanny Knight, Miss Irons, Moll Irons, Flying Horse Moll, Pomegranate Molly, Black Moll, China Mary, Primrose Mary, Orange Mary, Garter Mary, Pippin Mary (alias Queen Irons), Dip-Candle Mary, Small Coal Mary, Aunt Greer, Aunt May, Aunt England, Princess Seraphina the butcher, the Countess of Camomile, Lady Godiva, the Duchess of Gloucester, Orange Deb, Tub Nan, Hardware Nan, Old Fish Hannah and Johannah the Ox-Cheek Woman.

The Maiden Names which the mollies assumed bore little relationship to specific male-female role-playing in terms of sexual behavior. ‘’Fanny Murray’’ was an athletic bargeman, ‘’Lucy Cooper’’ was a Herculean coal-heaver, ‘’Kitty Fisher’’ was a deaf tire repairman, ‘‘Kitty Cambric’ is a coal merchant; Miss Selina, a police office assistant; ‘’Black-eyed Leonora’’ a drummer in the Guards, ‘’Pretty Harriet’’ a butcher; and ‘’Miss Sweet Lips’’ a country grocer.

© 3 March 2011

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Mayan Pottery by Will Stanton

Dear Son,

I hope this email gets to you right away.  We don’t know much about the jungles of South America and what kind of communication set-up you might have at this moment.

Your father and I are so proud of you and your recent success.  We’ve read all about it in the newspapers, and it even has been on the TV news this week.  

I have to admit that, when you graduated from high school and told us that you wanted to study anthropology and specialize in Mayan culture, we had our doubts about your earning a living.  I guess your years of study have paid off, now that you have discovered a Mayan temple that has alluded explorers for so long.  They were showing on TV some of the Mayan pottery that you found.

I can’t say that we know much about Mayan pottery; but when we heard the news story, I searched on Google and found some pictures of it.  It’s pretty, but I am not sure what all those designs mean.  The newscast said that you have found a lot of it in very good condition and are having it transported back to the museum for study.

We truly admire how you have grown up and become so determined and hard-working.  I have to say that, ever since you were a little boy, your father and I worried about you.  You didn’t seem to be like other boys.  You didn’t play sports with the other boys, and you avoided the rough-housing and wrestling we saw with the neighborhood boys.  And, you never seemed interested in going to school dances or dating.  So, we are impressed that you have been able to put up with all the physical hardship hiking through those deep jungles and how you have kept up your spirits in your long search.

I guess our taking you to church every Sunday, having you enroll in Sunday school, and our reading the Bible together every evening did what we hoped and prayed for, making you a strong, God-fearing man.  Your father and I were so thrilled that you said that you owe it all to Jesus, that you have put your complete trust in Him, that He is with you at all times, day and night.  We have told all our friends, and your father stood up in church and told all the congregation about it.  We are so proud of you.  We eagerly are looking forward to your return next month.  I would like to have a party and invite all of your friends.  I’m sure they all would love to talk with you.

Sincerely,
Your adoring parents.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Yes, I did receive your email.  Everything has gone well, and I am planning to return next month.  I’ll be glad to see you again, but you don’t need to go to all the trouble of organizing any parties.  By the way, his name is pronounced “Hay-soos,” and he has been my guide all these months.  Yes, I owe him a lot.  He has been with me constantly, day and night, and we are deeply in love.  When we return to the States, we plan to get married; and you, of course, are invited to the wedding.

Best wishes,
Your loving son, Tim.

© 15 December 2012




About the Author



I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Statues, Art, and Sensuality by Will Stanton

Michangelo’s David

An art teacher in Dallas, Texas, took her class for a tour of the local art museum.  One statue was nude.  One student mentioned it at home. The mother complained to the school.  The Dallas school board fired the teacher.

Loveland, Colorado, is noted for its sculpture park.  In addition to displaying a few pieces of statuary throughout the grounds, annual art shows and sales are held there and have proved to be both popular and profitable. Unfortunately, a number of very righteous citizens complained.  Apparently, there was one statue depicting a mother holding her child that they considered to be obviously obscene and a corrupting influence upon the youth of Loveland.  Despite the fact that the statue was not highly detailed because the artist stylized it through simplified lines, the statue was removed and placed in a far corner of the park, unfrequented by most visitors.

