Never Never Land by Donny Kaye

          In a time before reality TV and neighborhood video stores; long before Netflix was even a conception because there was no “NET” other than in women’s stockings and the fisherman’s contraption for pulling the resistant fish from its waters, and at a time when we still referred to theatres as just that, I saw Peter Pan. I was probably seven or eight years of age when we rode the bus down Broadway to the Paramount Theatre on 16th Street, to see Walt Disney’s newly-released production of Peter Pan. It was most likely then that I was most able to identify with the thought of Never Never Land, a place best known for eternal childhood and immortality. It seems that in the years that followed I moved farther and farther from the ability to exist in a simpler realm where life was childlike and pretty easy. At that point the world had not totally had its way with me in terms of experiencing society’s harsh need to have me be something other than what and who I am.

          As a seven year old, I was unfamiliar with the story of Peter Pan by J. Barrie and immediately loved the characterizations by W. Disney, especially Peter Pan and The Lost Boys. They were magical and yet the experience of the fairy, Tinker Bell, has remained a favorite in my life. Some time ago when I was considering my first tattoo, Tinker Bell actually showed as a possibility, realizing the fairy has always been of special existence in my mind.

          I must admit that I have never desired reading the unabridged work of J. Barrie. In fact, reading Peter Pan has not advanced to my Bucket List however; I am being inspired somewhat just doing background work on the web, in prep for this story. The stories of Never Land are far more complex than the animated cartoon produced by Disney in 1953. Just as intriguing as Barrie’s original creation, are the interpretations of his work. His characters have become the inspiration for psychological theories regarding men, such as the “Peter Pan Syndrome”, and homoerotic discussions of his characters abound on the web.

          What I do know is that there was a time when my life was a lot simpler. The complexities of my family and those of influence over me had not had their way with me yet. As time went on, I quietly assumed others expectations of me as I denied my own desires and to some extent, my own dreams. Never Land was indeed NEVER Land.

          NEVER Land became an experience in my life which was solely fantasy. It existed in animated characters living in magical scenes complete with original musical scores and at times, experienced in 3-D.

          I remember a condominium time share presentation in Orlando, Florida in which after we had been seated in a handsomely decorated and cozy library-study setting, complete with drinks in hand, the book cases on either side of the fireplace began slowly moving. As the book cases and fireplace gave way to a video presentation that would be screened on the newly exposed wall, Tinker Bell actually flew in through the doorway on the opposite side of the room, sprinkling her fairy dust across the room and onto the newly revealed video screen as an arial shot of Disney World and Epcot Center filled the magically expanding space. That seemed as close as I might get at that point in my life to the experiences of Never Land that were waiting for me in my personal journey towards wholeness. If only it would have been as simple as purchasing a time-share in Disney’s newest resort community!

          I don’t know if Never Never Land equates with St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul or Dante’s reference to “awakening in the woods to find yourself wholly lost,” but certainly there was somewhat of a nightmarish quality to Captain Hook’s eventually falling from the gang plank in to the water and the awaiting open mouth of the crocodile.

          Some place near the “stars of the milky way” and “always at the time of sunrise”, there is a “turn just after the second star” that takes a person on a path beyond the experience of Never Never Land. Beyond reference to escapism, childishness and immortality is the experience of unity and wholeness that comes as unresolved emotional baggage is discarded and as a result, unconditional joyfulness is experienced.

          Our nightmares, as well as our dreams all exist within us. We are the creators. We can take inspiration from a fairy tale, such as Peter Pan and fall into the experience of our own surrender and opening to our own desire which provides us our own kind of beauty and richness.

          On the other side of Never Never Land, we can emerge transformed, lighter and brighter, braver and more confident for having moved through the experience of the darkness, the nightmare, or the experience of being wholly lost.

          In my reflections on Never Never Land it seems that there is continual movement between different realms of being. As infants we come to this experience called humanity and are moved between Never Never Land; Always Always Land and eventually, transformation into an experience of our own beauty and richness as spiritual beings having a human experience.

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

With Oxana on Waterloo Bridge by Gillian

In the early 1990s, right after the words glasnost and perestroika entered our vocabularies, I spent some weeks in Russia as a USAID volunteer.

