Forbidden Fruit by Will Stanton

To view human beings as largely well informed and rational is sadly misleading.  Ignorance and emotion seem to have a far greater influence on people's thinking and beliefs.  We find evidence of this in all walks of life, politics, science, social issues, cultural.  This is especially true with especially sensitive or controversial topics.  People too often are even afraid to discuss some issues.  For today's topic, I decided to accept the challenge.  I have tried to be as precise, thoughtful,  and factual as possible.  Please bare with me, for this subject can not be considered in just one, glib paragraph.

When considering the topic of “Forbidden Fruit,” I imagine that we can use this  topic simply as a point of departure for ideas that can go off in many different directions.  All kinds of desires and cravings can be considered to be “forbidden fruit” depending upon what we are taught growing up.  We are profoundly affected by what we learn from parents, religion, social mores, laws of the land, and what we continually hear on sensationalized TV news.

Yet, I suppose that the one concept of “forbidden fruit” that immediately comes to mind for most people is sexual.  This is not surprising, considering that Puritan roots and Christian-Judeo perspective continue to have such a profound effect upon our nation.  Hypocritically, at the same time that many people express moral outrage at some sexual behaviors, they may actually enjoy being titillated by anything sexual, rather like naïve adolescents as opposed to thoughtful adults.  Then there is the not-surprising scientific research substantiating the fact that many bloviating homophobes actually fear their own latent homosexuality.  Ignorance, fear, loathing, and hypocrisy do not permit an insightful, constructive discourse.

When I pondered which “forbidden fruit” our current society considers to be the “most  forbidden,” I suppose that the answer must be pedophilia, the love or attraction to young people.  The term derives from the Greek philos, meaning “beloved, dear, loving,” although the suffix “philia” now has a negative connotation.  This subject has become so sensitive that most people either avoid discussing the topic entirely or they repeat the emotionally charged condemnation that they have learned without exploring the nature of, or contributing factors to, pedophilia.  In this presentation, I to try to look logically at the phenomenon.  

Both in my professional career working with people's heads, along with chance encounters over the years, I have met any number of people who have trusted me with the revelation that they feel such attraction.  Apparently, it's not uncommon, perhaps as many as several million people in the U.S. alone.  It is very important to recognize that not all pedophiles are alike.  Some are older adults, whereas others already recognize harboring such attraction upon the onset of puberty or even earlier.  Many are male; some are female.  The objects of their attraction may be boys and/or girls, who may be teens or even very young children.  Some people struggle with suppressing acting upon such attraction.  Some people sublimate their thoughts into acceptable activities.  Most therapists have little or no understanding or training in this field, and little professional assistance has been made for non-offenders.  In our society, however, any overt expression of such desire can have draconian social and legal consequences.  In my profession, I never was in the position of having to address such an attraction, nor did I consider myself thoroughly prepared to do so. That was not my field.

When acquaintances have made such revelations to me, I tried to be as reasonable and constructive in my responses as I can.  When the objects of attraction are teenagers, I do not spout the usual sound-bites of obligatory morale outrage, which would be counterproductive as well as irrational.  I try to use some sound critical thinking skills in exploring this sensitive topic, but I certainly do not have all the answers.  There is no such thing as simple answers to anything; every true answer is multifactorial.  I am, however, dismayed by the idea of abusing very young children and of pornography sites that specialize in such behavior.  That behavior is so foreign to my way of thinking that I am unable to address it other than to regard it as pathological.

Another behavior that all persons should condemn in any sexual encounter is coercion, force, or violence in any form.  The young, and especially the very young, are more vulnerable; therefore, force or violence against any young person is especially egregious, although adults are not immune to violence either.  Far too often in our society, people are the victims of rape and battery.  And, violence in many non-sexual forms continues to plague our society.  When it comes to sexual or physical attraction to teens or young adults, if someone claims to truly care about somebody or actually love that person, logically there is absolutely no place for coercion, force, or violence.

I am aware of a very disturbing fact: too often violence accompanies sexual acts, whether the partner is a woman, young man, or child.  Some percentage of those repugnant attacks well may be from undiagnosed sociopaths, but there is yet another factor that raises a very disturbing question.  I know of some cases where men were so concerned for their macho image and disturbed by their own sexual predilections that, upon completing the sexual act upon a teen or young adult, they have beaten up the weaker partner, supposedly just to prove to themselves that the attacker is no less of a man.  If one stops to ponder this fact, the question is raised: is the answer simply that the attacker just lacks the ability to feel empathy for other human beings, or has society instilled in him so much fear and loathing for his desires that he resorts to violence to expunge any feelings of guilt and shame?  To my knowledge, no research has been done in this specific area.    

What factors, therefore, can be considered in attempting to understand such attraction?  Frankly, one would be hard-pressed to find anyone in the field who might be able to provide a fairly full answer.

Understanding attraction to teens and young adults might be easier to understand.  Youth usually is equated with good health, something all people desire.  As we age, we increasingly become vulnerable to disease, injury, physical deterioration, loss of virility and athleticism, and loss of aesthetic appeal.  The often futile desire to appear young has resulted in the creation of  weight-loss clinics and gyms, skin-creams, lipstick and rouge for women, and wigs for bald men.  The hackneyed joke about middle-aged men is that they may feel compelled to buy impractical sports cars in an attempt to feel young again.