Apparently, these events are just more symptoms of skewed concerns and perhaps even rampant insanity in America.  “Of course, I realize that God abhors human nudity.  That is why we are born fully clothed and without genitals.”  I did not find this to be so in many of the older, more mature countries that I have visited in the past. 

I not only appreciate all forms of beauty including sculpture and the human form,  I, of course, am referring to the most admired examples of the human form, not those images that I receive on-line showing Wal-Mart shoppers in Tennessee.

Actually on the contrary, sane theology scholars (including relatively recent statements by Pope John Paul II) make quite clear that nudity in Christian art is acceptable when purposeful, done so with an element of philosophical modesty, and not solely to cater to the prurient interests and desires of the viewers.

Personally, I would have to have a brain of a brick and a heart of stone not to perceive the physical beauty in the David statues of both Michelangelo and Donatello.  I realized that, long ago, that David had become somewhat of a gay icon, an archetypal form of beauty often found in cheap, miniature imitations displayed in apartments and homes.  I had the good fortune to admire both in their original forms.

Michelangelo’s Renaissance masterpiece was created between the years 1501 and 1504.  The fact that it originally was destined to be but one among a series of monumental statues to be placed along the roofline of the Florence Cathedral accounts for its seventeen-foot size. The statue was placed instead in the public square near the seat of civic government and later into the Accademia Gallery. The strong, athletic build of this David, along with the steady gaze of his eyes, became to symbolize the strength of the Florentine city-state and a warning to stronger, contiguous cities.  The fact that this David also resembles a young, Greek god, does not hurt its aesthetic value either. 

What a different response Donatello’s David provides us.  This is no macho David, reliant upon his own physical power to vanquish the giant Goliath.  On the contrary, had Goliath captured David, Goliath might have been more prone to bed young David than to slay him.  If they had lived during Florentine times, this most likely would have been the outcome, and not to anyone’s surprise.  

Donatello’s David was created in bronze somewhere between the years of 1430 and 1460.  This five-foot bronze with gilt accents is said to be the first fully nude, male statue since the Greco-Roman times, although David’s wearing a cute hat and boots are anomalous.  Viewers with admirable sensibilities cannot help but admire this astonishing, artistic creation.  One would have to be a real “Bible-thumper” or a member of the Dallas School Board to be outraged and disgusted by this work of art. 

Admittedly however, there are some aspects of this David that might create confused feelings in male viewers, and quite possibly extremely disturbed feelings among homophobes.  To begin with, it is an understatement that one can not claim this David to be “macho” and physically powerful.  On the contrary, this adolescent, male form is notably androgynous, even to some degree feminine, and peculiarly sensuous.  Why so?

For the casual observer who has a rudimentary knowledge of Florentine history, one might conclude that this high degree of sexual sensuality merely reflects the pervasive tastes of the population at that time.  There is more truth to this than many people realize.  Sexual attraction and relations with young men were so prevalent that one cannot declare the practicing population to have been a “sub-culture.” One might almost conclude that they were the culture of the time.  But, could there have been a symbolized message within Donatello’s statue beyond the possible homoerotic interests of the artist and the person who commissioned the work?

I suggest that it does not take a Tom Hanks to figure out the meaning of the statue.  To begin with, young David did not rely upon his own powers and physical strength to vanquish the giant Goliath, nor was a single stone aimed at Goliath from some distance a sure thing.  Art historians state that, quite possibly, Donatello was expressing the belief that the power of God slew Goliath, not the physical prowess of an ephebe.

But why the sensuality, and that silly hat, and those little booties?   And even more so, why is there a long feather from Goliath’s helm riding up David’s thigh?  And what about that soft tuft of Goliath’s beard wrapped about David’s toes?

Donatello’s David

Ah ha !   A well known custom of Florence was for men to steal the hats off the heads of comely lads and to refuse to return their hats until they agreed to be the recipients of the men’s advances.  A good looking youth still wearing his hat meant that he had shown enough moral fortitude not to lose his hat and that he had been vigilant to protect it. Donatello’s David still wears his hat. David could not be vanquished!  Could this be the possible answer, or is this explanation a stretch?

