Men and Women, by Gillian

Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then. 

Katharine Hepburn

If I remember rightly, which seems increasingly unlikely these days, we went through a phase a few decades ago when we were supposed to believe that men and woman were really not so different. It was probably a '70's thing. Then in the early 1990's along came John Gray's best-seller, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, and accepting our differences became OK again. He wrote a sequel, Why Mars and Venus Collide, in 2008, so clearly he sees no reason to back down! And for all that George Carlin responded with,

“Men are from Earth, women are from Earth. Deal with it.”

I must confess, I'm with Gray.

Now don't get me wrong. I have loved, and do love, a number of women and men; some family, some not. I always worked with a lot of men, but when I retired, long out as a lesbian, I entered an essentially female world. I found myself actively searching out ways to be around men. I had always had men in my life. I missed them. But missing men and loving men in no way suggests that I see them as some alternate version of women. Men are different. They make me different. I interact differently with them, I feel differently about them, I expect and want different things from them. Indeed, if women and men are in fact NOT very different from each other, I will make them so; at least in my own mind.

But to me the differences are glaringly, blaringly, obvious. You only have to watch groups of little girls playing, versus little boys. Surely most of us have seen it in our own families. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, are different not only because they each have unique personalities, but simply by virtue of their gender. Sure, some of it is nurture, the established norms of society, but I believe it is also, overwhelmingly, nature. If we are all basically the same, why do transgender people feel so compelling a need to be 'the other'?

Years ago, our neighbors had two little pre-school girls. Being extremely liberal parents, they determined not to channel their daughters along any pre-established gender lines. They bought them toy bulldozers and trucks to play with in the sandbox. And there they lay, rusting and abandoned while the girls played happily indoors with dolls and tea-sets.

Take one, admittedly very negative, example. Violence. Of the 12.996 murders in this country in 2010, over 90% were committed by men. Over 90% of ISIS member are men. Almost 90% of the domestic violence cases in this country are committed by men. Looking back, just in my own lifetime, at violent leaders: Hitler, Lenin, Stalin, Pot Pol and the Khmer Rouge, those responsible for the Rwanda genocide, Jim Jones and his Temple, Timothy McVeigh. All men. Not one of all our horrific school shootings was done by a woman. Nearly 90% of victims of domestic violence in this country are women. A statistic on this issue which I find truly horrifying - the number of American troops killed in Afghanistan and Iraq between 2001 and 2012 was 6,488. The number of American women who were murdered by current or ex male partners during that time was 11,766. That’s nearly double the amount of casualties lost during war. And of course it's not just women who suffer. Just look at our history of male violence against people of color and native peoples. Surely there is something other than nurture responsible here?

Testosterone springs to mind as the easy answer. But that begs another question. There is little evidence that gay men have less testosterone than straight men, so why are gay men, on the whole, not so given to violence? At least, I believe they are not, although statistics are hard to come by. Gay men, indeed, are much more likely to be the victims than the perpetrators. Dictators historically have consistently destroyed their gay populations. ISIS tosses them off roofs and stones them to death so I doubt gays are flocking to join their cause.

I have never in my life been abused personally. I have never been a victim of any kind of violence. But, tragically, that leaves me one of few outside of the straight white male population of this country, and most of the rest of the world, who can say that. I look forward to a world led predominantly by women and gay men. I truly believe it would be a better place. Unfortunately, I don't see it coming any time soon.

© May 2017

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

Dancing with the Stars, by Betsy

For what reason I do not know, but this topic brings to mind images from my childhood. We can all remember being outside in the dark of night, lying on the ground on our backs looking up at the stars. If you look at a group of stars long enough, they start to dance. At least they look as if they are dancing-jumping from here to there in a very lively fashion. Of course we know the stars are not dancing, rather our eyes or brains are playing tricks on us. But I felt that vision from the past deserved space on this page.

Another image from childhood relates to dancing, but certainly not with any stars. In about the 6th grade in my homogeneous, non-diversified community of Mt Lakes, New Jersey, a suburban very small enclave within commuting distance of New York City, most of the boys and girls in my class at school were enrolled into dancing classes at the local community church.

The dances that were taught were the fox trot, the waltz, the rhumba, and the jitterbug. This was about 1946. Perhaps our parents’ motivation for sending us to dancing school included their belief that young children should be distracted from the news reports coming out of Europe in the aftermath of the 2nd world war revealing the horrors and the reality of the conflict.

More likely our parents sent us to dancing school not so much to learn to dance well, but to prepare us to enter the social world and to learn the proper decorum and social graces needed for high school years and beyond. Anyway, it was the thing to do and all my friends attended with me on those Saturday afternoons.

This was strictly ballroom dancing of course. So equal numbers of girls and boys were needed. My partners usually were Tom Brackin and Mousey MacMillan. STARS—they were not. I preferred Tom to Mousey, but somehow I always ended up with Mousey. I never did know what his real name was……

During college and early adulthood I mostly danced with the man I eventually married and who was the father of my three children. I can’t call it dancing as I think back on it, however. It was more like a shuffling of the feet, in place, more or less, or not at all, in time with the slow, dreamy music while in a bear hug type embrace. As for the jitterbug neither one of us ever felt confident enough to do it in public in spite of the dancing lessons of earlier years.

During the two decades of raising my children, I don’t think I danced much at all. I probably didn’t even think about it. So there was a huge gap of time between the pre marriage dancing and entering the world of dancing that the lesbian bars presented.

When I came out, never mind I was middle aged, dancing became very important. I was looking for some stars. If the dance floor was the place to find my star, then on the dance floor was the place to be. In the excitement of finding myself and my new life it seems at first I was somewhat blinded —not by the stars I danced with but by the ones that were in my eyes.

As the next several years raced by I learned a lot, stuff that I had been rather sheltered from in my youth. As a fledgling lesbian, dancing was an important part of my life. This is one of the few places where, I learned, we go to meet women—places where you dance—the Three Sisters, Divine Madness, Ms. C’s.

It was at Divine Madness one night that I did in fact meet the love of my life, the one with whom I would spend the rest of my life. It was not so much the dancing. She had other qualities and characteristics that attracted me. But dancing with her was fun. Thanks to the Mt. Lakes Community Church dance classes and Mousey McMillan, I could be waltzed around the dance floor as long as she was leading and she didn’t mind that I counted under my breath—1,2,3,1,2,3— rather than trying to converse. The conversation could come later after the dance. “This woman is very special,” I thought.

