Strange Vibrations, by Ray S

Muse, where are you now? I couldn’t sleep last night when we were in bed together because you refused to be still. Now you want to play hard to get.

Quickly like the dawn of a new day my tardy Muse returns upon our decision to go to the basement storage locker in search of some long forgotten item that has suddenly become indispensable.

Muse distracted me from my mission by a strange change in the atmosphere of the room. No, lights didn’t dim, floors and walls didn’t creak, and there certainly were no vibrations. Nothing so spooky and corny, just a compulsion to look into some old boxes filled with three generations of family memorabilia, treasures and trash. Some best left to rest in dusty peace, but the decision to dispatch some of it, as always it is, is more convenient to ignore the stuff—out of sight out of mind.

A high school diploma, class of 1943—the prize from surviving four traumatic years at four different high schools.

A 100-year-old, or so it seems, photo album with many faded sepia photos labeled by my mother identifying people I never knew.

A picture of my father with some of his army buddies at camp, pre-World War One. Looking closely, I could hardly recognize this pretty young boy, but it was reassuring to have met this man in his early days.

Then a letter addressed to my mother from a dear friend expressing her condolences when learning of my parents’ divorce. It was an intrusion on my part to have read the letter to its conclusion, especially when the friend indicated that the woman my father later married had been a mutual acquaintance of all of the parties. Sometimes you learn more than you needed to, but it did answer some questions and left more to remain unanswered—which is just as well.

Reminiscent of this bit of drama, up from the depths of another musty file of memories came the vibrations of the summer two weeks that conveniently located me at YMCA camp, circa 1939. Oblivious of nothing more important than trying to avoid getting knocked down with a mouth full of Lake Michigan sand while playing King of the Hill, my parents took the opportunity to drive up to camp for an unannounced visit whereupon they broke the news of their decision to divorce. And this was the beginning of my new life as a kid raised only by his mother and without the presence of a father to show him how to be a man or something other than the pansy they were blessed with.

Hindsight being the disaster that it is, the vibrations of all these many years have had their good vibes too. After Uncle Sam’s contribution to my higher education, the ensuing attempt at a good middle class married life with a wonderful wife and family, followed by my very own debutante coming out part and joining the real GLBTQ world, the boxes can continue to mustier or be more musty until little old Muse and I make another trip to the strange and scary land of TMI [Too Much Information - ed.].

So much for the strange vibrations that result in too much navel gazing and self-indulgence; it wasn’t fun while it lasted.

Fini.

© 23 May 2016 

About the Author 

Compulsion, by Will Stanton

I suppose that it is human nature for many of us to succumb to compulsive behavior. If we attempted to list every possible form of compulsion, we would be here all day.

Eating certainly is one of the most prevalent compulsions, especially in America. I once was invited by a 400-pound man to join him and a few others for dim-sung dinner. I tried to avert my eyes while he ravenously ate multiple courses, along with everything left over from other diners at the table. I will never subject myself to that kind of disturbing experience again. America is so notorious for overeating that someone posted on-line a photo-shopped image of Michelangelo's “David” supposedly after visiting here and eating too much American food.

Chunky David

I fell pray to overeating for a few years, all because of chronic stress. My partner died. He also was my business partner, and I tried to do both jobs. Further, in our profession, we were required to deal with many people's ongoing problems, which was hard enough. I also had to be concerned with professional clinical and legal liability. Worse, most competing clinics were thoroughly corrupt, making tons of money, and stealing away most of my clients. Big stress.

For a while, a little place close by, B.J.'s Carousel, became the antidote to my own stress. I must have driven by B.J.'s 10,000 times before someone told me that there was a little restaurant in the back that served solid American-style food at reasonable prices. In addition, the regular patrons and staff were exceptionally friendly and accommodating. Frequently, patrons chatted with each other from table to table, fostering a warm, supportive atmosphere. The restaurant played soft, classical music, rather than the pounding drums and screaming that most restaurants play now-days. Also in the winter, they had a pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room that made the area very cozy. That's where I would go to unwind.

Once my evening therapy groups were gone, and I had discussed each person's case with my contract psychologist, and I had prepared the individual sessions notes for the clinical files, I felt drained. I would jump into my car and race down to B.J.'s, which stayed open late, and order an excess of comfort-food - - meat, potatoes, salad, veggies, and (of course) desert. This went on for a few years, and I must have been oblivious to the consequence until it became more obvious. Fortunately, I rarely eat that way now. The fact that B.J.'s since has shut down probably removed a pit-fall from my path.