So, what response does each, individual viewer derive from these nude statues?  Are these Davids simply expressions of Christian themes? Or, is it that some people simply regard these statues as just rather sexy ?  

© 08 April 2011

About the Artist

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Quirky Domestic Tidbits by Will Stanton

Nothing particularly quirky goes on around my household. As a matter of fact, not much goes on at all. I don’t live with a quirky partner who has quirky habits. I don’t have dogs or other pets that do quirky things. If I have any quirky habits, there is no one living here to observe them. And, I am probably too close to the subject to be aware of anything out of the ordinary. So, I guess that I’ll relate a few quirky things that I or close friends have observed elsewhere.

I once knew a couple of guys who lived in an apartment not far from here. They invited me and a few others over for dinner. The self-designated head-chef had decided to make cheese fondue his main course. He never had prepared fondue before. I am told that no host should experiment with his guests. Apparently, he did not know that fondue, or heated cheese dishes of any kind, needs to be prepared over slow, low heat. Otherwise, the cook will “vulcanize” the cheese, turning it into a tough, hard lump – – which is exactly what he did. We guests in the living room began to hear increasingly loud exclamations emanating from the kitchen, and we went to investigate as to the cause of the chef’s frustration. We arrived just in time to witness the angry chef ramming the hardened glob of cheese down the garbage disposal. Our quick advice not to do so obviously was not quick enough, for the chef flipped the switch. The garbage disposal started up, made a loud groaning noise, and then self-destructed, thoroughly plugging up the drain. We enjoyed the dinner out at the restaurant despite the occasional grumbles from the disgruntled, would-be chef.

A friend of mine once lived in Houston, a city that does have some cultural advantages such as their opera. He, being the handsome, charming, erudite gentleman that he was, hobnobbed with financial-social elite. Frequently, a wealthy couple of gentlemen would invite selected friends to their elegant home for an après-opera dinner. All the gentlemen, dressed in their fine suits would stand about with their cocktails, chatting amiably with each other until dinner was served. Apparently, one of the hosts had a habit of imbibing regularly in the kitchen, where he insisted upon preparing by himself one of his specialties.

Now, I know enough about alcohol not to find addiction or abuse in itself funny. I have to admit, however, that on occasion, circumstances can catch one as somewhat amusing, especially when remembered retrospectively or if pretended, as in the case of Foster Brooks or the Carol Burnett Show. I suppose that what occurred next was made more amusing by the fact that all these gentleman held themselves in high regard. At least, their expensive suits indicated that belief. After all as Mark Twain once said, “Clothes make the man.” A large apron or even a wet-suit might have been more appropriate for the co-host. Once everyone was seated and the several bowls of food were being passed around, the inebriated gentleman distinctly began to feel the effects from his time in the kitchen. He did manage to wait until the large bowl of mashed potatoes appeared right in front of him, whereupon he chose that moment to pitch forward, face-first, right into the mashed potatoes. His friend hurriedly assisted the host into an upright position. The guests momentarily were stunned observing the host’s potato-covered face, which had a remarkable resemblance to an ancient Greek theater mask. The embarrassed friend realized that, as the mashed potatoes began to slither down upon the host’s fine suit, that the host appeared to be incapable of removing the potatoes himself or preventing their further spread. Two of the guests, having recovered from their initial surprise, volunteered to help the friend carry the host into the bedroom where they removed the potatoes and the dinner jacket. Fortunately, the host eventually recovered; and the guests complemented him upon the delicious specialty that he had prepared, although none said anything about their having declined the mashed potatoes.

And last of all, here’s a quirky tale of a very different nature. How many of you have seen a big, old, Victorian mansion, an Adams-Family-style house. My roommate did when we were freshmen in college. He lived back East. His great aunt lived alone in just such an “Adams” house in Marietta, Ohio. She told him that, as long as he was passing by on his way to college, he could stop by to see her and spend the night. He agreed to.