“Can you do the Two-Step?” she asked one Saturday night. She, being a lover of country music was a fan of this lively jig. The only two step I had ever known or heard of was the Aztec Two Step, some unpleasant digestive ailment I picked up while traveling in Mexico one summer.

“I’m not familiar with it,” I said, “but I’m game to try if you lead and don’t mind counting aloud for me if I need help.” Yes, I did need lots of help, but somehow it didn’t matter. I was dancing with a STAR—my star— and we’ve been dancing ever since.

© 23 July 2017

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

Music, by Ricky

I like music. I like music from before the 30's, 40's, 50's, and 60's. I like certain pieces of popular music after the 50's. I haven't heard any thing DJ's play from the 90's and beyond that sounds like music; all I hear is yelling, screeching, and eardrum shattering noise. I recently learned to appreciate opera although I've enjoyed classical and Baroque music for decades. I've always enjoyed many types of music from my earliest days; here's why.

When I was about 3 or 4 years old living in Redondo Beach, CA (a bedroom community west of Los Angeles), my parents bought me my own record-player for children. It was about 10-inches wide by 8-inches long, 6-inches tall with the lid closed, and weighed about 7 pounds. The lid was white and the base was bright red. The player only played 78's. My parents also supplied me with 18 double-sided children size records, thus giving me 36 songs or stories to listen to and sing the songs while the record was playing.

While visiting my brother and sister at Lake Tahoe this past summer, I found my old record album containing a few of my childhood records. I am passing it around so you not only can see the music that started my enjoyment but also to perhaps stimulate some “ancient” memories of your childhood. I had not seen these in over 55-years so it was quite a memory shock to see, hold, and listen to them all again scratchy and juvenile as they are. Many happy hours in that album.

At the age of 5 my parents enrolled me in accordion lessons. They even got me a “loaner” child size accordion and later bought me a much larger adolescent size one. I chose to play the accordion because of watching Myron Florin play one every week on the Lawrence Welk TV show. Naturally, I had to learn to read music but my inherent laziness kicked in and I found all available opportunities not to practice. I had to be fairly sneaky about not practicing because getting caught always resulted in a spanking. I guess my parents didn't like the idea of paying for lessons that were not being productive enough; how perfectly parental that was.

At 6-years old I started 1st grade, attending the Hawthorne Christian School, I somehow ended up in a band class part of each day. They did not teach accordion there, so I switched to learning how to play the trumpet. The best I could do was making real musical type notes come out and not the amplified breathless “ppppppptttt” sounds that novice beginners make. The accordion had actual keys, one for each note, while the trumpet had three valves that had to be open or closed in cahoots with one another to make the proper note. I never did really get the hang of it so I was very grateful when the trumpet had to be returned to its rightful owner.

When I was seven, the first song by the Chipmunks came out and soon thereafter (or maybe before) came Andy Griffith's, What It Was, Football and I learned I liked humorous songs and stories on the radio.

Only a few days before my 8th birthday, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in central Minnesota. My musical preferences expanded as the birth of rock-n-roll previously had taken place. On the farm also lived my 3 ½ year older than me uncle. About 6-months after my arrival, he purchased and brought home a 45-rpm record with a song by Jimmie Rogers titled Honeycomb (my first rock song and I remember it to this day). Enamored by the song, I kept pestering my uncle to let me play it. I have no idea what song was on the flip side. Soon after, the DJ's of the day began playing Johnny Horton's Sink the Bismarck and The Battle of New Orleans and I was hooked on those styles of music.

In my school at Minnesota, 3rd and 4th grade classes had to (I mean got to) take music lessons. (We also got to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, which set me up for patriotism.) The whole class learned to play the Flute-a-Phone (now called a Recorder). We would practice different pieces of music and every year at Christmas time; all the classes sat together in the auditorium and at the appropriate place in the program, played the same piece of music, Flute-a-Phones on Parade. Do any of you remember the sound a recorder makes? A sort of high-pitched teakettle whistle which changes pitch according to which holes are covered or uncovered by the player. Back then, it sounded nice to me, but in recent performances, I have been to, it just sounded like wounded teakettles sounding off, each with a slightly different pitch and definitely without harmony, but I clapped and applauded anyway—not so much to reward the children, but because I was glad, it was finished. I guess the performance was a type of payback for what I put my grandparents through when I played.

The Christmas holiday period always filled the air and airwaves with beautiful carols and holiday music. The idea of receiving gifts of toys and other fun things (not clothes, socks, or underwear) made it easy to like the music that emphasized that Christmas Eve and day were near; using the same principle of “guilty by association”, Christmas holiday is good therefore holiday music is good. I was in a restaurant last Friday night and I began to tear-up and had a warm-fuzzy feeling all over when two of my favorite carols began to play; one was Oh Holy Night and I do not recall the other.

When the school would allow boys and girls out an hour early, IF they were going to sing in the local Lutheran Church's Christmas Pageant, I went to sing there. That's were I really learned to like Christmas songs. Of course, I already knew Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-nose Reindeer and Jingle Bells, but they were not the songs on the program, so I fell in love with all the religious carols. During practice sessions though, we were allowed to sing the fun songs they just were not on the program.

Just as I turned 10, my mother and new stepfather came to Minnesota and retrieved me. We went to live in California at South Lake Tahoe. Because I spent the majority of my time babysitting my brother and sister, I increased my reading of books to soften the boredom. Once I found my mother's record collection, and had some spending money to buy my own albums, my taste in music further expanded. My mother had a multiple record Nat King Cole album and a multiple record Bing Crosby album of Christmas songs; both were 78-rpm “platters.” My favorite was White Christmas, the song that nearly did not get sung in the movie Holiday Inn because the producers did not think it worthy but, they needed a little “filler” so, in it went and the rest is history. That particular song by Bing always brings tears to my eyes now as I look back across the years into my past.

