Three Dollar Bill, by Ray S

Possibly this has happened to you at some time. You go to the storage room in search of some sort of old legal paper stored for safety because you couldn’t tell when you might need it.

The other day this became my mission. So I was buried in a collection of storage boxes and file boxes searching for a copy of a paid mortgage.

Of course, I became completely diverted by a box of old photographs: portraits and snapshots. At the bottom of this box I found a thin blue book titled “Our Baby” complete with faded pictures and notes.

Curiosity got the best of me, so I settled down to read the writer’s detailed description of the baby’s arrival, weight (7 lbs.), length (21”), etc, as well as the mother’s pleasure about the food and rest she’d gotten in the hospital. Then there was the list of gifts and their donors, and a ribbon-tied bundle of letters and cards.

At this point I decided the latter was too much a tackle and put it back into its niche. At this point I saw a yellow envelope that had been hidden by those cards and letters.

The printed name on the envelope read “Western Union Telegraph” and was addressed to Mr. J. W. Wulf, Cleveland, Ohio. It was a copy for the sender’s file. Of course, I had to read the enclosed telegram.

The message stated:

Ray Wulf arrived 11:35 AM

Oct 19, 1926, Berwyn Hospital

Berwyn, Illinois

Baby and mother doing fine.

Signed Homer E. Sylvester

It was the everlasting three dollar bill, where or from whom it came from, but it has lasted for 90 years.

© 14 March 2016 

About the Author 

I Do Not Exaggerate, by Phillip

I felt like Johnson’s laughter was exaggerated as in too loud, too much like a billy goat’s bleating, just too obnoxious, but as I came to understand much more about him and his habits, I found his laughter a minor detraction. He was a man given to life-long drug use and alcohol abuse. He had been adopted by well-meaning parents who found they couldn’t easily relate to this new family member, could barely cope with the challenges he presented: impulse control, ADHD, bipolar swings, obsessive-compulsive behaviors, and eventual drug-induced schizophrenia. It took them decades to understand all that; it took me years to begin to fathom the dimensions of his life. Originally I knew only his manic laughter.

I met Johnson when giving free massages at an AIDS clinic. By the time I was finished giving him that first massage, I was pretty much in love with this crazy man with loud voice, boisterous laughter, and keen wit. While I observed these attributes I also became aware of his odor, first wondering why some guys came to massage without bathing and then realizing the smell wasn’t awful and then really liking it. Oh those pheromones! They cause problems for the unsuspecting.

Johnson came to the monthly massages at the clinic rather faithfully; something I only later realized must have required a focus he could barely sustain. I always smiled when I saw his name on my list for the day. As I got to know him more, heard bits and pieces of his story, came to admire his intellect, his vocabulary, and the structure of his thought (the man was no mimic, no parrot), my interest in him deepened.

Occasionally I would run into him away from the safety of the massage contract. On these occasions we would drink coffee or beer or we would simply talk. When he started coming to my apartment for his massages, I learned much more. I also found my defenses rising.

Some years into our friendship I realized Johnson’s life was becoming increasingly disorganized. For him I provided a kind of safety net I suppose; he provided me the entertainment of his stories of life in places I’d never go, for instance, sleeping on a grate in front of a public building along East Colfax, working as a cook in a restaurant while high as a kite on some drug, or getting into a drunken fight on his way home from a gay bar. When I realized he spent some of his time homeless, living on the street, I told a friend that I felt Johnson was hoping I’d invite him to live with me. I was trying to figure out how to avoid such a request.

One winter afternoon he stopped by my apartment. We talked, which of course meant we also laughed together. I fed him. After dark descended, he prepared to leave but said he needed to give me the perishables he had got at a food bank. The overnight temperature was predicted for 10° F. I realized he wasn’t simply going out to a bar; he assumed he might end up on the street and lose the perishables to frost. I told him to stay. He stayed two nights and then got into some housing through his case manager’s connections.

I started seeing the effects of the drugs he took, like the time in a massage when he wouldn’t turn over for the face-up work. He laughed with quasi embarrassment saying he’d taken X the night before. Or the time I saw him intimidate another guy who he thought was looking at him strangely. Or the time I met him at a sandwich shop and pushed food on him as he sat across from me, his eyes at half-mast. He never asked to move in with me, perhaps not wanting to have me refuse him. I came to appreciate that he treated me with respect, even love.