Aesthetic appeal also is a major consideration.  Studies show that people innately are attracted to fine facial features, smooth skin, full heads of hair, clear eyes, good teeth, and lean bodies.  It did not take modern psychological research to come to that conclusion.  All one needs to do is look at the statues carved by Greek, Roman, and neo-Classical sculptors, along with the paintings from the Baroque and neo-Classical periods.  The young nude obviously was admired in those times.  Our own society often avoids such fine arts, considering that so many people find such things offensive if not down-right frightening.

More than one person has raised the question about the peculiar clothing style for young males that has persisted for so long in America and even is infecting styles over-seas.  Whereas young woman often wear clothes and bathing suits that leave nothing to the imagination, with bare buttocks and mostly exposed breasts, young males have been given for many years now very baggy clothes, long gym shorts, and even baggy pants to swim in.  A swim coach recently remarked to me that trying to swim in those baggy suits is like trying to drive a car with the hand-brake on.  He must send away to order comfortable swim suits.  He wondered if people of influence have decided that the male form should be covered up; otherwise, males might garner prurient attention.  Usually, styles change fairly quickly.  In the case of baggy clothes for males, however, the cover-up seems to persist.  Is it possible that America has become so paranoid about male attraction that real swim suits and better fitting pants will never be offered for sale again?  Is it too hard for adults to control their feelings and behavior to allow such clothes?  Or, have people's thinking just become skewed?

It is sensible that, in any civilized society, simple aesthetic appeal can not be a rationale for sexual contact with too young males or females.  If the desire for contact is some subliminal hope that such contact will magically make the older adult young and attractive again, such magic does not exist.  If such contact simply is for physical gratification, having sex would be just using someone, not a real expression of love.  Using someone should not be acceptable whatever the age.  After all, human beings should have a greater sense of morality and empathy than a dog humping your leg.

It is true that young people are, in fact, sexual beings.  They are not the asexual beings as purported in Victorian England.  There is plenty of research that supports that fact, and I certainly saw much evidence of that when I was a camp counselor for two summers.  I even witnessed a couple of occasions with youths propositioned counselors.  That does not mean, however, that the adult has the green light to act upon it.

Thoughts throughout history regarding sexuality are so mixed that what is taboo is not a law set in concrete.  There have been some interesting differences in what was considered taboo and what was not.  For example in the golden age of Greece, especially in Athens and Crete, and among the aristocracy, love and sex between a young man and an adolescent boy on the cusp of puberty was not only acceptable but also admired, so long as both persons acted with dignity and responsibility. 

What was considered taboo among that society was if the man was far too old or if the boy was too young.  Interestingly enough, a boy of, say, eleven or less, probably was considered too young, not because of his immature physical development, but rather, because too much attention and admiration lavished upon the youngster possibly could skew his thinking and result in an inflated perception of himself.

The older person, of course, was required to be the mentor of the younger person and to assist in his development.  If the younger person, the eromenos, misbehaved, that was a poor reflection upon the mentor, the erastēs.  Odd by our standards today, if the mentor was of admirable class and breeding and the youth found the suitor acceptable, the man was permitted to carry out a ritual abduction of the ephebe as a celebration of the union.  Some museums today contain Greek vases with sexually explicit scenes that were gifts given by the erastēs to the eromenos. The general acceptance of, using the Greek term, paideresteia, even was idealized with myths such as of Ganymede's abduction by Zeus, and Apollo's love for Hyacinthus.  Historically famous is the union of Caesar Hadrian and young Antinous.  Of course, in today's society, such relationships would not be understood, let alone tolerated.  What questions does such a dramatic contrast in societal mores raise?

During a few centuries in Europe, men held a peculiar philosophy regarding sex and relationships in general.  To varying degrees, society then was misogynistic.  For the most part, women were second-class citizens but necessary for breeding.  Masculinity was to be admired.  Considering the uniformed state of science of the time, it was believed that the preferable maleness was equated with heat, whereas the feminine was equated with cold.  Too much contact with woman, both sexually and in daily living, could diminish a man's heat.  So in addition to any aesthetic appeal of youths, a man supposedly maintained his desired heat by not having “excessive” contact with females.  An added plus, of course, was that a union with a youth would not result in unwanted pregnancy.

There certainly is a lot of hypocrisy about pedophilia even today.  For centuries, the men of Afghanistan have had a reputation for being brutally macho and for denigrating women.   Anyone suggesting to an Afghan man that he was lacking in masculinity could cost him his  life.  Yet at the same time, Afghan tribesmen, especially the most prominent Pashtunmen tribe, enjoy having adolescent boys dress up as girls, dance for them, and then have sex with them.  These men claim that they are not gay because they do not actually love the boys; they merely use them.  I noticed that, over the dozen or so years of the Afghan war, our government, Department of Defense, and major new media have avoided mentioning this continuing tradition of dancing boys (Bacha Bazi) while our troops were supposedly bringing American-style democracy and civilization to the barbarians.

Despite severe laws in our own nation, hypocrisy has rained supreme.  At one time in New York City, for example, law-makers and political power-brokers had a private club that included having sex with underage males.  I am aware of numerous examples of persons with much money and influence doing what they please, protected by their money and power, whereas the average person tends to be in much greater danger of being caught and suffering the consequences.  What does it mean about a society that professes one thing but does the opposite for some people?

Further, what may be declared legal or illegal has varied greatly from state to state and nation to nation.  What may be declared illegal at seventeen in this nation may be declared legal in Britain, legal at sixteen in several countries including France, fifteen in some countries such as Denmark, fourteen in several countries such as Austria, Germany, and Estonia, and thirteen in Spain.  The age of consent is a legal concept, not so much a standardized psychological demarcation.  People develop physically and emotionally at different rates.  Balancing law with human nature is a tricky prospect.  How much thought has been put into this question in our own country?