When not reading books and magazines or playing outside with my siblings, I would be playing music. Mother had some classical stuff I liked to listen to because it was so beautiful, melodic, and organized. I also bought Vaughn Meader's First Family albums, both 1 and 2. Other favorites were Johnny Horton's greatest hits album and my patriotic nirvana music; an album of John Phillip Sousa marches of which Stars and Stripes Forever is my favorite. If you ever see me playing it, you would also see me conducting it, even if I am walking down the street listening to it on my iPod. More albums I had: The Planets, The Nutcracker, Pictures at an Exhibition, Goldfinger, Thunderball, Songs of the North & South, The War of 1812, Handel's Messiah, and one with the overture to William Tell.

Living at Lake Tahoe kept me in a sheltered environment musically speaking. The one radio station only played non-rock-n-roll music; show tunes from performers at the casinos, or movie soundtracks, or music by Bing Crosby, Pat Boone, Doris Day, Dean Martin, and the like; so, no Beatles music for me. My wife grew up a military brat so she was in love with Beatles music and owned all of their albums. I only learned to enjoy and like a limited number of their songs after we married AND as music deteriorated into the present cacophony of noise. I still like certain pieces beyond the 50's like the long version of Inna-Gadda-da-Vida and nearly all of the Beach Boys with Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins, The Righteous Brothers, and Simon & Garfunkel thrown into the mix.

As time progressed and music deteriorated, I realized that much of the 60's and 70's music I hated began to sound pretty good after all. In any case, that is how and why I ended up enjoying music of different types and quality.

© 16 May 2012

About the Author

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

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Men and Women, by Ray S

In our heritage tradition leans heavily on the Judean folk lore of Adam and Eve and how they got in trouble fooling around under the apple tree resulting in a long list of don’ts and do’s.

However, as time went by and the rational thought showed its head a number of us became “thinkers” and “questioners.” The idea of who came first, Eve or Adam was not as relevant as who is at the top of their game, and likewise.

The convenient arrangement of two sexes succeeds in the purpose of supply and demand for bodies. Many of which complete their life cycle contributing greatly to our culture, others sadly to conflict and wars. “But the beat goes on” as the song says.

The miracle of birth is that with each new being there are no two alike, physically and emotionally. Our discovery of who we are and what we can contribute to our lot is the ultimate goal of womankind and mankind.

I am reminded of the Yin and Yang—how they fit together so perfectly and yet within those two identical forms there lies myriads of different individuals bringing so very many things to the table, and there’s room for all of us at this table.

© 1 May 2017

About the Author

Fitness, by Phillip Hoyle

I certainly am no fitness fanatic. It only takes a glance to know that. But there was a two-year period in my life when I went to the gym twice a week to exercise. I started at age 41 a couple of months after the Senior Minister of our congregation unexpectedly died at age 51. Like him I had some extra weight. I knew I was in for a lot of work dealing with a mourning congregation, an interim Senior Minister (turned out to be two of them, the first one who exuded negative assessment and power, the second one who had brain damage from an automobile accident), and the adjustments to the arrival of a new Senior Minister. A choir member suggested I join with her, my wife, and the church’s Administrative Assistant at a nearby gym for a twice-weekly noon-time Super Circuit. She thought we’d enjoy it.

Super Circuit combines aerobic with strength exercises. Each one-hour session began with warm-ups. Then the over-enthusiastic leader blew her whistle to begin the circuit. I’d walk to a near-by machine, set the weight, and do 12 or 15 reps working my abs, pecs, delts, lats, quads, or another muscle group. Finishing that I’d join in jogging, jumping rope, doing chin ups (I’m sure I could do one), walking on the treadmill, pedaling my way nowhere on a stationary bike, or some other option. The next whistle blow called us to the next station just counter-clock-wise to the first. In addition to the machines, the stations included a bench press, a place to do crunches, and other techniques of self-torture. The back and forth between stations and aerobics lasted 45 minutes. No stopping. When the last whistle blew, we’d gather back in the original assembly for stretches. Then it was off to the shower room. After that our little trio would drag ourselves about three blocks to Subway for vegetarian sandwiches and a Sprite. Numb, I’d return to work.

Did I get fit? Yes. After several months, about the same time my knees quit aching, I realized I could sing with an ease I had never before achieved. I reasoned it was the combination of aerobic (breath control) and strength (core development) that served me well.

Asking “Did I enjoy it?” seems appropriate. I didn’t lose any weight but I did feel fat turn into muscle. I was amused that I pressed more weight with my legs than either of the two younger buff athletic men in the class. Myrna and Maggie dropped out after a couple of months. I persisted two years during the interim and first months of the new Senior Minister. Then I made my escape, a story I’ve already told in this group.

When I moved to Albuquerque I located a gym near the church, but they had neither Super Circuit nor showers. Since my budget was already stretched I quit fitness training and eventually signed up for voice lessons.

When at age 51 I dropped out of polite society, I went to massage school. For the next fifteen years I did exercises like I had never experienced before. When I realized I had developed my biceps and triceps, I made my kids and grandkids feel them. Grandpa was becoming more fit than ever in his life, and I got paid for doing so. Now that was years ago. I’ll make no further comment except to use a phrase I learned from the Senior Minister whose death sent me to the gym. “Don’t throw a fit and fall in it.”

© 31 July 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Journaling in the Age of Dick Pics, by Pat Gourley

I have never had the discipline needed for any form of consistent journaling or diary keeping. The closest I have ever come to writing with focus has been this SAGE Story Telling Group. I suppose you could say my writings on AIDS were a focused personal collection of my observations and reactions to that nightmare, a journaling of sorts. My AIDS writings though when looked at over nearly three decades beginning in 1981 were actually quite sparse and spread out.

Looking at my expanded title for this topic you may wonder how I am going to leap from “journal” to “dick pics”. It is not going to be very smooth but is being driven in part by a strong desire to document a few of the crazier statements, actions and proclamations, often sexual in nature, that I have run across lately in my excessive Internet browsing and cable news watching. Further documentation, as if we needed any more, that in 2017 the world has gone totally insane.

One phrase I want to immortalize in particular really sticks out and that is “ the smoke of Satan”. This one is perhaps originally credited to Pope Paul VI. He was reacting to what was, and still is, apparently quite significant ongoing and organized homosexual activity amongst the Curia in Rome. Surprise!

This smoke of Satan business has now gotten even worse under the current Pope Francis per some observers. The whole phrase was “the smoke of Satan has infiltrated the Church”. We queers have been called by many names throughout history but I must say “the smoke of Satan” may be my favorite.