His difficulties increased when he got into legal trouble over drugs. Mostly Johnson seemed to live alone or perhaps he just failed to mention anyone important in his life. Finally I met a lover of his, a chef. The last time I saw this partner was when we went together to visit Johnson in prison. The incarceration served to end that affair.

I got over whatever naiveté I had when I heard the stories from him about surviving in a flophouse, living on next to nothing while he awaited disability insurance, squandering the SSI back-pay settlement on drugs, and being tied up and tortured in someone’s dungeon one happy New Years Day. He always laughed, mining each experience for its humor.

To you listeners who may be prone to exaggeration I say, “No we did not have sex.” Such was not part of our friendship although I certainly had thought about having sex with Johnson any number of times. I just was not willing to become the partner of a drug addict. I was more self-preserving than that. Oh, I loved this sucker—body, mind, personality, odors, wit, and openness. I liked that he liked and trusted me. I loved him starting with those strange pheromones, the feel of his muscles, and the beauty of his underarms. I even liked when he showed up on my table with safety pins in his nipples. I liked our hugs. I liked that he protected me from his worse times. I responded to his desperation. I loved our correspondence from his prison stays, was intrigued with his wild bad-boy personality; and I appreciated that he didn’t try to make me enter his world.

I know that some folk who knew him would think I exaggerate Johnson’s good aspects, but I believe I do not. Like every person I have known, he was a blend of good and bad. Neither attribute is absolute. For me the art of living is to find a balance that one can sustain without bringing unwanted harm to others.

Of course I am not unaware of the sometime unwanted aspects of things. I am pretty sure Johnson did not want to die from an overdose. Probably he didn’t expect the coke he took to be enhanced. Still, he certainly knew the risks. He wasn’t always wise, but in his way he lived life rather fully. I don’t defend him but, I did love him in ways appropriate, and that is no exaggeration at all. 

© 12 Mar 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

A Looming Wrinkle, by Pat Gourley

I am going to approach the topic of Wrinkles with a bit of a wrinkle and write from a secondary definition of the word and that would be ”snag”. A wrinkle can be a snag rather than the latest distressing line on my face or ass.

The potential snag I’d like to address is the slowly emerging effort to take the “T” out of LGBT. I am linking to a recent provocative piece from The Independent, a British newspaper, entitled Why it’s time to take the T out of LGBT written by Katie Glover. Ms. Glover is a transgender woman and editor of the transgender and drag publication Frock Magazine: http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/why-its-time-to-take-the-t-out-of-lgbt-10493352.html

She starts right out of the box exposing the myth, quite prevalent even in the LGB community, that transgender folks are gay. Most are not and in fact the percent that are is likely no more than the percent of the general population that is gay or lesbian. Glover goes on to point out that being gay and being transgender are two very different things that should not be mixed up.

Historically it made survival sense for trans folks to hitch their wagon to the larger gay movement where they received at least some modicum of acceptance or dare I use the much more loaded and perhaps offensive word: tolerance. Times though have changed and with the transgender closet door swinging wide open and their numbers swelling a tipping point has perhaps been reached and it’s now time to break away from the LGB’s.

A poignant example from Glover’s piece of the confusion that exists in the lesbian and gay community around trans folks was the recent appearance of Caitlyn Jenner on the Ellen DeGeneres show. Ellen was quite surprise by Caitlyn’s lukewarm stance on same sex marriage.  Cait was trying to explain to Ellen that she was a traditionalist on matters of marriage, though she has evolved somewhat from the more strident view she held prior to transitioning.

If this movement for the trans community to severe ties with the LGB’s continues to gain steam it may prove to be quite the painful wrinkle. One component of why this will be difficult for gays and lesbians to accept might be the weirdly pejorative views straight society have foisted on us with terms like sissy and tomboy. That gay men are effeminate and lesbian’s masculine butch dykes is still a prevalent and false meme today. This simplistic and totally incorrect view of who we are I think may have and still is contributing to lots of confusion around gender.