I worked for a company located right in the middle of Leningrad, shortly to return to its pre-communist identity of St. Petersburg, on the edge of the Nyeva river. I had a tiny attic room in an apartment belonging to Vadim and Ludmila Desyatkov, and the wonderful Ludmila had provided me with a season pass to The Hermitage museum.

          So every lunchtime, while my male Russian cohorts tossed back a few vodkas in the nearest bar, I walked, or let the old rattling tram take me to the orgy of magnificent creations that is the Hermitage.

On my third day of discovery I walked through one of the innumerable doors into one of innumerable little rooms and found myself alone with Waterloo Bridge. Effect of Fog. By Claude Monet. Oil on canvas, 1903.

Waterloo Bridge. Effect of Fog. By Claude Monet.
Oil on canvas, 1903

I had never been so completely transported by any work of art in my life.

         I had seen prints of this painting, and I had seen enough other originals by that time to know that no print ever comes close, but for some reason this one left me speechless.

         I gazed in wonder. The lavender fog swirled around me. I felt its fuzzy coolness envelop me.

I moved forward.

I was jolted from by reverie by a shockingly loud sound behind me.

Almost unable to tear my focus from the painting, I slowly turned.

In the corner a tiny little old lady sat on what looked like an old kitchen chair. She was rapping on the ancient wooden floor with an ancient wooden cane and staring admonishingly at me from shining coal black eyes. The term giving someone the evil eye leapt into my mind.

Both my hands shot up in the air of their own free will, surrendering and simultaneously demonstrating that they had no intention of touching the painting. I felt much more fear of her than could ever have been instilled in me by one of our uniformed, armed guards.

What smattering of Russian I possessed fled from my brain. I reverted to that best of universal languages and smiled. She scowled. Those bleak black eyes continued to bore right into me.

I left.

Of course I couldn’t stay away.

And anyway, ferocious little old women abound in Russian museums. There is at least one stationed in every room, where they perch on rickety old stools and chairs, their hands never still as they slave diligently at their tatting, knitting, embroidery. There never seem to be any men, but then most Russian males wisely drink themselves to death at a considerably younger age.

I returned the next day, and those that followed, better prepared. Every day I flashed my very best smile and offered a cheery dobroye utro, which was received with the same stern glare but I remained free of cane-rapping as I drank in my new obsession from every angle, soon forgetting anyone else was there.

This was a small room, perhaps twelve feet square, and what I now thought of as my painting, hung in splendid isolation as the only work in the room. Often the little room, my room, was empty of other visitors. It was January, the weather was miserable and it was well before the start of the tourist season, in all senses, as tourism had not really reached Russia at that time.

A couple of weeks later I had made almost daily visits to my painting and had graduated to not only a Russian good morning but also goodbye and thank you in what I’m sure was a deplorable Russian accent. All I ever got in return was that evil eye.

Dasvidaniya, I said one more time, turning regretfully to leave.

Spaciba.

The wrinkled brown face broke into a wide smile.

Our relationship zoomed off into fast forward. Only three weeks of smiles went by before we graduated to light touches, a hand on an arm, and eventually an offer for me to admire her handiwork. It was some kind of doily and I was a little unclear what it would be when it grew up but I admired her embroidery skills and there was nothing fake about my oohs and aahs of praise.

Now there was no stopping her. Only a few days later she stood, placed her embroidery carefully on the vacated seat, took one of my hands in hers, held it to her old sagging breast and said, ‘Oxana Kalashnikova.’

‘Gillian Edwards,’ I solemnly replied.

Each day from then on, she rose when I entered the room, placed her embroidery neatly on the seat, took both my hands in hers and stated almost reverently,

‘Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’

‘Oxana Kashlikova,’ I replied.

These mutual assertions were followed by a nod of the head, almost a bow, in what seemed to me a strangely Japanese ceremony.

I never saw anyone else in Russia doing this, I think it was a little ritual Oxana herself devised.

And, yes, her name was actually Kashlikova, not Kalashnikova but I always preferred to think of her as the second. I know ova means daughter of, and the thought of some ancestor of hers slaving in his workshop to invent the infamous Kalishikov AK-47 greatly appealed to me.