Perhaps the aspect of pedophilia least likely to be discussed is the frequent claim of  “irrevocable psychological harm done” and “being scarred for life.”  When it comes to near-age partners, this assertion needs to be examined dispassionately.  Certainly, there are cases where coercion, force, or violence have resulted in trauma.  The fact remains, however, that there have been, and continue to be, short-term and long-term interactions between teens and adults that are mutually desired and apparently without the younger partner feeling “abused, molested, traumatized.”  Again, no research has been conducted in this area.

I recall cases told to me by two young men where their long-term relationships were described as very loving and rewarding.  Surprisingly enough, I also have seen comments regarding the film “For a Lost Soldier,” that centers upon such a relationship, posted on YouTube stating, “I wish that had happened with me.” 

How the two cases told to me ended raises some very important, thought-provoking questions.  In each case, each person, now of adult age, sought help from licensed psychiatrists because of family difficulties.  When the psychiatrists were told of the relationships, they (along with the families) immediately expressed the currently popular outrage.  They instructed the two to think of their experiences as “disgusting, evil, and having harmed them for life.”  Only after they were told this did they begin to feel upset.  So, the logical question is, were they each, in fact, traumatized by their experiences, or were they taught that they must feel traumatized?  Would they have felt ashamed and traumatized had those experiences occurred in the Greek era?  How much responsibility does society bare for some people feeling traumatized?  These are questions that most people fear to consider.  I don't have all the answers, but at least I have rationally considered the questions.

It is true that many people's thinking regarding sex is based primarily upon religious beliefs and current societal mores. They are not open to consideration of additional information.  Yet, it is that additional information that may help to clarify society's understanding of pedophilia.  This clarification is necessary, for pedophilia is not a rare or recent phenomenon.  It has existed throughout known history.

There is the possibility that, with some pedophiles, some basic emotional need, stemming from learned childhood experiences, prompts attraction to young people.  Also, in addition to learned experiences, modern research shows that human sexuality is not binary, male or female.  Instead,  because of dozens of differences in brain and endocrine physiology, sexual identification and attraction vary greatly among people, ranging along a wide scale.  Consequently, there appears to be some innate quality among some people prompting them to have a greater than average attraction to the young physical form.  I believe that it would be beneficial to inquire as to why this is, to see it possibly as an innate predilection among some people rather than a conscious, deviant choice. 

There is so much more than can be said about this subject, but let me finish with one last thought.  Regardless of what the contributing factors of pedophilia are, anyone with such feelings is saddled with the difficult obligation to live within the current mores and laws of the society in which he resides.  And frankly when it involves very young children, everyone should be.  Theoretically, if someone is attracted to teens, one can choose to live in a different country than ours; however, that is not so easy as, for example, feeling uncomfortable with the teachings of one church and changing to a different one nearby.

Someone troubled by his inclinations may benefit from counseling.  There are some professionals who are more understanding and sympathetic than the two I referred to earlier and who possibly can assist in dealing with such feelings.  The search may not not be easy, for most therapists have little or no training in this area, especially for non-offenders.  Ironically, the number of individuals independently seeking help recently has declined because of the fear of exposure based upon so much sensationalized coverage in the media.  The few professionals who are assigned to treat pedophiles may have a skewed view of the subject from the hard description detailed in the current Diagnostic and Statistical Manuel.       

One possibly helpful source may be found by searching on-line for a well run self-help group.  For example, a group was started by a teen pedophile who spoke in an April 11, 2014, interview on “This America Life.”  That program has a link (starting at 28:17 to 55:17.) 

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/522/tarred-and-feathered?act=2#play   

What I have presented here is only a small portion of information regarding this human  phenomenon of pedophilia.  For the sake of society as a whole and the people who are involved, a better understanding would be helpful, rather than responding just with knee-jerk condemnation.  Only when it is better understood can society and the concerned individuals begin to deal with it in a rational and constructive manner.

© 28 March 2014 

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.

The Party by Ricky

During my 13^th or 14^th year, while in 8^th or 9^th grade, A female classmate invited me to her birthday party.  Sadly, I do not remember her name, but I do remember the highlight of the party.  There were no adults present as we began to play spin-the-bottle.  Time passed excruciatingly slow while I watched the bottle top consistently spin pass me and settle on other boys in attendance – some two or three times.  We each got only one spin per turn and if the bottle stopped on the same sex or between two people, your turn was over.

According to our rules, every boy/girl partner got three minutes alone in a large storeroom.  I guess everyone was supposed to know what to do in that room, which I thought, was to “make out” but no one said anything at all to confirm that belief or to explain what was or was not expected.  Consequently, when the bottle finally stopped on me there was an awkward moment in the storeroom as we negotiated what we would do.  It turns out the girl did not know what was expected either.  We admitted that we really did not want to “make out” so we just stood there talking until the time was up.  I was not invited to another party as an adolescent.

After I married, I returned to college to finish a degree in Justice Administration.  While there, I joined Air Force ROTC.  Since I already had four years of enlisted experience, I only needed to do the last two years of ROTC classes and obtain a degree to become an Air Force officer.  The timing, although unplanned on my part, was perfect and both goals aligned precisely.