Perhaps I am wandering a bit into the bushes here but it seems that many, perhaps most, folks who are transitioning are like Caitlyn Jenner moving towards their true self and that being one of the two established and traditional genders, male and female. Maybe this potential breakaway of T’s from the LBG ‘s might prompt us to view ourselves as third or fourth gender. Here I am of course borrowing from the thinking of Harry Hay on such matters.  Harry always encouraged us to view ourselves as other and distinctly different in very fundamental ways from our straight bothers and sisters.  Only by exploring and discovering these differences would we get a handle on who we really are.

This may be way too much to take on these days, that would be third and fourth genders, when we as a community and society as a whole seem so confused on the two genders we already perceive. This daunting task aside perhaps we should just start with a suggestion from the Glover piece again where she states: “LGB’s and T’s are getting a little too close for comfort. It might be time to cut the cord”.

I would personably view this breakaway of the T’s as a golden opportunity to once again retrench from the assimilationist trips of marriage and the military and refocus on the task of exploring who we really are, where we came from and what we are for. Maybe we LGB and T’s really are a bunch of wrinkles lending much needed texture and nuance to the human race, snags be damned.

© 14 Sep 2015 

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.

True Colors - Take a Walk in the Grove, by Nicholas

          I want to tell a story today that involves one of our own, a member of this group. It’s about a group of people who showed their true colors in their loyalty to one friend and created a unique space for our entire community. Along the South Platte River on the edge of downtown Denver, is an area of Commons Park designated as a spot to remember those who have died of HIV/AIDS and their caregivers. It’s called The Grove and it is one of only two AIDS memorial gardens in this country—the other is in San Francisco. Our own Randy Wren was part of that group that labored for seven years to make it happen.

          The Grove started with one man’s vision. Doug McNeil knew of the memorial grove in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and asked, literally as his dying wish, why can’t Denver create such a spot. Doug died of AIDS in 1993, a time when the LGBT community was focused more on the battle to undo the infamous Amendment 2 than on the AIDS epidemic. Amendment 2, passed by Colorado voters in 1992, prohibited any government or government agency in this state from enacting any provisions to ban discrimination against lesbian and gay people. (There’s an excellent exhibition on that history outside this door in The Center’s lobby.) And it was a time of still rampant AIDS phobia.

          A small group of Doug’s friends vowed to carry out his dream for The Grove. They weren’t the usual gaggle of community activists and politicos. They included socialites, arts community supporters, an attorney, and an Episcopal priest. Most were not gay. They organized a non-profit group called The Grove Project, got 501c3 IRS status so they could collect funds, and began the long process of taking on the bureaucracy of the city’s Parks Department.

          The Parks Department never openly rejected the idea but negotiations dragged on for years. At first, the area in front of the performing arts complex on Speer Blvd was proposed. The city objected that theatre and concert goers wouldn’t want to be reminded of the awfulness of AIDS on their nights out on the town. Another location in a park in southeast Denver was suggested but that would have left the memorial far from the Capitol Hill neighborhood that was most affected by AIDS.

          At some point, the riverfront came into the discussion. At that time, the area was just beginning to be developed. There was a quiet, somewhat out of the way spot in a new park—Commons Park—that the city was planning. That fit the criteria of being visible, centrally located and quiet enough to promote the atmosphere desired.

          The Grove was envisioned to be a natural area for contemplation. It was landscaped very simply with trees, natural grasses and shrubs, and some rocks. A simple inscription reads: “Dedicated to the remembrance of those who have lost their lives to AIDS and to their loving caregivers who helped them live out those lives with dignity.”

          The Grove was dedicated in a simple ceremony in August 2000. Doug McNeil’s loyal and persistent friends accomplished his dream after seven years of work.

          Now, The Grove sits largely ignored and sort of neglected in a recessed corner of Commons Park, near 15^th Street and Little Raven Street. It is surrounded by high priced condos and apartments but it is still a quiet and attractive area.

          Recently, a movement got underway to renew the spot, clean it up, refresh the landscaping and, most importantly, make the community aware that this historical and spiritual resource exists. In recalling all the individuals who battled, and continue to battle AIDS, we remember how our community grew from that experience. We remember those we’ve lost. We remember when being gay changed from just giving the most fabulous parties to a truly mature community of caregivers and advocates. We remember our past and that we have a history. A history that is the root of our present and future.