After supper, they chatted for quite a while and eventually retired to their separate rooms. His bedroom was rather large and with a high ceiling. The bed was a big four-poster sitting on a wooden-plank floor. At the foot of the bed was a large seaman’s trunk. Late that night, he began to hear strange noises. Eventually, the sounds became so unsettling that he turned his light on several times to see what might be causing those peculiar sounds. He never saw anything that would explain the noises. When he was about to fall asleep, he suddenly heard a very loud, extended scraping noise. Terrified, he turned on his light and immediately saw that the seaman’s trunk now was on the complete opposite side of the room. That was absolutely enough for him. Without further thought, he immediately threw his clothes on, grabbed his bags, and without saying a word to his great-aunt, fled the house. He preferred driving throughout the night to the college rather staying a moment longer in that house. Now that is one quirky house!

© 03 February 2012




About the Author



I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.


Posted on

The Facts by Will Stanton

These are the facts and only the facts. I’m not Detective-Sergeant Joe Friday from the old TV show “Dragnet,” but what I’m about to tell you are just the facts as I know them…all except the family name. I’m sure that there still are family members about, and I would not wish to make any of them uncomfortable should any of them read this. So, I’ve altered the surname.

When I met and interacted with members of the Tanner family years ago, I found them to be rather interesting. I suppose that, in some ways, they were similar to many middle-class families; however, in other ways, they had some memorable qualities.

One unusual fact was that the Tanner parents had, as it was described to me by friends, two sets of children. They had married early and had a bunch of kids. As Mr. Tanner’s career blossomed, his pay increased dramatically, and his kids were growing up, they foresaw their ending up with an empty nest sooner than they would like. The parents decided that they really wished to have more children. So, they had four more.

I met John Tanner in college through a friend of mine, Jim. John was from the first bunch of kids. He also was gay. He was majoring in modern dance, something not many students consider for a college major. Naturally, he was quite physically fit from years of dance training. His youngest brother and sister liked to punch him in the butt and call him “Iron Butt.”

John was one of fraternal triplets. That means, of course, that they all were born about the same time; however, that did not mean that their appearances or personalities would be totally alike. There have been some amazing studies of identical siblings, proving that, even when separated at birth, their appearances, personalities, and lives often match remarkably. Not in the case of these fraternal triplets. One of John’s close friends told me that one boy grew up to be a rather straight-laced, conservative-behaving young man. He described the second one as a pot-smoking hippy, although I had no knowledge of that myself. John was a totally different case, altogether.

John apparently felt comfortable openly participating in the ongoing gay culture of the time. I was not fully aware of all his friends or his activities with them, but he certainly did not seem concerned about his openness. In contrast, I never have been very adventuresome. The closest that I ever came to being fancy-free like John occurred spontaneously. I just happened to bump into him one morning, and he suggested that we take a drive together up into the hills to see the blossoming redbud and dogwood, just to enjoy the spring day. We drove out along a long ridge-road to an abandoned lane that led down the hill and deep into a woods. Some distance down, we parked and got out to stretch our legs. In our conversation, he remarked that he had noticed that I was just as physically fit as he was because of my many years of athletic training. That remark did not lead to anything intimate. What we did do, at his suggestion, was to take off all our clothes and to run merrily down the lane into the woods and eventually back again, rather like young colts in springtime. (Sorry. If you were expecting more to this story, that was all there was.)

I learned more about the Tanner family when Jim and I were invited during spring break to John’s home in Kentucky. His father had an important industrial position and apparently was making good money, so his parents were able to build a rather spacious home there in the style of a French chateau. All the interior woodwork and trim were painted white. The spotless white of the interior was complemented by sky-blue wool carpet, custom-ordered from the Burlington factory. Once inside the home, everyone was required to take off his shoes and walk about only in stocking-feet.

I am not sure if any of the older bunch of offspring lived at home; but the four younger kids did. There was fifteen-year-old Jason, his twelve or thirteen-year-old brother, a brother of nine, and an even younger sister. They all were there in the daytime; however, I noticed that Mom had arranged for Jason and the next oldest brother to sleep over with neighbors during our stay. I assume that was to accommodate us guests, although I would have been happy to make do any place in that spacious home. Jim remarked that maybe Mom was keeping the older guys safe from any unwanted attentions. I was uncomfortable with the possibility that she could think such a thing because neither Jim nor I would have engaged in any untoward behavior and certainly not as guests.

As in most families, there was a certain physical resemblance among all the offspring. This was true with the Tanner family, but there was something rather special about Jason. Before our journey to Kentucky, John had forewarned Jim and me that we would be surprised by Jason’s remarkable appearance. We also had heard the same thing from a number of John’s friends. Over the next day or two, we also discovered that Mom was very aware that Jason often attracted attention.