One day I read on the ROTC bulletin board that there was a mandatory “social event” at Captain Williams' home that night; casual dress.  I told my wife and we both attended.  I was somewhat bewildered upon my arrival when I did not know any of the other ROTC cadets.  It turns out that there were two Captain Williams; one Air Force and one Army.  Since I did not know either of their first names I accidently crashed the Army's social.  Captain Williams was very gracious and invited us to stay.  We did.

As we partook from the bountiful refreshments, Deborah asked me to get her some of the fruit punch.  I shortly returned with two glasses and gave her one.  I found it to be a delicious blending of various pieces of fruit, sherbet, and 7-Up.  Deborah sipped her's slowly while I “sipped” much faster and went to get another.  A short while after I returned with my second drink, Deborah had finished and asked me to get her another.  Before I left, I asked her if she liked it and she responded that she did.  I retrieved another cup of the punch for her.

After she had drunk about half of the second cup, I asked again if she really liked it.  Deborah was no dummy so she immediately got suspicious and asked me why I was asking her.  I said, “Just curious.”  She replied, “What's in it?”  I told her that there was a variety of fruit flavors but the predominant flavor was banana.  Deborah has hated bananas even before she could talk.  She communicated her dislike by spraying whatever her mother had mixed bananas into all over her mother, table, and wall.  Her mom was consistent and so was Deborah; her mother finally gave up.  At the social, she put down her punch cup and did not drink from it again.

This past New Year's Eve, I went alone to a party held in the Constitution building.  I paid my Greenbacks and entered.  All the big Whigs were there spouting the usual Anti-Federalist propaganda – sounding very Republican.  The Tories family arrived at the party wearing Bull Moose headdresses.  I thought they appeared rather Progressive but everyone else said it made them look like has-beens; so the family members promised to Reform and wear something more Libertarian in the future.  The hostess tried her best to provide nutritious refreshments which included Greens.  Some Bostonians took offense and wanted to hold their own little party in another room, but a Prohibition on violence effectively prevented them from throwing out the Tea.  A few Silver haired guests wanted to ruin People’s games by starting an Anti-Monopoly chant.  Shortly thereafter, a cadre of American Socialists demanded Justice in entertainment and began to light up the Marijuana.  The police responded when a Communist and an American Nazi engaged in fisticuffs.  I tried to have an Objectivist attitude towards all the activities, but since I value Peace and Freedom and I am a Pacifist at heart, I left the party early along with other Citizens.  All in all, it was a very Democratic affair.

© 7 January 2013  

About the Author 

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

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

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

What's Your Sign? by Phillip Hoyle

What’s your sign? I’ve been asked, but probably missed what was happening either because I don’t interpret questions as come-ons or more probably because I feel aversion to any archaic system of interpreting human behavior. I readily admit to being prejudiced in this matter. I’m wary due to my inattention to emotional signs; I just don’t read people well. I’m also wary due to Christian teaching and scientific methodology, both of which in the forms I got them rejected the reading of stars as omens. Were I asked, “What’s your sign?” I’d either want to explore these ideas intellectually or judge the person asking me as someone I’d not want to become intimate with—but those are my problems. In admitting these things I really wonder if my prejudice serves simply as one more defense to protect me from predators.

Oh I can answer: for instance, if you are interested, I’m a Cancer, but it seems such a lame sign as if I’m the victim of a diagnosis. Then to add on to that there’s the image of being a crustaceous crab or someone who walks backwards or sideways when what I really am interested in from life is that it be enjoyable. I certainly don’t want to become someone’s dinner. The Zodiac sign just doesn’t stick with me at a superficial level. This moniker Cancer, this superficial analytical device approached superficially for superficial reasons doesn’t attract me in any way.

In general, I find the Zodiac about as interesting as I find the medieval meditations on the temperaments. For me they have their place in history. I recall my good friend Gerry McMillin being put off by a book on the Zodiac and the Gospels, a volume that a student and friend lent her. When she told me she probably would return it unread, I reminded her that astrology was the astronomy of the biblical eras. I elaborated that according to the Jewish historian Josephus, a contemporary of the earliest Christian period, the Zodiac had a major architectural presence in Herod’s temple. Furthermore I added that I do think it strange that if this phenomenon was no good as in evil, Satanic, or against God, why didn’t Jesus the prophet and subject of the Gospels rail against it? He did preach against the money exchanges in the same temple. My friend was then able to read the book and somewhat see its logic. Still, like her, I’m not much interested in the Zodiac or in casual discussions of its details.

Super-rationalist me doesn’t want the imposition of magical formulae for analysis of personality type or prediction of future or fate, or… whatever. I have always been more interested in modern analytical categories, but eventually I came to see that norms established in psychotherapeutic practice, in sociological inquiry, and even in education-related developmental schemes often are used against people rather than for them. They are thought to describe the perfect person against which one must be judged rather than simply averages of assessment. Such norms are conscripted for court use in civil and criminal proceedings by both prosecutors and defenders. They are used to demean cultures different than those based on Euro-American values. And the modern behavioral norms really haven’t changed all that much from their ancient counterparts—which means they are imbued or endowed or stink of the fear of the beyond, powers over which humans have no control, and so forth. So I laugh at being asked “What’s your sign?”