          I encourage everyone to seek out The Grove and spend a few quiet moments there remembering. And maybe you can help in its renewal. You too can show your true colors.

© 2016 

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.

All Writing is Experimental, by Gillian

If writing is based on life, and I don't know what else we'd base it on, then surely it must be experimental because all life is experimental. And not just human life; what is evolution, after all, but a series of experiments? Trouble is, real life experiments can be painful; just think of all those critters who ended up on the wrong side of the evolutionary experiments.

Whammo! Extinct!

Betsy and I read, somewhere, in some pop-psych book, that we should all look at life as an experiment and therefor lighten up. Rather than castigating myself for moving back to Podunk, Iowa, and consequently being miserable and wanting nothing more than to return to Denver, what a stupid mistake, why did you do such a stupid thing, etc. etc., I should shrug and say, ”Oh well, just an experiment. Rather surprising results; not quite what I expected.”

and move happily back to Denver. We both rather liked the concept. Putting yourself down because you made a dumb mistake, a bad decision, resolves nothing. It was an experiment. You cannot fail an experiment. The result just is, and you go from there.

The problem is, even though you perhaps are free from beating up on yourself, that experiment was darned expensive: financially and emotionally. Often for others as well as yourself. Your girlfriend was devastated that you didn't care enough to stick around. On the other hand, neither did she care enough to go with you. Relationship over. You sold the condo that you so enjoyed. And now, by some quirk of fate, it seems to require twice as much money as you sold it for, to buy anything remotely equivalent. That move to Podunk has cost you a bundle, regardless of whether you call it an experiment or a stupid mistake.

On the other hand, in defense of experiments, there are indeed many situations which might well be improved by being seen as experimental. The one that leaps into my mind, is marriage. What else can it be? Two kids barely out of school promise to love and be faithful to each other for what may well be the next seventy years. How intimidating is that? How realistic is it? Clearly not very, given our less than 50% success rate. Wouldn't it make a whole lot more sense to promise to give this experiment your very best shot, and see what happens. How much lighter, less intimidating, that would feel. Perhaps under such circumstances, marriages would actually have a better chance of survival. That institution needs a shot in the arm. I say we try it. Life truly is a continuous series of experiments. We might as well face it.

Aaaah! But writing, now, that really is free, except for my time. And harmless. Spending three hours, or three months if it comes to that, writing something which eventually falls victim to the delete key, is probably just as beneficial to me as that which triumphantly ends up at the print command. The process is as valuable as the end result. It's all a series of experiments which result in a string of surprises.

Sometimes I sit down at the keyboard with a firm plan in place. I know how I'm going to start, where I meander to from there, and how it will end. All I have to do is put down the words and that, for me, is usually the easy part. Other times I place my fingers on the keys and my mind is a complete blank. I haven't managed to form one thought about the topic on which I plan to write. I flex my fingers as if preparing to play the piano, and wait for the music to start. From this point on, whether I have a clear plan in my head or no thoughts at all, everything comes a surprise. Who knows where this experiment will lead?

My fingers start to move; slowly at first, then faster. The cymbals clash. A crashing crescendo. Silence falls. I look back to see what I have actually written. It's fantastic! I love it! It's godawful. It's crap! Most often it's somewhere in between. What's that whole paragraph about? Delete. Need to explain this better. Insert. That word isn't just, quite, exactly, right. A gentle man. No. A quiet man? No. A calm man. Calm. That's the word I'm looking for. And, in finding the right word, I see him differently. A wonderful, totally unexpected, result of this experiment.

Writing, from the grand design to every single individual word or even punctuation, is all an experiment; trial and error. I rarely, even on occasions when I have a complete plan, end up where I intended. Well! I sit back and re-read what I wrote. Who'da thunk? I ask myself. Who knew I thought that? Apparently my fingers did. They are the ones who seem to know where we're going. Not me. I just evaluate and tweak it when they're done.

The topic we have chosen to write about is an experiment in itself. Some I look on with approval. I know exactly how to approach that. Others I stare at blankly and want to strangle whoever dreamed that one up. But in reality, some of the topics I can't seem to raise any interest in generate what I judge as good stories; some of the topics I love end up somewhere in the mediocre.