With Ludmila’s help I began delivering small gifts to Oxana. Nothing extravagant, and mainly food in some form as Ludmila insisted that was what she would really value. After Communism collapsed, the Russian people lost the safety nets previously provided by the system and with inflation running around a thousand percent many people were desperately poor. Most of the store shelves were empty, and what food there was few could afford.

She opened the rough paper bag holding my first gift, peeked inside, and when she turned those hard black eyes to me they were filled with tears. She thanked me profusely in a stream of Russian which had no need of translation, then neatly folded over the top of the bag, placed it in her apron pocket, and resumed her work. Of course I hadn’t expected her to eat it there, the very thought of the look she would bestow on another caught eating in the museum made my blood run cold, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she would actually eat it herself, at all, or if it would be shared out meticulously among several family members or maybe slipped to a favorite grandchild.

After three months it was time to leave. With the help of my pocket calendar, which happily contained a tiny map of the U.S., and various childlike flying gestures, I conveyed to Oxana that Friday would be my last visit to my painting, and on Saturday I would fly back home.

It was with truly heavy heart that I entered my room for the last time. Three months is long enough to spend alone in a foreign country where you understand little of the language and in some ways even less of the culture. I was ready to leave, but I wanted to take my painting with me. The prospect of never seeing it again was like losing a loved one or a body part.

And, yes, the thought of never seeing Oxana again filled me with sadness. Where else would I find someone to greet me every morning with clasped hands, a little bow, and that reverent utterance,

‘Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’

I handed her my last paper bag, and without a peek she stuffed it into her voluminous pocket.  I was relieved she had not looked as I had tried to hide the last of my rubles and a $20 bill, a pearl beyond price at that time in Russia, under the stack of ponchiki, a kind of anorexic donut.

Silently she handed me a similar paper bag.

Snacks for the plane? I wondered a little hysterically.

Then I noticed that for the first time ever, she was without her embroidery.

Enough of the protocol.

I threw my arms around her, we both wept a little, and I walked out of the little room with its solitary wonderful painting watched over by its solitary wonderful guardian.

I have never managed to find a real use for that gift that means so much to me.

         But every time I look at it I see my painting, in my room, watched over by my babushka.

And her final words echo in my memory.

‘Gooood-bye, dasvidaniya,  Zjillian Ed-oo-ards.’

After I read this story to the group, Ray S. painted his own version of Waterloo Bridge for me. I treasure it. Thanks for the painting and permission to show it here.

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Over the River and Through the Woods by Gillian

As I start this, all I can guarantee is that Grandmother and her house will not enter into it, nor come to that will Mother except in the sense of Mother Russia, a phrase used by many older Russians, though perhaps not so much the younger generation.

The Beginning

In the early 1990s, right after words like glasnost and perestroika entered our vocabularies, I spent some weeks in Russia as a USAID volunteer.

I worked for a company located right in the middle of Leningrad, shortly to return to its pre-communist identity of St. Petersburg, on the edge of the Nyeva river.

I was there towards the end of the year, and for a city located at roughly the same latitude as Anchorage, Alaska, that’s not the greatest timing.

The Players

Towards the end of my weeks there, the Big Boss, Afanasiy, decided that we should take a quick overnight trip to their supplier in Helsinki, Finland. We meant me, Afanasiy and his second in command Nikoail, and the security manager Vladimir.

          The instant Communism disintegrated, the Mafia and miscellaneous other villains filled in every nook and cranny of the power vacuum. The ex-Soviet bloc was a dangerous place and all businesses had so-called Security Guards at every door, all armed with vicious-looking weapons held ever at the ready.

They were all ex-KGB and they all terrified me.

Nikolai, a delightful young man with humorous crinkly eyes, sometimes referred sardonically to Vladimir as Vlad, but only behind his back. I wished he had never done so because it had caused me to make a mental connection with a certain unlovely historical persona.

Oooh what fun! Endless hours in a car with Vlad the Impaler.

This should have been a boring journey. The whole trip is over flat, watery country with lots of trees to obscure any view there might be.

But I had already learned that little in Russia is ever boring.

I didn’t know half of it!