Oh, I’m polite, because really I don’t know what the asker is wanting: for example, does the interlocutor simply want conversation? Not bad in itself. Does the person want an answer to easily fit me into some convenient category? I will only disappoint. Does he or she want to know me for what I am? That’s going to take more than a conversation. Is the asker on some drug that makes the esoteric knowledge afforded by the Zodiac real? I’m not at all interested. Is my inquirerer a lay pop psychologist? Still not interested. Is this person a deep thinker trying to assess me in my approach to life? This will take a long time; we’ll need many meetings and carafes of coffee and probably some wine. You see, many possibilities make me both interested and wary.

What to answer? I could say:
“I’m a Cancer but probably not in the way you mean.” or
“I’m a Cancer but not all that moody.” or
“I’m a Cancer but an unpredictable cusper.” or
“I’m a Cancer but probably not what you’re looking for.”

Now, if with dark browns enhanced by natural eye shadow and a slight downturn shape at the lateral edges that crinkle when laughing, and should those eyes look longingly into my hazels and ask: “What’s your sign?” I’ll probably not have anything to say but may really get confused and confounded by the question and not worry over why it was asked. I’ll simply say, “Sure,” and pay the bar bill and say, “Let’s go.”

© Denver, 2013

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

Dreams by Pat Gourley

I have always had a very active “dream-life”. It is hard to actually measure this for sure but it seems that at least half of my sleep is dreaming. These would be the dreams that I am aware of or can remember in the morning. The dream recollection process is not something I often bother to do and I do not keep dream journals and probably never will. I take the same stance toward my dreams that the Grateful Dead took with their music. The reason they allowed even encouraged people to tape their shows was the attitude “we are done with it and you can do whatever you want with it”. An attitude greatly facilitated by a huge repertoire of tunes often performed with unique improvisation with each rendition. I view my dreams the same way – well that was interesting but it is over and I need to get on with the day and besides I have to really pee.

Though I have always spent a good part of my night from back to early childhood dreaming a lot these nocturnal adventures seem to be in sharper focus than ever these days. Perhaps that is due to the recurrent interruption of my REM sleep with the need to get up and urinate mid-dream. Usually I am able to go back to sleep easily and it seems I swear that the dream picks up where it left off. I often think, usually in a dense fog or semi-dream-state, how exhausting is this to revisit the same idiotic situation, aren’t we done yet?

 My personal bias is that most pharmaceutical sleep aides are bad for you certainly if used frequently and particularly those that actually create an amnesiac state are not good for a healthy and vibrant dream life and may, at least in a transient fashion, contribute to waking memory loss issues. I try to live by the old Buddhist axiom that if you wake up and can’t get back to sleep it is actually a call to the cushion. Nothing like trying to meditate late at night in the dark to make you start to nod off in a hurry and for me it can be as effective as Ambien. The only time I have taken Ambien was on a transatlantic flight to Paris, which essentially resulted in me waking up in Paris feeling dopey, anything but rested, wondering at first how the hell I got here and second why no one was speaking English.

In poking around the ether a bit before writing this I was looking for a current theory on dreaming and I happened on an article from Scientific American from a few years back. A few sentences from that piece seemed at least somewhat applicable to my own dream life:

Dreams seem to help us process emotions by encoding and constructing memories of them. What we see and experience in our dreams might not necessarily be real, but the emotions attached to these experiences certainly are. Our dream stories essentially try to strip the emotion out of a certain experience by creating a memory of it. This way, the emotion itself is no longer active.  This mechanism fulfills an important role because when we don’t process our emotions, especially negative ones, this increases personal worry and anxiety. In fact, severe REM sleep-deprivation is increasingly correlated to the development of mental disorders. In short, dreams help regulate traffic on that fragile bridge which connects our experiences with our emotions and memories.

Scientific American: July 26, 2011. Sander van der Linden

It seems to me that there is some heavy-duty Zen implications implied in this explanation that I will not ruminate too much on but just say we can’t always control the shit that happens to us but we can usually choose how we react emotionally to it. Apparently dreaming may be a great and safe way to address all sorts of unfinished waking business.

Let me relate a few of the general dream themes I have personally and you are all free to psychoanalyze them or not. I most often tend to pay them little heed. The closest I come to a nightmare these days is a recurrent dream I will have about getting to the airport on time, needless to say I am frustrated at every turn and never do make the flight.

A dream I had repeatedly, now several decades in the past, was that I was going to be called on to fill in and play rhythm guitar for the Rolling Stones because Keith Richards was not able to make the show or perhaps was passed out back stage with a needle in his arm. I would awake from this in quite an agitated state just as Mick looked at me to bring the opening cords of Sympathy for the Devil or Tumbling Dice. Why this always involved the Rolling Stones and not the Grateful Dead is a bit of a mystery to me. Oh and by the way I can’t play a single cord on any type of guitar.

The only nasty type of childhood dream I really remember having involved being chased down a long hallway by some demon or the other and getting to a door that was always very big and inaccessible to me. The door of course required a key I did not have. This would seem to go on forever and never ended well.

The most vivid and intense dreams of my life followed the death of my partner David in 1995. These dreams reoccurred periodically for more than a year after his death and always had to do with my giving away his stuff and that dear old queen left me with a lot of stuff.  I actually was slowly giving his things away to friends or charity so I suppose I had those dreams coming. He was never happy with the choices I was making in dispersing his estate.

I would say that overall my dreams these days are extremely mundane and boring and rarely ever a source of consternation while occurring or upon awaking. Often they involve very mundane things about work, like did I give the right drug to the right patient or did I wind up killing someone. Something that has apparently never happened since I still have a job. I suppose I should examine for a minute a why my dreams about filling in for Keith Richards were more disconcerting to me when they were occurring than making a medication error at work and killing someone.