A while back I read a novel, can't of course recall either the title or the author, which was honestly kinda boring. It was long and moved slowly, but I persevered. You know how it is sometimes with a book like that? You have to finish it because it really can't be as bad as you think it is and eventually you'll get it. Sometimes you don't, and you wonder how the thing ever got published. But this one had such a twist in the tail, or tale, that I still remember it and in spite of a good deal of boredom to be suffered I would recommend it. If I could remember what it was, that is! The point is, I found myself wondering about the author's process in this particular experiment. Did she (yes, I do recall it was a woman) plan it that way all along. The reader must plod on through this rather uninviting story, being set up, really, for the dramatic shocker at the end, making the effort worthwhile after all? Or did she get towards the end of her writing and have to accept that in all honesty it was pretty boring. Who would read it? It would get bad reviews. It would end up being sold for 10% of it's original price, on Amazon, amongst all the other dismal failures. And she was clever enough to dream up a way to save it with the surprise ending?

Reams have been written about how famous writers planned their work, from the intricacies of James Joyce to the ball-point scrawls of Rowling, to Faulkner, who famously outlined his

fiction on the walls of his study, in-between bottles of bourbon. But I would be willing to bet, no matter how well established and researched the plan, every day of writing brought with it a myriad of surprises and adjustments. Writing, like any artistic creation, is an experiment whether you're at the very top of the game or a rank amateur, just struggling to put one word in front of another.

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

Color Truth, by Eym

Rainbows display more colors than we may ever know.  As with human beings, the parade of true colors in nature out marches the imagination of anyone.

Some sort of green tulip leaves now flop upward above the dull yet crunchy brown dirt.  They pose near a plastic white fence my dogs and I pass.  We walk by them into many shades of gray pavement.  My little pals reveal shiny ebony with trim of yummy caramel tan.  Tires, like shoes on cars, stand there. Though also black, tires show a different tint next to my short dog boys.  For some reason the cars perching in their stalls display shades of gray pavement.

I do not understand why any safety minded person would make cars the same color as pavement or cement roads.  Perhaps some gone-wild logic of marketing believes that pavement gray cars look convincingly more road worthy.  Maybe we actually need to hide from a hoard of unseen sky marauding aliens that peer down at us as we travel about.  Both of these angles seem to overlook the obvious interpretation I make.  It is harder to safely see gray cars on gray roads.

Amid my gray worry, I must admit I have never walked into any of these gray cars resting there in parking lot 3.  This suggests that even in plain ole boring gray the variety of colors out runs my imagination.  The challenge of trying to match greens while in art school served to restate the same humbling truth.

By standard description our rainbow offers only six colors as it glows against the special backdrop of generous rain clouds.  This short sided summary leads us to miss a good deal of natural wonder.  Springtime will soon give us new encouraging colors.  Could it be that part of this surprise, year after year, stems from the unrealized diversity of true colors in flowers.

It is always springtime when we are really getting know another person, or when we are becoming the person we truly can be.  Just like flowers and rainbows, an amazing variety of true colors unfold in a lovely endless surprise of creation.

© Feb 2016

 

About the Author

A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.

Where in the World is Nowhere?, by Betsy

Once a week now for three years I have sat down to write on some topic for the Sage Telling My Story group.  These are the steps I take to accomplish that task. First I mull the topic over in my mind and come up with an idea. “Oh, I know,” say I, “I’ll write about the time that........., or I’ll write about my parents, or I’ll write about my trip to......, or I’ll write about coming out to my sister, or I’ll comment on the last election.” Many, many ideas have come to mind. Next, I sit down at my computer and start writing.

A few sentences appear on the screen.  The next step is that I say to myself, “This is going nowhere.”  Well, now that I’m writing about nowhere, I find that today my writing actually has a place to go. Of course, we all know that to say this is going nowhere means there is nothing more to say about this event or this person or this feeling or this whatever I’m writing about.  However in this case I can at least describe what “nowhere” looks like to me.

 In the case of composing a so-called story entitled “Nowhere,” now that I am at stage three of the writing process, I find that what “nowhere” looks like in a piece of writing is “nothing.” It looks like nothing, a blank page, an empty mind, no way to tie anything together or to relate the ending to the beginning thoughts.  A void.