I mean what does that even mean? Perhaps Satan is fond of a post-coital cigarette? Or something a bit more-kinky involving blowing smoke up someone’s ass, which is well documented in gay male internet porn often by those with a cigar fetish. I think though the phrase remains open to interpretation, let your imagination run wild.

So the next odd turn of phrase that I think deserves journaling on my part comes from a Republican Congressman named Buddy Carter from Georgia. Referring to the Senate being unable to address health care he recently said, “Somebody needs to go over there to that Senate and snatch a knot in their ass.” At first blush I thought maybe he was referring to anal beads. Pondering further I guess I again have no idea what is being referenced here. If you have Internet access and time on your hands I have included a link to an article detailing the apparently long history of the phrase. Not to cast any aspirations but it seems to be Southern in origin. http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2017/07/27/_snatch_a_knot_in_their_ass_explained.html

And of course what sort of chronicling of the salacious would not include the current vivid description of someone in the White House supposedly being pre-occupied with sucking his own dick. Though I think the comment was meant to be mean-spirited it has been great fun watching various pundits, often on live TV, trying to address this one. Several commentators, mostly women I might add, have tried in part to dismiss the act as ridiculous and physically impossible. Au contraire!

Even a cursory perusal of gay internet porn, using the search term of ‘auto-fellatio’, will show that for some it is truly quite possible to suck one’s own dick. Albeit it helps a lot to be rail thin, flexible like a yogi master and have a long shlong. This slight was directed at Steve Bannon though and of course he is most likely not well endowed, an adept yogi and certainly not rail thin.

One last mention of an activity that certainly warrants a deeper dive into the psychology of it all is the “dick pic’. The current flap surrounds again some jerk working for Fox News apparently harassing female co-workers with snaps of his junk. Without really giving it much thought I wondered if at least the first phone pic of a dick did not come from a cruising gay male. I mean after-all we have been for millennia in the forefront of facilitating hook-ups. A ‘dick pic’ certainly cuts to the chase for some and we have after all perfected the art of non-verbal sexual communication. Perhaps this is just one more thing co-opted by the straight male.

In researching this piece, and yes this did take a bit of legitimate research, I happened on this tongue-in cheek but delightful YouTube video on the history of the ‘dick pic’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_sFnktGzxCs

Enjoy!

© August 2017

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

Ghosts Are Everywhere, by Nicholas

Now, I don’t believe in ghosts. But I know that my life is full of them. I don’t mean ghosts who go around rearranging the furniture in my house or turning lights off or on. And I don’t mean ghosts that are just faint memories of past people and places. Remembering is part of it but remembering is just a mental act of recall. I mean a sense of the presence of someone or something that is not here. I mean a sense of place when you’re not in that place and haven’t been for a long, long time.

Memories can be triggers. So can sounds, especially music, and flavors and smells. The scent of patchouli always immediately takes me back to Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park in 1968. It’s a sensation, not a thought, of the past. Certain Grateful Dead songs do it, like Black Peter and Sugaree, give me more than a musical memory. Expecting to Fly by Buffalo Springfield, almost anything by the Moody Blues re-create places like funky living rooms in San Francisco flats I have lived in. I associate songs by Steve Miller with climbing Mt. Tamalpais north of San Francisco. I have no idea why. They probably ran through my mind when I was doing that.

Joni Mitchell songs are also very evocative for me. I recall walking down a street one sunny morning hearing Night in the City wafting from someone’s open window. The image has stuck with me. Sometimes when I’m in San Francisco, I walk down that same block as I did decades ago. Yes, the song is still there.

I will be in San Francisco in a few weeks. That city is full of ghosts everywhere. I am still most attached to the two cities where I know the most ghosts: Cleveland where I grew up and San Francisco where I also grew up. Denver holds few ghosts for me and the least attachments though I have lived here a long time.

Hometowns imprint themselves on your memory bank much like first impressions are said to happen with ducklings. The first things seen become the mother of all further impressions, a standard by which all experience is ranked. I guess our creative imaginations are then a blank screen ready to receive whatever pictures show up.

When I go back to my hometown, I see ghosts. The city is a fraction of the size it was when I was a kid. The crowds are mostly gone and with them, the once bustling city. Rapid transit trains that I rode as rattling, noisy and packed are now brand new, quiet and rarely packed. But I see the ghosts.

And when I really want to be with the ghosts, I go to one of the grand old cemeteries that hold members of my family and my ancestors. Those ghosts aren’t going anywhere. I can count on them staying put.

Actually, ghosts don’t move around much. In San Francisco, everybody moves frequently but the ghosts stick around. At the AIDS Memorial Grove in Golden Gate Park there are lots of ghosts. One has only to sit still and they show up. That used to be true of other places around the city but many of those—like the Trocadero disco—are gone and have become ghosts themselves. Even Castro Street has lots of ghosts on it as baby strollers have peculiarly replaced men in plaid flannel shirts.

Ghosts are fun. My ghosts are anyway. They love to dance—many of them are crazy about ABBA and, of course, Diana Ross.

When I was a kid, my father loved to tell stories about when he was a kid and his grandfather knew a bunch of old army veterans from the Civil War. Dad sat and listened as these old guys told their war stories. More than remembering and telling, they, and my dad through them, relived those experiences at each retelling. Now, I know what he felt.

© 23 April 2017

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Anxious Moments, by Louis Brown

( A ) Because Bernie Sanders told his followers to campaign for Hillary Clinton, I went to the local office of Ed Perlmutter, member of U. S. Congress, and did many hours of phone work for her. However, I felt uncomfortable doing so. Hillary Clinton, despite her consistent claims to being a liberal, really isn’t. She admires Henry Kissinger, voted for the War in Iraq and generally does not even acknowledge the existence of the liberal base of the Democratic Party. She was for the TPP before she was against it. Her opposition to the TPP was not sincere and she really never touched on the underlying hostility the TPP represents to working people in America. However, when I campaigned for her, I kept my real opinions to myself. Was this an anxious moment of an awkward situation?