The closest dreams ever come these days to exciting are the rare sexual ones. Ironically these always end in a very frustrating manner with the much anticipated happy ending always just outside of my reach.  And the age-old phenomenon of a nocturnal emission never happens. But I guess a guy can dream can’t he?

© November 2014 

 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.

In Praise of Drifting by Gillian

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Frequently, drifting, as applied to people, is used negatively. There are those scruffy old bums or drifters in Depression-era movies; not anyone you want to grow up to be.

“Come on,”  parents admonish their adolescent offspring.

“You need some direction in your life. You can’t just drift!“

In the old days, and I mean even before my time, maybe people simply drifted much more than today. Sons drifted into continuing whatever trade their father had, or farming the same family acres, and marrying some vaguely distant cousin from the next valley. Many people did not contemplate these moves, they simply drifted into the next phase of their lives without considering too deeply what in fact they actually wanted. They did not have the options we have now; perhaps in fact just drifting has become a negative because, being privileged to have so many options, we are committing some act of betrayal by not taking complete advantage of them.

I didn’t see myself as drifting, in my younger days, but looking back I see clearly that I was. I drifted my way through life letting others design major life changes for me, until I came out to myself.  Then decision-making on behalf of the real me versus that character acting my part, became meaningful. But I’ve written about all that several times before and I won’t go into that again.

So, in praise of drifting.

I think most clearly, most productively, when I’m drifting in that warm pool of unconsciousness just below the waking level. I am unaware that I’m thinking, but I must be because I so often wake up with the puzzle solved, the solution at hand, the decision made, the story written. No, I haven’t taken to sleep-walking, let alone sleep-writing, but usually I decide, as I drift just below the surface, what I want to write for Story Time, or on that difficult Sympathy card, or in that note of apology.

I also love physical drifting. I lie on my back in the swimming pool, letting every muscle go limp, and just drift. I empty my brain of all thought, my body of all power, and just drift. Usually I’m bumped out of my reverie by an irritated hand or foot pushing me away, or the cold hard edge of the pool impeding my slow, aimless, motion. Drifting is not as easy as it sounds!

The first time I was married, my husband and I, and his children, lived in Jamestown, an old gold-mining town in the Foothills above Boulder. We had a horse, and the town is surrounded by National Forest. I loved to spend any free time I managed to grab, which was not much, riding along the endless trails. But this wan’t really riding, it was nothing more than sitting on the back of a horse. I rarely touched the reins, the old mare wandered wherever she wanted; we drifted. At least I did. She had very definite ideas on where she was heading. She had been trained as a cutting horse, and, having spent most of her life among them, I don’t think it had ever occurred to her that she was not, in fact, a cow. In the summer months herds summer-pastured in the forests around town, and instinct always told her where they were on any particular day. She wandered lazily in their direction. I drifted idly in the saddle. Idyllic moments. Until, reaching a certain closeness to the herd, she would, without warning, break into an excited gallop which, inevitably, tore me from my drifting state and propelled me into an equally excited grab for the reins. After cutting out a couple of resentful cows from the herd, to keep her hand in so to speak, she settled in to graze with them for the rest of her life, each time resulting in a battle of wills when I decided it was time head for the barn. But once her reluctant head was turned in that direction, she usually being the only one who knew the way home, we returned to our peaceful pattern, she wandering, me drifting.

We love to drift when Betsy and I go off on trips in our camper-van. Of course we usually have some vague plan of when and where, but we have no reservations, no deadlines. We change decisions frequently; staying longer here, less time there, ending up in a campground we had no intention of using, or didn’t even know existed. I have no desire to live like that every day of my life, but it’s wonderfully free and relaxing for a while. Just drifting.

I find, as I age, that actually I do live more like that, more of the time. It’s so much easier to do a little more delicious drifting in the latter part of life. Drifting doesn’t go down well with teachers and bosses. When you have successfully escaped their strictures, it becomes much easier to decide not to do that today, or to go there next week, or to stay a few days longer. Betsy and I both find ourselves shrugging a casual “whatever,” in answer to questions to which we would have had very definite responses not so long ago.

And of course we are all carried along, inevitably, in the Big Drift, which will deposit us, sooner or later, in the Big Sleep. We have always known this, but it hangs around the front of my mind rather more as later becomes less likely with each passing day, and sooner approaches with indecent haste. I don’t know what awaits me where the Big Drift pours over the cliffs, but I do know I will not burn in some eternal fire any more than I shall play the harp upon a cloud.

I have no fears, and find myself at odds with my adored Dylan Thomas. Perhaps, for some psyches, it is healthier to rage against the dying of the light, but I think not for mine. When that time comes I hope to drift, peacefully, towards the light.

© July 2014  

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.

Horseshoes by Deborah MacNair

When told the subject of this piece

Was horseshoes, I remember thinking, “Oh jeesh.”

“Horseshoes” it said, about them you’ll write,

But what can I say,

That won’t come out trite?

For my story you see

Is pathetic but true,

That I know almost nothing

About the horseshoe.

But one thing I know,

One claim to fame,

Folks throw them at a post,

And call it a game.

When a ringer is thrown,

You can tell at a glance,

This game requires skill,

And not random chance.

If you can’t make a ringer,

Please don’t sing the blues,

For “close enough” counts,

In the game of horseshoes.

Still one question I have,

One question it’s true,

Does the horse ever wonder,

What became of his shoes?!