Over those many evening dinners and Sunday brunches that I had at B.J.'s, I got to know one of the other regular patrons. It turns out that this person had a life-long obsession with trains - - - real trains, model trains, train videos and DVDs, train paintings, train artifacts and clothes. He even chose what cities in which to work so that he could be around trains. His compulsion to continually buy train stuff resulted in his living in a house crammed so full that one would need a front-loader to clear it out. His having a lot of discretionary income in retirement, he could afford to buy a state-of-the-art Lionel “Big Boy” steam locomotive that lists for $3,000.

Big Boy Locomotive

I later found out that the front of B.J.'s was a bar that was known as the place where drag-queens could go and to be in occasional drag-shows. Although popular with some people, I never have had the slightest interest in that phenomenon and don't quite understand the compulsion to dress-up like that. But, I could not escape noticing them on show-nights when some of them would wander through the back restaurant. I truly admire natural beauty, but I can't say that any of those individuals fit into that category. I sense that most of them realize that they never will look like ravishing, natural beauties, and some probably dress up with some sense of satire. There may be those occasional individuals who do try to look like Hollywood models. B.J.'s, however, was not Hollywood nor Los Vegas, and I never did see anything appealingly eye-catching. Instead, homely faces, chunky bodies, big feet, ungraceful movements, and lip-syncing tended to betray any efforts to look truly attractive.

Drag-Queens

I recall one individual who, from time to time, would come stomping through the restaurant section in a most ungraceful manner, carrying high-heels, on his way to the dressing area. That poor person's face looked as though he once had suffered a bad case of acne. Between those pockmarks and his usual grumpy scowl, I might have surmised that this sad person once had worked at McDonald's and possibly had a compulsion to bob for fries.

I suppose that it is inevitable that, wherever there are drag-queens, there is a certain percentage of them who become titillated with the idea of toying with female hormones. For some time now, I have understood the theory of clinical transgender orientation, and I intellectually can handle that concept. These are the people who seriously think of themselves as the opposite gender, and their transition is carried out, over time, carefully and seriously, with the assistance and advice of professional doctors and therapists.

However, as naïve as I usually am and until recent years, I was totally unaware of the fact that, throughout the world, there is an amazingly large number of young guys whose compulsion is to take massive doses of female hormone, permanently changing their bodies but with no intention of surgically fully transitioning to female. They rashly do this with black-market hormones and without the supervision of professional therapists. Instead, they turn themselves into, what is crudely called, “shemales,” neither male nor female, but individuals with male genitalia and, in addition, breasts, wide hips, and large buttocks. These are the hybrid individuals who Robin Williams jokingly referred to as “The Swiss Army Knife of Sex.”

Finally made aware of this phenomenon, I have tried to intellectually handle well this phenomenon of hybrid gender, but I have a hard time handling it emotionally. What disturbs me most is that many of these individuals start out as very good looking young males; yet their masculinity is destroyed forever. To my personal way of thinking, that is a waste.

She Male

I also understand that such unpredictable use of hormones may not always turn out well. There was one tall, good-looking guy who decided to secretly take hormones. He told me that he always was afraid that his family might find out. Oddly enough, his day-job was as a tow-truck driver. He hid from his coworkers what he was doing by wearing heavy, loose clothes. Then he would change into women's clothing and go to B.J.'s. Later, after he had developed breasts, I overheard him lament that he was sorry that he had taken those hormones because now he no longer could take his clothes off and go swimming.

More bizarrely, I saw one evening a short, previously normally built teenager, who had been named “Miss Teen Queen,” who, from taking hormones, quickly put on a vast amount of weight and ended up with huge, bulging belly, drooping breasts, and bizarrely wide hips. I found that sight very disturbing. I was very puzzled as to why that boy had such a irresistible compulsion to so dramatically change his body. Did he imagine the results being different?

Then, a skinny, drag-queen waiter told me that he once had considered taking hormones until he saw what happened to one of his friends who had succumbed to that compulsion. His friend took lots of black-market hormones and then (in the waiter's own words) “really freaked out and totally lost it” when he saw how dramatically his body had changed and also realized that those changes were permanent, especially the expanded bone-structure of his hips. Just the idea of his doing that to himself freaks me out, especially since the friend obviously never thoroughly thought through what he was doing or sought advice from any therapists.