( B ) When I took the course for para-legal studies at Queens College, NYC about 12 years ago, I noticed there was no real preparation to pass the final exam. Many participants told me you really did not have to know much to pass the final exam. So I did not take the final exam. And I flunked paralegal studies at Queens College. In addition to the dishonesty of the course presentation, I also noticed at Queens College (Flushing, NY) that there were virtually no Americans in attendance there – not in paralegal studies, not in the undergraduate school or the professional graduate school departments. I once saw a group of Jewish students, and I said to myself well at least there are some Jewish Americans attending college here. But as their boisterous dinner party in the cafeteria proceeded, I learned they were all from Israel, no Jewish Americans. Later I noticed there was one exception, one awkward Jewish American young man, not a part of this group, and I definitely identified with him. He was taking the paralegal course too. I doubt he passed the paralegal final exam either.

My point is that, as much as I am against xenophobia and am generally anti-Trump, I do think it is strange that the American public is not permitted to attend medical school. Trump is succeeding in appealing to people’s fears.

( C ) At Democratic Party meetings, including the Lesbian and Gay Democrats of Queens County, supporters of the AFL-CIO, like myself, remember when Democrats and the AFL-CIO spoke for the economic interests of about 80% of the American public, and, as a result, the Democratic Party flourished and was the majority party for many years. Now that the Democratic Party has dumped the AFL-CIO, they are losing dramatically elections all over the country. Many people like me know why, but our pro-labor advocacy is rarely brought up at Democratic Party meetings or at their promotional events. About 3 years ago I called the Colorado AFL-CIO and they told me they were not on speaking terms with the Colorado Democratic Party. I called the offices of Ed Perlmutter, Michael Bennet and Mark Udall, and they all told me they could not comment on what the Colorado AFLCIO said or thought about them. Why not? Because of the absence of the AFL-CIO in Democratic Party politics, you can expect their numbers in the Congress and state legislatures to decline even further. What a shame!

© 12 June 2017

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Flowers, by Lewis T

Roses are red;

Violets are blue;

Unless and until

They come into contact

With Lew.

Oh, I do have a green thumb; it’s about the color of swamp water. Laurin was the horticulturist between us. I used to fill the watering can and lift the 20-lb. bags of potting soil. He made the magic happen. When I order flowers online, they usually arrive pre-dead. A year ago, my ex-wife, who knows me well enough to know better, sent me an amaryllis. Somehow, I was able to keep it alive until it had finished blooming. I followed the directions to the letter as to how to “winterize” the bulbs and preserve them for the next blooming season. In early January, I was supposed to replant them and keep them watered until they bloomed again. I still haven’t done that. I’m afraid that they may actually recover and then I would be on the hook to watch over them for another nine months. If anyone would care to lift this burden from me, I would be happy to give them to you.

© 13 February 2017

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Assumptions, by Gillian

We all know the old saying that if you ass/u/me, you simply make an ass of u and me. I enjoy plays on words, so I like that one. It is also absolutely true. Assumptions of any kind are never safe, and we're frequently sorry. We learn pretty fast about many assumptions we should never make: the bus/plane/train will leave or arrive on time, teachers and parents are always right and life is always fair, if I always tell the truth I will be rewarded, and Mr. Right will come along and we will live happily ever after.

As we get older, we adjust to more subtle assumptions we should not make. Self-improvement books tell us not to assume everything in the world is about us; indeed, to remind ourselves on many occasions, this is not about me. Similarly the assumption we make that we constantly need to offer our opinions is erroneous. One book has an entire chapter challenging me constantly to ask myself, Why Am I Talking?

Erroneous assumptions about any given situation often turn out to be very embarrassing, even under circumstances where no-one else knows the assumptions I was making in my own heads. One of my favorite stories on these lines is from when I was somewhere in my mid-thirties. I managed an IBM department which employed several temporary employees in addition to the permanent staff. I began to notice one of the latest temporaries, a very attractive young man, eyeing me a little too often; a little too much. I groaned to myself. This was not good. I was married.

I was going to have to deal with this situation. And soon. Lo and behold, only a couple of days later, the man came into my office. He shuffled his feet and looked a little uncomfortable. Then he said,

'Sorry if you've noticed me staring at you. I'm kind of embarrassed but I have to tell you. You remind me so very much of my mother.'

And if that statement doesn't take the wind out of a girl's sails, then I don't know what does!

Although I have told the story quite often since, at the time I was so very glad that I had told no-one about this sexy young man who clearly had the hots for me!

Assumptions must change constantly with changes in time and space and circumstances, but I missed the boat on that one.

Changing political assumptions, now, another boat I missed although I did run to catch a later one. Growing up in in the extremely socialist Britain of the 1950's, I always assumes that The Government, always with a psychological capital G, had my very best interests at heart. The very existence of The Government was in order to make my life better. I never once questioned that assumption. I had no doubts. Then, in this country, I encountered the likes of Reagan and Nixon and one more assumption bit the dust. That assumption was, of course, doomed, wherever I lived. Had I stayed in the UK it would have died just as swiftly, as the socialist Britain of my youth crumbled under the weight of Margaret Thatcher's conservatism. I certainly see nothing in the current political scene that hints of any revival.

So as we age we leave a trail of broken and battered assumptions in our wake. Not that I claim to miss them much; their absence doubtless leaves me with a healthier, saner, ability to make rational decisions. But I notice, as I age, an occasional new assumption insinuates itself. I always assume, for instance, that at my time of life it is not a good idea to buy green bananas.

© March 2017

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

Birthdays, by Betsy

The following is an imaginary voice from the Universe heard inside a woman’s uterus by a viable life preparing for its day of birth.

“Now is the time for you to make your choice. You may choose from these two options: gay or straight. In other terms—homosexual or heterosexual. Before you decide let me explain the consequences of your choice.

“If you select the gay option you will have many obstacles in your life that you otherwise would not have. You will be considered abnormal by many people from the start, you could very easily find yourself being discriminated against by employers, landlords, merchants, and service providers. The law may possibly not offer any recourse for you if and when you are discovered depending on how the movement goes and the state of civil rights. You could actually be put in jail if you are found out.

“You may feel constrained to stay in the closet for a long, long time, maybe forever. That means denying your truth to yourself and to others. This could have a serious impact on your emotional and mental health—possibly on your physical health as well.

“If you try to express your sexuality and live as the person you are; i.e. live as an openly gay person, you risk your safety, security, and well being. You will keep your self esteem and self respect however. But there may be a price to pay for that.