© 3 March 2015

First Encounters of a Pornographic Kind by Betsy

As with any subject in the world, the internet has everything and nothing to say about pornography, I discovered as I was searching for some statistical information.   I can say “nothing” because of constantly encountering the statement that statistics on porn change daily and are basically meaningless because the numbers are impossible to gather.

 However, while reading through a particular page of information a few statements  got my attention; notably, every second that ticks by over $3,000 is spent on pornography.  Mind boggling!  And this: the porn industry as a whole in one year takes in larger revenues than Microsoft, Google, Amazon, e-bay, Yahoo, Apple and Netflix combined.  Even more mind-boggling!

Consumption of pornography as an addiction is very prevalent, I learned. But, then, that keeps the industry flourishing--even in hard times.  After reading on a bit further, I still really had next to nothing to write about pornography.

“I know, I’ll look up information on porn history,” I said to myself.

Upon turning to a page on that subject, my eyes could not help but be drawn to  an ancient picture depicting a “Priapus figure from Pompeii.”  The poor guy was shown standing there with a frontal encumbrance which would be enough to weigh down the strongest of men.  What “jumped out at me” so to speak is the caption below the picture: In ancient Rome large phali were considered undesirable for men to possess, it said, and often were depicted as such for comic effect.  Really!!  Undesirable!  I don’t believe it for a minute.   But then, what do I know? 

And then there is our Puritan culture.  Which reminds me of my loving Great Aunt Anne.   She was an adorable woman.  As I watched her age she became smaller and smaller until in her 80’s she definitely qualified as a “little old lady.”  This of course made her even more adorable.  She and my Uncle occasionally took road trips to visit various family members.  They would stay in small motels when their journey required an overnight stay.  They were tight-fisted and they always looked for the small town, family owned motel off the beaten path. This was in the 1960’s when such places existed.

On one of her visits to my house she seemed slightly off center, not really upset, but not quite herself.  Something was on her mind.  So I asked her about herself.  Was she sure she was all right?  With a very embarrassed look about her and turning her head to check who else might hear what she was about to say, she revealed that the night before in their motel room, she had had her first encounter with pornography.  She inadvertently had discovered under their bed piles of magazines--probably 50 magazines.  Being curious to read one of them, she described herself picking one up, opening it, and immediately releasing it to the floor and kicking it back to its place under the bed.  Inside, whispered Aunt Anne, were pictures depicting “oh the worst pornography you can imagine.  Pictures leaving nothing to the imagination, scenes--well, I could not even look at the pictures!” 

 Although this story took place a very long time ago, my vision of this little old lady and her first encounter with pornography will stick in my mind forever.  And truly to this day when the subject of pornography comes up my Aunt Anne is the first thing that comes to mind.

© October 2011 

About the Author  

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

Revelation by Will Stanton

“You cannot judge a book by its cover.”  This phrase itself is a hackneyed expression, yet its truth can be applied to many experiences in my life.  There certainly have been instances where, based upon surface appearances, I arbitrarily have assumed the quality or interpretation of a person or situation which, subsequently, proved to have been wrong or misleading.  Throughout my life, I also have tended to give people the benefit of the doubt unless subsequently proved otherwise.  I have assumed that people are more honest or reliable than they turn out to be, or more intelligent and better informed than they are.  Too often, I have been mislead by those people's own inflated egos, their self-assured behavior, or supposed credentials or positions of authority.  I end up being disappointed when they prove otherwise.  Those repeated revelations should have resulted in early learned lessons. 

Good looks can be very misleading, too.  Psychological studies have shown that tall, good looking people are assumed to be more intelligent, more capable, more successful, and generally happier.  I admit to having made that mistaken assumption, too.  We all are aware of any number of young, good-looking actors, for example, who became very popular and rich early on, only later to fall prey to some personal calamity such as a failed adult life of misery, an overdose on drugs or alcohol, dying in terrible car-crashes, or even committing suicide.

The most dramatic case that I'm personally familiar with is the tragic case of Ross Carlson whom I met on the Auraria campus.  Ross was especially handsome nineteen-year-old, very intelligent, and charismatic enough to have become a teacher's pet.  It was easy to wish to be  as fortunate as Ross.  It turned out, however, that Ross was suffering from multiple personality disorder.  He later shot both his parents and later died suddenly of acute leukemia.  I'm certainly glad that I was not Ross, despite his exceptionally good looks.   

I recall that, from a very early age, I was extraordinarily sensitive to beauty, and this certainly pertained to the human face and form.  I clearly recall the spring evening when I was only five years old when my brother and I joined a couple of young neighbor kids sitting on their lawn.  One boy, only a year older than I, was physically extraordinary in every way, with his finely formed face, his sensuous posture, and his graceful movements.  Looking at him, I was fascinated.  I actually felt an electric-like tingle in my stomach.  I never really got to know the boy as a person.  The family soon moved away, and I never saw him again.  So, all that I knew of him was his physical self, only the “cover of the book,” not the real “contents.”  Who knows what he really was like as a human being or what he may have turned out to be when he grew up.  His outer appearance may have not at all have reflected who he was or would be.

This hyper-sensitivity of mine to beauty most likely had some innate factor, yet I also recall a potential contributing learning-factor as well.  For some reason, I never quite felt accepted or loved as a young child.  This feeling was exacerbated by my hearing my mother saying, upon seeing one of my neighbor friends or classmates, “My, he's a good-looking boy.”  So, I suppose that I learned that, to be accepted, I had to be (quote) “a good-looking boy.”