The Transportation

The company was struggling to get off the ground and didn’t yet rise to things like Company Cars. The next evening we gathered, after work, around Afanasiy’s old … what? I’m not sure what it was though I am sure about the “old.” Any logo denoting its make had long since disappeared from a car body of Swiss cheese.

          That thing was more holes than metal, and what metal remained was dented and rusted.

I thought it was a Lada, or perhaps a Skoda, both very common in Leningrad at the time, but on our way Nikolai began telling Trabant jokes so maybe that was it.

Why should a Trabant have a trunk heater?

So your hands don’t freeze when you’re pushing it.

What happens if you apply rust remover to a Trabant?

It disappears.

How many people do you need to produce a Trabant?

Two. One to fold and one to glue.

I, to my great relief, sat in the back with Nikolai while Afanasiy drove and Vladimir, quite literally, rode shotgun, or probably more correctly, rode AK 47.

I was unhappy, however, to find that I had a clear vision of the road below through a large hole between my feet and another one beside my knee. I have to say they gave me the best spot, though, as Nikol essentially had to prop his knees against the seat in front to stop his feet falling out of the car all together.

It was miserably cold, with wind-blown sleet buffeting the car and dirty slush splashing constantly onto our legs.

The Ticket

          We had barely reached the outskirts of the city when sirens wailed behind us and Afanasiy pulled over, plunging us into a deep ditch beside the road. He struggled out into the slush, and even in the dim light outside I saw a wad of money changing hands.

And we were on our way.

It seems that there are standard sort of “exit bribes” to get out of the city, a bit like a toll road you might say. You know you’ll be accused of speeding and you know just how much it takes to make this imagined infraction disappear.

Standard practice, not even surreptitiously performed.

The Highway

I might have tried to sleep, but the constant scream of an abused engine added to the fact that I was in a very short time frozen solid with my legs encased in an oozing mess of grimy icy slush, made success seem unlikely.

I was disinclined to relax too much anyway, as my horrified landlady had informed me that this was the most dangerous highway in Russia, and I imagine it has some pretty steep competition as all Russian drivers treat their vehicles like bumper cars at the fair.

But, alas, it was not just the combined realities of dreadful Russian drivers and dreadful Russian weather and dreadful Russian roads, and a two-lane highway serving an endless stream of trucks ancient and modern between the nearest point in the East and a newly accessible West.

No, it was the crime rate. I have since read that at that time, this was the most notorious stretch of highway in the world for murders and hijackings.

So we roared through the night, I would like to say, it has a nice ring to it, but rather we strained and groaned and choked our way along the Gulf of Finland, crossing endless little rivers and streams barely moving for the ice, and heading deeper into deep dark coniferous forests.

The Booze

The three of them were on their third bottle of vodka; one driving, one becoming maudlin beside me, and one carelessly fingering the trigger of an assault rifle. And was the safety catch on, or did they even have such things, I wondered, and wished I hadn’t.

This at least was no surprise to me as they regularly broke open the first one each day at work around eight in the morning and continued steadily thereafter.

Nikolai talked of his time as a conscript in the Soviet Army. He had been among the first troops on the ground after the Chernobyl disaster. No one had told them anything; they had no protective clothing.

He shrugged in the darkness.

“I will die soon, I think.”

“But not here,” he added with his typical cheer.

“We have Vladimir! Vladimir means immortal.” He chuckled.

“We will not die here!”

I was mighty happy to hear it.

After the fourth vodka bottle made its rounds, Nikolai and Afanasiy began to sing.

The Russian media had only recently been open to post WW11 Western entertainment and they seemed to be in a kind of fast-forward mode through it.

          They were at that time in the 60’s which was fine with me, I’m kind of stuck there too!

          We reveled in Beatles hits, and sang happily, if soggilly, through the forests.

The Toilet

I had been contemplating the indignity of screaming toalet, pohshzahloostah, after all I was in Russia and had lost all hope of dignity, when Afanasyi shouted above various car/road/weather noises,

“Taolet, dah?”

To be met by a chorus of agreement.

Oh thank you God, I thought. Even on this benighted highway there apparently was some kind of truck stop of the kind I had been expecting to see, but had not, every few minutes since we had left the city.