I guess that the “trains-on-the-brains” guy's compulsion to continually buy model trains, train artifacts and clothes, especially since he has the money to do so, is pretty mild in contrast to the kid who totally freaked out. At least, compulsive train-guy can trade or sell-off his trains if he wants to. And as for me, I can fairly safely continue my obsession with classical music by spending an inordinate amount of time playing and listening to good music. The freaked-out kid, however, will have to live a long time with the all-too obvious consequences of his compulsion.

© 06 October 2015

About the Author

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

Compulsion, by Lewis

According to Wiktionary, the word "compulsion" means "an irrational need to perform some action, often despite negative consequences". Standing up at full length and looking back upon my lifetime with eyes wide open, I can find nothing in my past that comes even close to an act that might reasonably be characterized as a compulsion.

I am reminded of a movie I once saw with the title of Compulsion. It told the story of Leopold and Loeb, the young privileged Chicagoan youths who, the 1920's, murdered a boy for the sense of power and superiority it gave them. Of course, not all compulsions are so grim but all, it seems to me, have a negative connotation. Compared to Leopold and Loeb, my fondness for candy and salty snacks seems downright trivial. Yes, such indulgences can have negative consequences but only for me. But there is nothing unnatural about liking such things, as millions feel the same way. Jaywalking can have negative consequences but it is a rational act.

[I am cutting this essay short, as my Microsoft Word is behaving irrationally and--dare I say it--compulsively.]

© 9 November 2015

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.

Compulsion, by Will Stanton

I suppose that it is human nature for many of us to succumb to compulsive behavior.  If we attempted to list every possible form of compulsion, we would be here all day.

Eating certainly is one of the most prevalent compulsions, especially in America.  I once was invited by a 400-pound man to join him and a few others for dim-sung dinner.  I tried to avert my eyes while he ravenously ate multiple courses, along with everything left over from other diners at the table.  I will never subject myself to that kind of disturbing experience again.  America is so notorious for overeating that someone posted on-line a photo-shopped image of Michelangelo's “David” supposedly after visiting here and eating too much American food.

 

Chunky David

I fell pray to overeating for a few years, all because of chronic stress.  My partner died.  He also was my business partner, and I tried to do both jobs.  Further, in our profession, we were required to deal with many people's ongoing problems, which was hard enough.  I also had to be concerned with professional clinical and legal liability.  Worse, most competing clinics were thoroughly corrupt, making tons of money, and stealing away most of my clients.  Big stress.

For a while, a little place close by, B.J.'s Carousel, became the antidote to my own stress.  I must have driven by B.J.'s 10,000 times before someone told me that there was a little restaurant in the back that served solid American-style food at reasonable prices.  In addition, the regular patrons and staff were exceptionally friendly and accommodating.  Frequently, patrons chatted with each other from table to table, fostering a warm, supportive atmosphere.  The restaurant played soft, classical music, rather than the pounding drums and screaming that most restaurants play now-days.  Also in the winter, they had a pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room that made the area very cozy.  That's where I would go to unwind.

Once my evening therapy groups were gone, and I had discussed each person's case with my contract psychologist, and I had prepared the individual sessions notes for the clinical files, I felt drained.  I would jump into my car and race down to B.J.'s, which stayed open late, and order an excess of comfort-food - - meat, potatoes, salad, veggies, and (of course) desert.  This went on for a few years, and I must have been oblivious to the consequence until it became more obvious.  Fortunately, I rarely eat that way now.  The fact that B.J.'s since has shut down probably removed a pit-fall from my path.

Over those many evening dinners and Sunday brunches that I had at B.J.'s, I got to know one of the other regular patrons.  It turns out that this person had a life-long obsession with trains  - - - real trains, model trains, train videos and DVDs, train paintings, train artifacts and clothes.  He even chose what cities in which to work so that he could be around trains.  His compulsion to continually buy train stuff resulted in his living in a house crammed so full that one would need a front-loader to clear it out.  His having a lot of discretionary income in retirement, he could  afford to buy a state-of-the-art Lionel “Big Boy” steam locomotive that lists for $3,000.