Such a conviction and preoccupation crept even into some of my dreams.  Throughout the years starting in my late twenties and thirties, I sometimes dreamed of having the appearance I would like to have, of being years younger, sometimes perhaps back in college.  If I felt that, at a dream-age of twenty-four, I was out of place with the younger students, I'd wake up reminded of the fact that I was not even twenty four; I actually was was in my thirties.  Perhaps more interestingly, I often dreamed of being someone else entirely, younger, healthy, athletic, and good looking, sometimes even of a different nationality.  Youth, health, and beautiful outer appearance always have caught my attention.

But, outer appearances never tell the whole story.  In one extraordinarily curious dream, I saw myself as around sixteen to eighteen, not particularly tall but lean and compact, very good looking, and with dark-brown hair.  The peculiar aspect of the dream, considering that I was in rural Ohio, was that I was trying to appear to be attractive by dressing as a mock-cowboy.  In addition to  bluejeans, cowboy boots, and black cowboy hat, I also was wearing a linen shirt with an embroidered cowboy design.  In the dream, I had the distinct emotional feeling that I had dressed in this manner in an attempt to appear attractive in a young-masculine way.  That dream was so vivid and so peculiar that I remembered every moment of it.

Some years later when I was around forty, I traveled back to my hometown to visit my family.  They decided to take a long drive out into the countryside to a state park where there was a scenic hollow with a path leading to a waterfall.  The highway ran through an economically depressed area with a few tiny, neglected villages and miles of scrub forest and abandoned coal mines.  The people around there were very poor.  We arrived at the small, empty parking lot by the entrance to the hollow and gathered ourselves together to begin our nature-walk.

About this time, a worn, older-model car pulled in.  As the lone driver got out of his car, I cast a glance at him and was very startled by what I saw.  The image presented to me was so uncanny that I immediately developed a powerful feeling of déja vue.  I had seen him before, but only in my dream some years before.  The lone figure was a youth, at most around eighteen, good looking, and with brown hair.  But, what truly stunned me was what he was wearing.  He had attempted, here in the middle of nowhere in rural Ohio, to make himself look attractive by dressing as a cowboy with bluejeans, cowboy boots, black cowboy hat, and, most especially, a linen shirt with an embroidered cowboy design.  What were the chances of encountering a perfect match to what I had dreamed years before?   I was amazed.

Then, I felt something rather disturbing.  Everything about this youth and his old car with the local license plate spoke of rural poverty.  Even more poignantly, I sensed in this lone boy a life most likely of isolation in these poverty-stricken hills, quite possibly with a dismal future of educational and economic disadvantage.  Because of this strange, unexplained coincidence with my dream, I would have liked to have spoken to him, to find out who he really was as a person, to discover why he was dressed like that.  Of course, I felt that I could not do so.  I was with my family, and they would not understand or approve of my talking to this stranger.

Then reality set in.  Here was a very attractive person whom I would like to look like, that, in fact, I even had dreamed about, a mystery without an explanation.  Yet, that handsome appearance was only his outer image, the “cover of the book.”  If, by some magic, I had been  transformed into that person, I might also have ended up in a life of sadness, disappointment, and hopelessness, trapped in those depressed hills of rural Ohio.

That experience left me with two deeply ingrained impressions.  Ever since that day, I have been puzzled by the unexplained memory of encountering the same attractive person,  uncannily dressed in cowboy clothes, as I had seen in my earlier dream.  The other was the  reminder to avoid envying those individuals who appear to be especially attractive, for the lives of those individuals may not be so attractive as their outside promise.  You cannot judge a book by its cover.    

© 2 January 2014  

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.

Teachers by Ricky

Tragedy brought them together,

United by a common desire to help those in need.

Their desire entwined with emotions strong and yet tender.

They huddled around a table, while awaiting their host,

Yet were confused why this meeting was necessary.

The host arrived and addressed each by name,

“Anne, Dawn, Lauren, Mary, Rachel, and Victoria;

I see you are all here so let us begin.

Do you all understand why you are here?”

“No!” said Dawn (the others joining in),

“We all have important work to do.  People need us right now!

Sir, you must let us all go back to work—Please.”

With eyes radiating love and compassion the host looked at those

Seated around the table before he spoke.

“I perceive that you do not understand.

We have a great need for you to remain here with us.” he began.

“We need your skills, talents, abilities, and creativity.  

Your transfers are all complete,

And only your concerns need be discussed.”

He continued, “You are no longer needed in your other positions.

The people you wish to help are cared for by others but,

Those who actually do need your help,

Also are here, specifically to be with you.”

“You see our schools need teachers, administrators, staff,

And therapists too,

But only those who actually love whom they serve.

Not just anyone will do,”

The veil was lifted from their minds and understanding,

They slowly rose from their seats, kneeled, and

Thanked their host who indicated a door,

Which they passed through into a classroom.

Vicki called roll as the students from Sandy Hook Elementary

Arrived one-by-one.

In memory of those innocents lost to senseless violence.

Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Rachel D’Avino (adult), Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Dylan Hockley, Dawn Lafferty Hochsprung (adult), Madeleine F. Hsu, Catherine V. Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Nancy Lanza (adult), Jesse Lewis, Ana Marques-Greene, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Anne Marie Murphy (adult), Emillie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Lauren Rousseau (adult), Mary Sherlach (Adult), Victoria Soto (Adult), Benjamin Wheeler, Allison N. Wyatt.

© 5 January 2013

About the Author

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

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

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