The car swerved suddenly to the edge of the road into a foot of dirty snow, and came to a halt.

My exaltation collapsed.

The three men scrambled from the car and politely turned their backs to me, which caused them to be highlighted by the endless stream of passing headlights.

          Zipping himself up, Afanasyi faced the car and, with a courtly bow and a gesture towards the trees, yelled,

“Djillian, dah?”

“Dah!” I agreed glumly, and crept from the car.

“What the Hell?” I thought.

“So there’s a foot of snow in the trees. I can’t feel my feet anyway so, so what?”

          I tumbled thankfully behind a reasonably sturdy tree trunk and ignored the snow, and the wind, and the endless flow of passing headlights.

Sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!

Taking additional advantage of the stop, I got my overnight bag from the trunk and put it over the hole in the floor, rested my feet on it and managed a much more comfortable and considerably drier ride as we progressed.

The Customs Checks

Next time I woke we were slowing again.

Looking out once more into the blackness, I saw a clearing in the trees.

A no man’s land from all those Cold War movies. Really! We’ve all seen them!

Miles of forests and darkness and suddenly  -  that clearing, all scrub and snow;

          and Soviet agents!

We pulled over to a dark hut with dim lights showing.

This was the first of several, I lost count of them, border crossings, most just a little shack with a metal arm across the road where a silent uniform took your passport, looked suspiciously at it and you, grunted, and returned it.

But at this one the car was searched and examined in detail. This took a cold miserable hour. We had to empty the car of every unattached item but the luggage itself was not examined; this apparently was to be the responsibility of another guard post.

Eventually we went on our way.

Only to pull over a few hundred yards ahead. Another dreary corrugated metal shed.

The luggage was dispatched onto a rickety metal table.

We were instructed to empty all pockets.

The Money

My pathetic little pile of banknotes was counted rapidly with little interest, though the amount was entered solemnly onto a form I was required to sign.

Russian rubles – 2341.

U.S. dollars – 47

My overnight case was treated with disdain and barely searched.

Then they opened up the hard-sided case brought in by Afanasyi and I stopped breathing.

Money.

It was full of money.

Cash, in the form of bundles of U.S. hundred- and thousand-dollar bills.

Just like in some bank-robbery movie.

The three guards held sub-machine guns and assault rifles swinging lazily in our direction, the triggers lightly caressed by fingers controlled, or not, by doubtlessly vodka-sodden brains.

Vladimir clutched his, aimed vaguely in their direction, in similar fashion.

It was unclear to me whether I was going to pass out or throw up or both.

In fact I just stood frozen to the spot.

We were dead.

I knew it.

Recalling my landlady’s dire warnings I knew it.

If I wasn’t immediately mown down by one or all of the four armed men in the hut, I would be shot on sight by the Mafia thugs I just knew were about to burst through the door.

Calmly, two of the guards stacked the mounds of bills on the table and counted.

Each guard openly, casually, pocketed one bundle.

Another ‘toll” along the road.

Afanasyi signed the form.

U.S. dollars – 1,277,362.

The suitcase was refilled, tossed carelessly back in the trunk, and we continued into Finland. The only thing we lost, a great relief to me, was Vladimir’s rifle, which he left at the guard hut where he would retrieve it on the return journey. He could not take it across the border.

The Ending

When I regained the power of speech I had lots of questions.

They shrugged in that typical Russian manner.

Of course they had to have cash to do business.

Nobody trusted Russians, or Russia, or its money.

So cash was king but rubles were worthless, it had to be German deutschmarks, U.S. dollars, or British pounds.

The Mafia? The gangs? The crimes on this most dangerous road?

Dah, dah! You never knew. You took your chances.

More shrugged shoulders.

Maybe next week, next month, next year.

Who knew?

I lost contact with them all years ago, but I choose to believe that they have survived.

I see there is now a high-speed train that gets you from St. Petersburg to Helsinki in just over two hours, and that includes what are apparently still lengthy checks at the border.

Do I wish such a train had been available when I was there, and that we had ridden it that night instead of spending eight hours of physical and mental anguish on the most dangerous highway in the world?

No way! After all, who wants to listen to a story about a two-hour train ride through which I sleep, and nothing worth recounting ever happens?