“If you select the straight option life should be easier for you. You will derive benefits from marrying a person of the opposite sex. As a woman you will be safe if you serve him well. You will be secure if you do his bidding. You will have no difficult choices to make because they will all be made for you and to your advantage if you stay in line. The only risk for you is that you might screw up because you don’t realize that you have all the advantages.

“As I said, it’s your choice.”

The above scenario is, of course, absurd. None of this would happen because this choice is not available to us. This choice is never given to any of us before birth. We are born LGBTQ or heterosexual or gender fluid or whatever else yet to be defined—whatever else exists on the sexuality spectrum.

The choice is made when we become aware, conscious, of ourselves—our feelings, what drives us, with whom we fall in love. We make the choices later in life when we understand that there IS a choice— and that choice, as we all know, is not who we ARE by birth, but whether or not we choose to LIVE as an expression of who we are.

Personally, I understand very well the consequences of denying who I am and living as someone I am not. Once I became aware of my sexual orientation I was able to make that choice, respect myself, and be happy and fulfilled.

Those who wish to change us LGBTQ’s, punish us, put us away, or whatever, seem to imagine that we all experience the above in-utero scenario and we should be punished or, at least, forced to change because we made the wrong choice. We made the choice in-utero and were born gay yes on our first birthday, because we chose to. REALLY! Or, if they do not accept that absurdity, they want to punish us for expressing our real selves—for living as gay people.

I choose to live in a world which accepts every newborn baby for exactly what it is—everything that it is. I choose to welcome every life into this world as perfect as I did one week ago my first great grand child.

You know, I’m convinced he’s gay because of the way he waved when he was born. Then when he started primping his bald head his mother and grandmother and Auntie Gill were convinced too. He’s lucky. He knows he is loved by us all—gay or straight.

© 14 November 2016

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

The Opera House, by Ricky

With apologies to Dr. Seuss and Ogden Nash I submit for your reading pleasure (or whatever it turns out to be):

The Opera House

Come inside, Mr. Bird said the mouse
And I will show you what’s inside an opera house.
An opera house has things like stairs,
Elevators and soft cushy chairs,
But don’t sit too long or ushers will stare.

Around the pillars and down the halls
There is more to see behind these walls.
On the stage, there is much to do
Before the productions are finally through.

There are ropes, ladders, and scaffolding galore,
And canvas and cloth and curtains that reach the floor.
With pits for music and trap-doors for exits
Performers must avoid blows to the solar plexus.

In the dressing rooms beyond the stage
Many a Prima Donna hath raged.
Stagehands are waiting in the wings
For the final time the “Fat Lady” sings.

Come on, come on there’s more to see
Let us make haste I have to pee.
From gilded washrooms to golden arches
Patrons patiently check their bejeweled watches
For the time when the curtain will rise
And they can finally sit down and close their eyes.

Talking and snoring are both frowned upon
But then, so is “shushing” someone looked down upon.
An opera house is seldom austere
Many have a large chandelier
Which refracts the light with a tinkling sound,
But gives no warning before crashing to the ground.

Keep moving right along you see
Before that thing comes down on me.
Opera houses oft feel alive,
Where life and death both do thrive.
Some will house a persistent ghost
But only one is more famous than most.

Composers recollected from times long past
Now drift through air where they do bask
In the glow of the product of their life’s task.
No more than this do they ever ask,
That we the living appreciate them so,
Not one is forgotten though dead long ago.

An opera house cannot become a tomb
When so many of us come to fill the room
And keep alive the majestic tradition
Of all the castrati operatic renditions.
Farinelli, Senesino, and others all knew their position;
Was to sing beautiful arias in their unusual condition.

Do you see? Do you see? The pit fills with musicians
And the gilded boxes house the patricians.
So now, Mr. Bird, said the mouse.
You know what there is in an opera house.

Oh, I forgot to mention that it’s about time you knew,
An opera house presents operas too.
Now we must leave this beautiful place
To buy a ticket lest we lose face.
What! All sold out. Don’t fly into a rage.
Remember poor Custard is crying for a nice safe cage.

© 30 October 2011

About the Author

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

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

The Eyes of Love, by Ray

She was standing nearby, and I couldn’t stop looking at her beautiful cornflower blue eyes. Having said this to you all, it could have been the conclusion of this Story Time offering, but there was no need to apologize for my surreal intrusion because a good ‘LGBTQ’ friend greeted me with a happy ‘L’ squeeze saying, “I want you to meet my partner.” Guess Who? The pretty young thing with those beautiful blue eyes! Serendipity maybe. The two of them are to be married next winter.

That afternoon at Denver Pridefest 2017 I found four eyes of love at the AIDS Quilt exhibit. Two beautiful or should I say handsome men arrived at the desk as volunteer docents. As we talked and got acquainted it wasn’t difficult to sense they were partners, it was so evident in the way they looked at each other. To me, it said not only love but also respect for each other. What a beautiful thing to experience; and how wonderful to know and witness and enjoy these testimonies of lesbian and gay love.

Sincerely,

“None But The Lonely Heart”

© 19 June 2017

About the Author

Evil, by Phillip Hoyle

I hate capitalized words in philosophy and theology. It’s okay if those words stand at the beginning of a sentence, but even then, if it’s a word like evil or truth, I get the jitters. The problem for me goes way back to the days I was paying attention to philosophical matters related to religion. In my early twenties I came to appreciate my childhood and teen years because in church we never said what was called “The Lord’s Prayer.” We knew it because it was in the Bible, but that prayer was not said in unison as an element of weekly liturgy. I grew up in a “free church” tradition congregation. There were no liturgical prayers except a benediction song, “God be with you ’til we meet again.” Our prayers were spontaneous improvisations related to the moment.

At age 22 I took a job in an urban church that met in a modified Gothic building with medieval-looking art glass windows and aped liturgical tradition although it taught the same Free Church approach as the church of my upbringing. Because of my studies I was especially sensitive over the weekly repetition of the Lord’s Prayer, knowing it was archaic and a bad translation. In short, I did not grow up saying weekly what most Christians said, “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” I knew evil should be translated the evil one, that mythological ascription to the devil or Satan. I was not interested in such myths and fears. I had never dreamed of such a being and have still not done so. I knew there were enough real moral challenges that dwelt in me as well as in social life. I wasn’t attracted to reifying ancient language as if it were scientific. I felt I was lucky while at the same time I worked to examine the educational effects of weekly saying something one didn’t believe. No wonder people who grew up in those old-fashioned liturgical churches often rejected them. No wonder some of them claimed that religion was itself the origin of all evil in the world.