Now remember, I’m just telling you the facts…no exaggeration. All the Tanners were relatively good looking; however, Jason was different. He was stunning, and everyone, including Jason, knew it. His facial features were more perfect than the other brothers’. His skin was flawless and somehow had a richer, warmer color. His dark hair was luxurious, his form lithe and graceful; and his sky-blue eyes made the blue of the carpet seem faded. What John previously had told us was no exaggeration.

Now, for a mother who might have been concerned about too much attention being paid to Jason, she ironically chose to buy clothes that made him stand out from the others. I recall sitting in the living room with everyone when Jason entered. The sister was wearing a blue dress, and all of the rest, including Jim and me, were dressed in blue jeans and lighter-blue shirts or white T-shirts, very much blending in with the home’s decor…that is, all except Jason. He was dressed in startling-lemon-yellow T-shirt and little shorts, which beautifully complemented his handsome face and long, tanned legs. Jason stood out like a peacock among crows. I really suspect that she consciously tended to dress Jason in a more eye-catching manner than the others. She recognized his exceptional appearance and proudly chose to emphasize it.

This perception was substantiated by what Mom, herself, told us. She seemed eager to relate to us an incident confirming what an astonishing impact Jason’s appearance made upon other people. She had gone shopping, and Jason accompanied her into a small shop. No sooner had the two of them entered the little shop than the woman by the counter loudly exclaimed, “Oh…my…God! You…are…so…beautiful! And your eyes! They’re…so…blue! How old are you? If I wait three years, will you marry me?” Apparently, Mom was not offended, and innocent Jason was pleased but mystified.

Once home, he asked his mother, “Am I really beautiful?” She answered, “Yes, you are very handsome, but you must not let that go to your head and make you arrogant.” Ironically, her own pride may have gone to her head, for I still find it curious that she told us this story. So obviously, all those comments about Jason that we had heard from John and his friends really were true.

We did see Jason and the family one more time when they came to the university for John’s graduation and his modern-dance recital. John was dressed only in a primitive wrap about his loins and nothing else. As he went through his solo routine, his family watched. I can imagine that, under their quiet appearance, they were somewhat uncomfortable…all, that is, except Jason, who seemed to be enjoying it immensely. From time to time, he would turn to glance at Jim and me with a big, mischievous grin.

That was the last time that I saw John, Jason, and the rest of the family. I learned later that John had gone to New York City and threw himself into the local lifestyle with gay abandon. I also heard that, on occasion, he would dance nude on top of bar counters, apparently proud of his own body and for the titillation of the bar crowd.

Those were the days when we did not have the facts about certain matters as we do now, and John’s lifestyle came back to haunt him…big-time. His story ends on a very sad note. His close friend reported to us that John ended up back in his parents’ home in Kentucky, dying of AIDS; and he passed away with his head in his mother’s arms, one of many tragic losses during that era.

Since then, I have lost track of the Tanners. I had no particular reason to stay in touch. I still have, however, lasting memories of the family, exuberant John, and, of course, the astonishing Jason. I always have wondered what happened to him. So many years have gone by since that trip to Kentucky. I have a feeling that he lives in his home town, and I want to believe that he has done well for himself.

I wonder what would happen if, by chance, some acquaintance of his came upon this story on our blog. It might ring a bell. He might approach Jason and say, “I found this story on a blog, and it reminded me of your family. Are you the Jason in this story?” If so, I hope that he is not offended that I have written about his family or is embarrassed knowing that he made such a lasting impression on people. I certainly have not forgotten, and that’s a fact.

© 15 February 2013

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

House Cleaning by Will Stanton

   What to do on the first day of April
when it’s raining outside, and there’s no indication that it will
let up any time soon. It’s tempting just to lie in bed and listen
to the rain on the window panes; but I know that I’ve been
neglecting house cleaning for far too long, and I better get up and
make a stab at it. No house elves come in here, and it won’t get
done just by itself.

   Of course, I first have to fortify
myself with some hot tea and cinnamon scones. Then, once I’ve
mustered the courage, where to start? I have just ninety minutes
before I have to be at class, so I better hurry.