Lionel O-gauge model "Big Boy" steam locomotive

I later found out that the front of B.J.'s was a bar that was known as the place where drag-queens could go and to be in occasional drag-shows.  Although popular with some people, I never have had the slightest interest in that phenomenon and don't quite understand the compulsion to dress-up like that.  But, I could not escape noticing them on show-nights when some of them would wander through the back restaurant.  I truly admire natural beauty, but I can't say that any of those individuals fit into that category.  I sense that most of them realize that they never will look like ravishing, natural beauties, and some probably dress up with some sense of satire.  There may be those occasional individuals who do try to look like Hollywood models.  B.J.'s, however, was not Hollywood nor Los Vegas, and I never did see anything appealingly eye-catching.  Instead, homely faces, chunky bodies, big feet, ungraceful movements, and lip-syncing tended to betray any efforts to look truly attractive.

Two-drag-queens

I recall one individual who, from time to time, would come stomping through the restaurant section in a most ungraceful manner, carrying high-heels, on his way to the dressing area.  That poor person's face looked as though he once had suffered a bad case of acne.  Between those pockmarks and his usual grumpy scowl, I might have surmised that this sad person once had worked at McDonald's and possibly had a compulsion to bob for fries.

I suppose that it is inevitable that, wherever there are drag-queens, there is a certain percentage of them who become titillated with the idea of toying with female hormones.  For some time now, I have understood the theory of clinical transgender orientation, and I intellectually can handle that concept.  These are the people who seriously think of themselves as the opposite gender, and their transition is carried out, over time, carefully and seriously, with the assistance and advice of professional doctors and therapists.

However, as naïve as I usually am and until recent years, I was totally unaware of the fact that, throughout the world, there is an amazingly large number of young guys whose compulsion is to take massive doses of female hormone, permanently changing their bodies but with no intention of surgically fully transitioning to female.  They rashly do this with black-market hormones and without the supervision of professional therapists.  Instead, they turn themselves into, what is crudely called, “shemales,” neither male nor female, but individuals with male genitalia and, in addition, breasts, wide hips, and large buttocks.  These are the hybrid individuals who Robin Williams jokingly referred to as “The Swiss Army Knife of Sex.”

Finally made aware of this phenomenon, I have tried to intellectually handle well this phenomenon of hybrid gender, but I have a hard time handling it emotionally.  What disturbs me most is that many of these individuals start out as very good looking young males; yet their masculinity is destroyed forever.  To my personal way of thinking, that is a waste.        

Shemale

I also understand that such unpredictable use of hormones may not always turn out well.  There was one tall, good-looking guy who decided to secretly take hormones.  He told me that he always was afraid that his family might find out.  Oddly enough, his day-job was as a tow-truck driver.  He hid from his coworkers what he was doing by wearing heavy, loose clothes.  Then he would change into women's clothing and go to B.J.'s.  Later, after he had developed breasts, I overheard him lament that he was sorry that he had taken those hormones because now he no longer could take his clothes off and go swimming.

More bizarrely, I saw one evening a short, previously normally built teenager, who had been named  “Miss Teen Queen,” who, from taking hormones, quickly put on a vast amount of weight and ended up with huge, bulging belly, drooping breasts, and bizarrely wide hips.  I found that sight very disturbing.  I was very puzzled as to why that boy had such a irresistible   compulsion to so dramatically change his body.  Did he imagine the results being different?

Then, a skinny, drag-queen waiter told me that he once had considered taking hormones until he saw what happened to one of his friends who had succumbed to that compulsion.  His friend took lots of black-market hormones and then (in the waiter's own words) “really freaked out and totally lost it” when he saw how dramatically his body had changed and also realized that those changes were permanent, especially the expanded bone-structure of his hips.  Just the idea of his doing that to himself freaks me out, especially since the friend obviously never thoroughly thought through what he was doing or sought advice from any therapists.

I guess that the “trains-on-the-brains” guy's compulsion to continually buy model trains, train artifacts and clothes, especially since he has the money to do so, is pretty mild in contrast to the kid who totally freaked out.  At least, compulsive train-guy can trade or sell-off his trains if he wants to.  And as for me, I can fairly safely continue my obsession with classical music by spending an inordinate amount of time playing and listening to good music.  The freaked-out kid, however, will have to live a long time with the all-too obvious consequences of his compulsion.

© 6 October 2015 

About the Author 

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

Compulsion, by Gillian

At bottom, my personality is not one to encompass compulsion. I am essentially too laid back, too relaxed, and also too logical and pragmatic, to be driven to do something which is not logically in my best interest. Or, as one definition has it, against one's conscious wishes. I don't generally let myself go in that direction; and Lord help anyone who tries to push me.

Yeah, that sounds good. Like most such statements, it is not exactly the whole truth and nothing but. It needs a little qualification.