I knew unhealthy activities made up a part of my life. I knew that I was much less than perfect. I also knew perfection wasn’t my goal in life. I simply wanted to live in relationship with many people from all walks of life (to the extent that I understood life at such an early age). I wasn’t judgmental about their decisions and was more interested in my goals than in my disappointments. Also I was not interested to blame my foibles on some external power in the universe. I accepted that all persons, all organizations, all best intentions were also subject to being imperfect, that all visions of perfection were imperfect and ultimately unattainable. I focused on the ethical tradition “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” That seemed enough to me. And it still seems adequate. I do sometimes say a quiet prayer silently. Deliver me from mistaken images of evil that will invite me to pound a wedge between me and the vast world of difference such as difference of race, nationality, values, hopes, dreams, commitments, and so much more. I have too much fun meeting life as it presents itself and too little time to fret over my own or another’s evil. I do hope to love my enemies, to serve my communities in hopes of building better opportunities for all people. I do hope for a better world. But deliver me from evil? Too metaphysical for me.

© 26 June 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

September 11, 2001, by Gillian

I had signed up with Denver Museum of Nature and Science for a daylong tour of the Lakewood Brick Company on September 11th of 2001. We lived in East Denver at that time, so I left the house early for what I anticipated to be about a forty-five minute drive during the morning rush hour. I was astonished to find myself driving unimpeded along almost empty streets. Was this a holiday I had forgotten? One of those newer ones, perhaps? No. Many people were not excused work on those holidays; not enough to make for this absence of traffic. And anyway the museum would not have scheduled a tour on a holiday. I was driving my old pickup without a functioning radio, so could not get any news. I had not turned on the TV before leaving home. I was puzzled. Puzzled, but not worried. Arriving early due to this lack of traffic, I popped into King Soopers to get a snack for lunch. There was something strange about the store, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what. The few customers were standing about in small groups, talking. So, I realized, were the employees. I felt a little shiver of apprehension.

'What's going on?' I asked three women huddled together in the deli. 'Has something happened?'

That opened the floodgates. They tumbled over each other to tell me all they knew, which really was not very much. Or at least not very much for sure. Amongst all the utterances of I heard and they think and a lot of maybe this and maybe that, I gathered that a plane had been highjacked and flown into a building in New York.

'And now they think,' said one woman in a breathless whisper, 'there's another plane been highjacked, too.'

For all the lack of hard facts, clearly something really bad had happened; was happening. What to do? Should I just go back home? Were they still going to have the tour? I decided at least to check in at the Brick Company, where less than half of the scheduled number actually turned up, but we decided to go ahead with the tour as scheduled.

It simply did not work. This was before the days of everyone having a smartphone, but some had cel phones. There were constant calls home and relayings of the latest updates to the rest of us. We were all distracted, to say the least. It was the one day in our lives that we could muster absolutely no interest in the making of bricks. It took little discussion to cancel the rest of the tour and just go home.

Now we live not far from Lakewood Brick Company and pass it quite frequently. But no matter how much time passes between that terrible day and this, I never see it without feeling a lurch of my stomach. I return instantly, if only for an instant, to that feeling of nausea and fear and dread and overwhelming sadness. And if, on a very rare occasion, I find the streets unusually quiet, panic starts to grow. What's wrong? What's happened? And that's OK. I should not forget. But to me, the real tragedy of that day is what we made of it. It fills me with a despair beyond sadness. Rather than it bringing us understanding of, and even empathy for, the innocents of the world dying in their numbers everywhere every day, we used it to justify the ever-increased use of our own killing machine; to murder those same innocents. That is a tragedy truly worthy of the name.

© February 2017

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

Connections, by Pat Gourley

Once again in writing on the early years of Harry Hay’s queer activism, the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, I am relying heavily on the wonderful collection of Hay’s writings edited by Will Roscoe from 1996 and aptly called Radically Gay. Do check out Will’s web site for further info on Radically Gay and Will’s many other books and writings: http://willsworld.org

In thinking about the topic “connections” I pulled Radically Gay off my bookshelf this morning to re-explore Hay’s concept of subject-Subject Consciousness, a profound and co-equal form of human connection, as opposed to subject-to-object. In scanning the book I came across the story of Hay’s first attempt at a call-to-arms to try and get homosexuals to begin organizing themselves. This manifesto from 1948 was rather awkwardly titled: Bachelors Anonymous (Radically Gay. Page 3.). Now that is a name describing gay men I think we can all be glad did not catch on. Two years later, with his then lover Rudi Gernreich and several others, the Mattachine movement was launched and the rest as they say “is history”. According to Roscoe within a few short years there were an estimated 5,000 homosexuals in California involved in one form or the other with the Mattachine movement. Remember this would have been in the early 1950’s in the era of McCarthyism.

Many would say that Hay’s greatest contribution to the LGBTQI movement was his insistence that we are a cultural minority. To quote Hay from Radically Gay:

“We are a Separate People with, in several measurable respects, a rather different window on the world, a different consciousness which may be triggered into being by our lovely sexuality” (Radically Gay. Page 6.)

I would contend that one of the “measureable respects” in how we differ from heterosexuals is a mode of communication, a form of connection, Hay called subject-to-Subject. In a position paper he wrote in 1976, while living in New Mexico entitled, Gay Liberation: Chapter Two- Serving Social and Political Change through our Gay Window, Hay lays out his vision of subject-Subject Consciousness (Radically Gay. Pages 201-216). I encourage all Queers to get the book and read especially this chapter.

Right out of the box he owns that this essay puts forth a Gay Masculine point of view while acknowledging that Feminine Consciousness also exists but is something quite different. I will go way out a limb here and suggest that the lesbian-feminist movement of the 1960’s and 1970’ was all over this non-objectifying form of connecting woman-to-woman.

The essence of subject-to-Subject is that of equal to equal. My very simplistic interpretation of this form of consciousness is that we gay men have a leg up on the hetero world in that we as men relating to men and women relating to women are better able to approach one another as equals without the burden of centuries of institutionalized objectification and sexism i.e. crudely put “Me Tarzan you Jane’.