   Probably the most neglected spot of
all, under the bed. The dirty shoes I keep under my bed didn’t
help matters either. There must have been three months of dried mud
under there. That’s what I get from tromping around outside in the
wet and especially in the dark when I can’t see the puddles so
well. I’ve noticed that the others generally don’t have very
muddy shoes, but then, they don’t have special reasons to be out
and around as I often do. So, I have to clean the shoes as well as
under the bed.

   By now, I’m sure those rare books
that I sneaked from the restricted section over term and hidden under
the bed have accumulated a lot of dust. I can see that they are
being kept company by piles of dusty-bunnies. And, I’m absolutely
not going to use my broom; that would be an inexcusable
misuse. I’ll have to fetch a house-cleaning broom from the
cupboard. And, as far as the books, I can return them easily to the
restricted section without being seen. 

   Once I’ve returned the books, I can
put away my cloak and try to figure out what to do with that sweater
that’s been hanging on the bedpost for the last two weeks, the
hand-made one with the big “H” embroidered on the chest. By now,
the pumpkin juice probably has had a chance to be adsorbed and
harden. The House laundry takes care of my usual clothes but not
something special like a wool sweater. I don’t have a bottle of
Woolite, but I’m sure I can come up with something similar. I
didn’t go to Potions Class for nothing.

   That took a lot of scrubbing, but the
sweater looks clean now. There must be an easier way of doing that;
there’s bound to be a method of doing it in just a flash…and not
remove the sweater at the same time. Maybe I’ll learn that next
year.

   My desk is an absolute mess, too.
Those little blue booklets we are required to write in are a pain.
If I make too many mistakes on a page or change what I want to write,
then I have to rip the page out, leaving ragged bits on the inseam
and shreds around my desk. By the end of term, the desk and floor
look as though Scabbers was over on my side of the room and shredded
all the papers he could find.

   And, the ink’s worse. It ends up all
over my desk. Why we have to write with quills I’ll never now.
They make a bloody mess, and my writing looks like owl-scratchings.
I already figured out in first-year how to concoct something to take
all that ink off the desk. Of course, my first attempt wasn’t so
good: the potion took the finish off, too. Fortunately, I also
already had learned how to reverse that.

   I really don’t mind cleaning Hedwig’s
cage. Hedwig is very special; and, besides, the cage is small.
Plus, Hedwig spends a lot of time either out-of-doors or up in the
tower. I’m just glad I don’t have to clean the tower. From the
looks of it, no one has, at least not for a few hundred years.

   Actually, there’s not much to clean
with those few special things that I carry with me all the time.
There’s one that I keep slipping in and out of my pocket, so it
never has a chance to become dirty. Of course once in first-year, I
had to clean off a troll bogey. That was rather disgusting.

   I’ve never let on, but I actually
prefer to do my own house cleaning in my little area. It’s not
really very much to do. More importantly, that way, no one will have
a chance to discover where I hide certain things that could turn out
to be rather embarrassing, especially a few photographs that I
sneaked from the boys’ bath. I took those photos of Draco after I
figured out why he always seemed so up-tight and angry around me. It
turns out that he actually does not hate me. Instead, one night when
I was sneaking back unseen from the restricted area, I discovered
Draco in a dark corner of the hallway, whispering to Goyle. Knowing
that they could not see me, I slipped quietly close-by to hear what
he was saying; and that’s when I found out that Draco has a crush
on me. So apparently, the only way that he could express his
attraction to me without others ridiculing him was to express it
defensively as anger and disdain. Once I understood, I was
intrigued. And, that’s when I sneaked into the bath unseen and
took the photos of Draco for me to keep. And, that’s why I keep
them hidden. And, that’s why I do my own house cleaning.

© 04/01/2013

About the Author


I
have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. 
I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy
experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this
Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction
participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort
into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
 
Posted on

Pig Latin by Will Stanton

Parvulum hoc porcus abiit ad venalicium.
Parvulum hoc porcus mansit domi.
Parvulum hoc fuerat porcum assaturam bubulae.
Parvulum hoc porcus nullam habuit.
Parvulum hoc porcus exclamasse: “Wee, wee, wee !”
Omni via domum.

© 24 September 2012

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.