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Christmas Details to Remember by Jon Krey

Details: What?

          I won't get into what that word means because I'm never sure. However I'll give an example as I may have seen… it??? At least I think I've seen it. Enough Thorazine helps clear the mind.

          A couple of nights ago when it all began, it was getting ever more chilly with an early winter approaching, my friend and I decided to take our “high tea" inundated with some good ol’ pot and other pharmaceutical “party favorites.”

          On that evening we lit the seriously tilted candles above my fireplace with difficulty, put on some appropriate Christmas music and sat down. At least I think we sat down though I'm not sure.

          Anyway I think time passed though I’m not sure about that either. We talked incessantly about the nature of trees, gay dogs and cats, clocks, the Eiffel Tower, room carpeting, smoke and flowers encased in glass enclosures. Talking about glass led to other related topics including windows, windshields, wind instruments or just plain wind. I began feeling an increasingly hot breeze someplace on my body from some source. Shortly we began to notice the room temperature apparently rising though I’m sure I'd turned the thermostat down. The candle light also seemed brighter in the darkening evening. The wafting odor of wonderful burning Christmas Wax incense pervaded everything as an increasingly warm feeling crept over our bodies. I was certain our physical passion was producing the extra warmth. The fireplace was just fine, seemingly ablaze… with beautiful golden light which grew in intensity. How beautiful that seemed on such a cold evening outside. The strong odor of pine smoke joining the Christmas Wax incense. The temperature of our passion rose to such an extent it caused us to discard our clothes which in turn incited further sexual arousal… greatly. Momentarily I was pissed that the maintenance crew had failed to fix the thermostat only allowing our passion to heat us up, or… whatever. We became deeply fascinated with each others body, the ensuing sweat had become so intense we decided to move to the balcony where our love making immediately became interrupted by the serene and melodic sound of sirens below. People across the street began pointing at us (which added to our heightening arousal). Their delightful shouting made us feel like real porn stars. I wondered if we might have been a little too exhibitionist, or, not enough? Meanwhile the smell of candle wax and accompanied smoke, fog or whatever it was had raised to such a level that we decided to lower our rope ladder and leave, having forgotten about the hallway door, elevator and stairwell. Additionally, all the joyous celebratory shouting was getting on our nerves interrupting our pulsating rhythm. We tried to overlook all the falderal as just other people overcome with zealousness at a private building party. In our sexual excitement we laid down on the grass writhing in ecstasy as the area became covered with snowy flakes that smelled like burning wood. We both found that ridiculous but began noticing several very large gray featureless Christmas garlands now encircling us from several sides. They were wet too. The whole thing was ridiculous.  For some reason no one was paying much attention to us anymore either. They kept staring up at the enormous brilliantly lit Christmas tree and it's much heavier than usual smoky Christmas Wax incense. Additional strains of lovely musical siren sounds were accompanied by increasing screams of delight from observers and more seasonal gleeful shouting and frivolity. Additionally all the excitement of the huge Christmas tree light and the Christmas Wax incense had become too much for other occupants and many were running out of the building. The more elderly were either crawling or violently shoving their walkers out of the front door while others pushed their own beds outside. Some were assisted by several studs from the leather community dressed in cute dark blue and yellow clothes that looked like uniforms… hahaha. All this for a Christmas show.

          We crawled further away from the gigantic Christmas tree and all the shouting and strange siren like singing. Suddenly I noticed I’d forgotten to bring my door keys!!! But I don't suppose it mattered too much because the heat from the tree had become unbearable anyway. Boy did someone in the building know how to throw a party. Now the handsome leather men insisted we crawl into some kind of party RV, nude, dildos and all. Fun was on the way!!!  The short ride to another party bar or bath house had people we didn't know who surrounded us staring but not engaging in any affectionate embraces as we were. I couldn’t stop thinking I needed to get back home and find my damned keys. It was becoming a real hassle with all these leather guys preventing us from leaving the party. The bouncer was BIG and held us in!! Hell he even took our dildos away!

          Whatever! Eventually after much ado and sexual boredom we snuck away and began the trek home clothed in some kind of orange numbered shirts and matching pants. Guess they were some new kink outfits since they didn’t fit well.