However, even we as gay men, as opposed to straight men, approach relating to one another with a fair amount of objectifying cultural baggage. It may not involve the competition that comes with landing a mate for procreative purposes but we do often indulge in only hooking up with someone of the ‘right age, skin color, cock size, class background’ etc. This is an area where we need to go back in our lives to that first almost always non-sexual attraction to another boy that was so electrifying. That realization that even though I am ‘other’ so is he. A genuine sense of “equal to equal, sharer to sharer”, we are truly kindred spirits. What an exhilarating form of connecting that was for so many of us.

Gay men in particular still have as much work to do in this area of personal subject-to-Subject relating as we ever have especially once the roiling hormones of sexual attraction bubble to the surface. I am not sure that Grindr could not aptly be renamed “Bachelors Anonymous”. Though that first impulse for out of the box subject-to-Subject connecting still remains and hopefully is the essence of gay liberation. It remains our real gift to the world in this age of Trump regression and insanity.

© April 2017

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

Eyes of Love, by Nicholas

The eyes of my love are blue. A pale blue. The soft blue of a summer morning sky gently waking.

They are sleepy eyes saying good morning.

Sometimes, they are smiling eyes greeting me after I’ve been away.

Sometimes, they are eyes focused on a crossword puzzle, brow furrowed. What’s a three-letter word for love, he calls out. You, I say.

Sometimes, those eyes are more gray with frustration, especially with a computer connection that just won’t work.

Other times, those eyes glare with annoyance or anger at something I did or said. We have a rule in our house: it’s OK to get mad but it is not OK to stay mad. Then we look into each other’s eyes and say I’m sorry.

There have been times when those eyes were dull and downcast and in pain while recovering from illness or a difficult surgery. Gradually, I watched the sparkle come back to those eyes.

A few times, tears have swollen up out of those eyes like the day we both blubbered through our wedding vows.

Sometimes, those eyes look up in surprise catching me just looking at him. What, he says. Oh, nothing, I say.

My favorite, of course, is when those eyes flash with desire and we tumble into one another’s arms and hold on to each other.

The eyes of my love are a pale blue. The eyes I hope to always be in.

© 18 June 2017

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Don't! by Lewis Brown

When I was in a Methodist Church last September 2016, many people in the congregation were becoming overly excited by the American election events. One of the lady parishioners, Kim, stood up and said “We go to church to worship God, that is we do not [Don’t] put our trust and hope in the princes of this world but in God only.” On one level, I agree with her. Donald Trump, as hostile as he is, is only a paper tiger as Mao Tse-Tung would have said.

Last Sunday I attended the Congregational Meeting of the Metropolitan Community Church of the Rockies (MCCR). The pastor, Rev. Dr. Gail Atchison said they were having severe financial problems. I learned for instance that the large commercial gas oven in the kitchen had “blown up,” so that they did not even have a functioning kitchen for catering and hosting events.

To be realistic, looking around, the only gay businesses that actually have any big bucks is the gay porno industry. And they would love to contribute to gay social agencies but cannot since they are considered, fairly or unfairly, to be moral if not legal criminals. The answer is a clever business man takes the contributions and launders the money legally of course and makes the cash available to our worthy causes. In the past the gay porno industry has contributed generously to AIDS related service and health agencies. Why not a new commercial gas stove for MCCR?

Some of the gay porno companies are Titan Men, Falcon Video, Raging Stallions and Hot House Videos. They have become big businesses.

At the MCCR Congregational Meeting we also discussed the currently proposed Mission Statement which, unlike the previous more militant Mission Statement, did not say “to develop a sense of community and the building up of the gay and Lesbian community.” It did speak of advocating for poor people and the homeless but was not much different from what a Congregational Church would have in its Mission Statement.

The pastor Gail Atkinson also stated that she was trying (I think heroically) to get more parishioners by scouring local community organizations one of which was the Denver Gay and Lesbian Community Center. She said that when she went there, no one had ever heard of the Metropolitan Community Church of the Rockies or of the denomination Metropolitan Community Church. Imagine, the Gay and Lesbian Center’s staff members did not even know that the gay and Lesbian Church was located about 10 blocks away from the Center building. The right hand did not know what the left had was doing. Mind-boggling. The Center staff members were also quite hesitant to promise to refer any young gay and Lesbian people to a “church” or to any church, given the assumed hostility of most churches to gay people.

Consider the Hassidic Jewish community in Brooklyn, New York. They are well organized. Their business leaders have cornered the market on the local photograph apparatus business, including the new digital cameras, and are well established in the diamond trade business, both of these businesses have become profitable. The typical Hassidic family therefore has an income from one of these businesses and lives in an apartment building owned by a Hassidic Jew so that the landlord – tenant hostility is avoided. The landlord wants the tenant to survive and thrive – for religious reasons.

So, when I hear phrases like “organize and empower the Lesbian and gay community,” I think this is what I mean. Organize like the Hassidic community in Brooklyn. They have successfully organized and the whole community has found a way to survive and thrive despite the hostility of our current politicians and hostile politicians of the past.

© 22 May 2017

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Family, by Lewis

My family of origin was a hybrid between Blondie and Sleeping Beauty—a marriage of a passive but caring father and a resentful, frustrated mother. I, as the only child, quickly learned that the combination meant that I could have a great deal of freedom to do as I pleased but that the consequences would be severe should I ever be caught crossing “the line”. It taught me to be out-of-sight so as to be out-of-mind, how to be a “people-pleaser”, and, later, how to hide my sexual identity.

My father was the oldest of four brothers growing up on a farm in south-central Kansas. I never knew either of his parents as I came along when he was thirty-five and both had passed away. How he came to be such a gentle, quiet man I can only guess. It may have been that he very early learned how to hide his pain as he quietly watched unseen his mom and pop hold each other and cry as they said “Goodbye” to the farm that was to be their legacy but lost during the Depression. It may have been the polio that he contracted as a senior basketball player in high school. For whatever the reason, he was, as a father, ill-equipped to coach a bright but shy son through the trials and tribulations of growing up gay in mid-20th Century America with a mother who was plainly—in retrospect—unable or unwilling to empathize.

© 5 September 2016

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.