What do I know? What can I know? I who spent the first forty-odd years of life playing a part, pretending to myself and everyone else that I need not be, in fact was not, the person I was born to be. Simply acting a part, of course I was not prey to compulsion. I was not affected by really strong emotion of any kind. An actor pretends an emotion; plays at having it, but does not truly, deep down in the soul, feel it.

When eventually I came out to myself, I must honestly admit, it was completely compulsive. I have often described it as being swept up on the cow-catcher of a run-away train; going wherever it took me, without conscious choice - and that most certainly is acting compulsively.

I cared not a jot whether coming out to the world as quickly and loudly as I could was, in fact, in my best interest. Many of us, had we looked at our coming out in the clear light of logic, would probably have stayed firmly in the closet. On the whole. it was not a welcoming world awaiting us out there.

For some time after coming out, my behavior remained compulsive. For the first time in my life, I fell madly in love. And love, or at least it's for-runner, infatuation, surely is pure compulsion: we are compelled to pursue that person, to be with her every minute of every day, to make it last forever. Fortunately, as we settle into a less dramatic true love which goes so very much deeper than infatuation, we are able to swim free of that rip-current of compulsion and return to a more rational frame of mind.

I say fortunately because, as I began by saying, my personality is not really a good fit for compulsion. I am uncomfortable with it. It scares me. On the other hand, I have just said that the two best things I have done in my entire life - coming out and loving Betsy - resulted from irresistible compulsion. And now I think more about it, I'm not sure that Betsy would agree that I am so free of compulsive behavior. Yes, I am a wee bit obsessed with photography. And screaming Stop!! Turn around! at Betsy in the center lane of 80 mile an hour freeway traffic because we've just passed a perfect photo op. just might be construed as not acting in one's own best interest!

© September 2015

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.

Compulsion, by Ray S

Let’s see, where do I start? And for that matter does anyone care?

Answer: Well I do, or I wouldn’t spend the moment to write about it and let you know how my roommate and I had the be-Jesus scared out of our innocent little WASPish souls.

Late springtime in central Florida where our school was lost on some country crossroads. As soon as dinner time was over, everyone returned to their dormitories to do assigned homework and then lights out at 9:30.

“Hey Billy, they said at dinner announcement time that those students who wished to could attend a tent meeting—something called a revival. We just needed to sign up with Mr. Butler. Do you want to go? I don’t know what they do, but they sing all those goofy church songs like Brighten the Corner, In the Garden, and Jesus Loves Me. Stuff we never did when I was home.

It wasn’t a difficult choice to make; we could be excused from homework. So began our big adventure into the world of being born again. Trouble with that idea was that as two fourteen year olds we had never known our moms didn’t already do the job once. Did they leave a part out and these folks could fix it for you? I wondered if they could repair my Ranger two-wheeler; make hair grow on my chest.

The tent was full of people stomping and crying and waving their hands, and some were even dancing—which was not allowed at the school. And it sure was awful hot in that tent.

Billy and I slipped inside, by the rows of chairs with their swinging and swaying occupants, close to the tent wall and tried to disappear. I had never seen people in this state except that time my big brother took me to the movies to see “Reefer Madness.”

The singing stopped and the people sank into their chairs. Then a big man dressed in a white suit, a little black string time with beads of perspiration running down his forehead began shouting something about hellfire and brimstone—whatever that was.

We both started to wonder why we were here and what had we gotten ourselves into. And how could we escape? When several ladies all dressed in flowing white dresses—sort of like angels I guess—passed among the crowd holding out little baskets. Then they all sang a song and swayed a lot.

The big man cried out for all the little ones to come forward to receive the word. We tried to shrink into the tent wall. This was all so different and now we were being compelled to participate in an activity totally foreign to anything we had ever learned.

They made us kneel down and mumbled something. Then we were pushed aside to make room for more lambs being led to whatever. At this point Billy and I found an opening in the crowd and headed for the tent entrance.

Once into the cool evening breeze, heavy with the scent of orange and grapefruit blossoms, our familiar world came into focus and we had escaped from the clutches of hellfire and brimstone. The experience being such that if that is the way Jesus loves you, we politely declined. Stick with God is Love.

In more recent days when we are sometimes blessed with our own reasoning, I acknowledge any number of compulsive actions—some bad and some really great, at least at the time.

But ever since that formative religious compulsion, I have learned to think for myself and find my own direction to “salvation,” if that is on the timetable. All ashore who are going ashore!

© 9 November 2015 

About the Author