          Where was our building? We couldn’t see since the incense smoke was still super thick in front of us.

          Altogether, what a wild holiday evening but a real pisser since I’d forgotten my keys. Besides, who were these leather guys who kept insisting we go back to the up-tight party. I didn't recognize any of them and not one made any physical overtures though they did engage us in some fun BDSM stuff with leather restrains and handcuffs. Honestly, some people can be so rude and aloof even when playing. They didn’t even bother exchanging names or phone numbers but insisted we give them ours. 

          Whatever! At least we now share a much smaller apartment with a hunky uniformed valet at a lovely metal front door equipped with a small viewing window separating us from uninvited guests. I wondered if it might be too forward to ask for a gilded chandelier to be put in place of the single naked bulb.

          I guess the moral of this story is never get loaded and forget where you left your keys. Anyway it doesn’t matter now 'cause with this smaller home we have all the goodies we need; new friends, lots of exercise, sex, daily meals, a roof over our heads, no taxes, all fresh clean clothes plus other amenities AND we get it all for free!!! I don't think we've ever been happier.

          So Merry Christmas and have a Happy New Year.

About the Author

"I'm just a guy from Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they're an illusion."

An Old Fashioned Christmas (A Satire) by Betsy

          How could Christmas NOT be my favorite holiday.  It was for me as a child an idyllic time. 

          Preparations for the festivities started early in the morning of the day before Christmas. Father would ask who wanted to go and help cut down the Christmas tree.  Of course, being a dyke, I never missed this trip. Father always let me carry the axe.  We had many trees to choose from--hundreds.  A lifetime supply of Christmas trees in the woods next to our house. 

          Father would drag the tree into the house and set it up.  There it would stand by the fireplace patiently waiting to be decorated.  Tree decorating always took place after dinner on Christmas Eve.  After helping Mother in the kitchen we would gather around the tree singing carols whilst hanging mostly handmade baubles, snowflake cut outs, strings of pop corn and cranberries.  

          Then, of course, the stockings would be hung by the chimney.  We always took great care in doing this.  My siblings and I were completely exhausted by this time of the day.

          Oh, I forgot to mention the ice skating. We always skated on our pond in the afternoon of this exciting day.  It helped to pass the time as the anticipation of all the Christmas activities was very intense.  Mother said we needed to work off our energy.

          After the stockings were hung it was off to bed.  After all, we were told, Santa would not make a stop here unless the children were asleep.

          Christmas morning was the best time of all.  We could go downstairs and empty our stockings any time we wanted.  We could not open any presents until after the family breakfast and when Father said it was time.  Then he would hand out the gifts one-at-a-time.

          Before we knew it it was time to get ready to go to Grandmother’s for Christmas dinner. It was such a fun-filled day, and we didn’t even have time to play with our new toys and it was still a fun-filled day.

          Father would go to the barn, hitch the horse to the sleigh, and park it in front of the house.  That signaled that it was time to bundle up, pile into the sleigh, and head to Grandmother’s house. It seems that there was always on Christmas morning new-fallen snow sparkling in the sunlight brightly decorating the trees as we flew through the woods on our way to Grandmother’s house.  The horse knew the way, of course.  So even Father could join in the singing most of the way.  So it was over the next hill and through a dale and we were there.  Grandmother always had the plumpest of turkeys ready for us for Christmas dinner.  Oh, and Grandmother made the best sticky pudding for dessert.  We all overate and began feeling quite sick realizing Christmas would soon be over. The party was coming to an end. 

          It’s an odd thing too.  Every year was the same.  Father never could drive the sleigh home.  I think it has something to do with his many trips to the barn or the bathroom or somewhere where he would be alone for quite a few minutes.  He said he had to take his medicine.  By the time we got to Grandmother’s he had to take quite a lot.  But that was okay because when he came back he would feel much better and be really happy--until after dinner at Grandmother’s and he was so tired he couldn’t even wake up, so Mother would have to drive the sleigh home.

          So it went for many years.  How could Christmas NOT be my favorite holiday?  Does this sound like a fantastic Christmas?  This is a fantasy Christmas.  May yours be just as merry as mine!

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.