Speaking of a void, the question comes to mind: What is nothing. Is there such thing as “nothing?”  That brings me to the subject of the cosmos. We used to think that space was nothingness. But it turns out that where there appears to be nothing, there is actually quite a lot. The so-called black holes of the cosmos are full of compacted cosmic material. The space in between objects, only APPEARS as nothing.  The space in outer space, apparently empty, is full.  Beyond that, cosmic space itself is full of “dark matter.”  Apparently there is no such thing as nothing, our human senses simply cannot perceive what is there. If there is no such thing as nothing, then I guess there is no such thing as nowhere.  What we call nowhere really is somewhere, a certain place.

I’m am so happy to have come to this conclusion because now I can move on to stage four and work out an ending for this composition.  And here it is.  THE END.

© 1 Feb 2014 

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.

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.

Queer as a Two Dollar Bill, by Terry Dart

How queer am I? Butch and Fem are ancient concepts, just not dealt only with except for the Greeks, the ancient ones, well maybe the Frat Boys too, well some anyway.

Now, I had always thought of myself as Butch, because of being athletic and competitive. And I have a high opinion of many Butch men. So what was I? Proudly Butch. But somewhere along the way I became a clothes horse. I probably caught that from Mom, who was also a tomboy in her youth and who also gave me her sense of color and who has been a model, locally in Minot, N Dak, for J. C. Penney. I no longer have her figure, but then neither has she.

Now back to the How Queerness of Queer.

For Lesbis and Bi Lesbis

For Fems and Butches (not Bitches)

Are you Fem because you wear makeup and dress in matching colors, and wear high heels once in awhile? (Turns me on!)

What if a Lesbian is a Fem who likes other Fems? Should we call her a Fem-Fem?

Is a Butch Butch woman a super Lesbian?

And what about a woman who wears a see-through blouse with no modesty packs, who drops it all and steps menacingly into grimy pair of overalls and steel-toed combat boots to crawl underneath a VW Bus?

What about the girl who we might call a Slide-Bi-Butch, who hangs out at baseball fields, spikes tread and over the shoulders, and keeps an eagle eye on batting practice to scout out the Butch Catcher who swings both ways in order to slide into her at home.

Here we have a menagerie of soft and muscular Lesbians. God bless us all, every one.

© 14 March 2016 

About the Author 

I am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.

The Fractured History of Clothes, by Ricky

The first case of sunburn resulted in the slang term “red skins” to differentiate the early humans into two groups; the clothed and the nudists.

Clothes!  What a wonderful invention.  The first recorded version of clothes was fig leaves, which were then exchanged for animal skins; a much needed improvement for winter and colder climates.  We should all be grateful for those two “cave” people who had the foresight to switch from leaves to animal hides.  This had the added benefit to reduce the excessively sunburned population so that today the only few remaining “red skins” are those very few that play professional baseball.

Over time the cave people moved into communities and the hunter-gatherer peoples prospered.  But as populations of these people increased and the animals used for food and skins began to shun the presence of hunters, some enterprising gatherers sought out some means of supplementing the animal skin shortage.  Eventually, they found a way to process animal fur, vegetable fibers, and worm cocoons into a suitable product for making something to wear.

Since this was something completely new, there was no name for it.  Clothes are what they wanted to make out of the new product but they needed a catchy new word to market their product.  Finally some pundit from “Madison on the Avenue” in the ancient village of York reasoned that since “clothes” was a plural word and this new product is what is used to make clothes, the product should be named “cloth” using the singular form of “clothes”.  The community of merchants quickly adapting to the new word, needed a generic way to indicate the multitude of different furs, vegetable, and worm based products they had for sale in their possession.  They decided to use the word “clothes” but were quickly corrected by their language instructors that “clothes” and “clothes” were spelled the same but pronounced differently.  Since homonyms had not yet been invented, the merchants were compelled by their instructors to use the word “fabrics” to avoid confusion.

The makers of fabrics tended to be women and were referred to as “loomies” because “fabric makers” was too hard to say and “loomers” sounded to close to “losers” which had already been assigned to those who did not win at arm wrestling and “weavers” was used to label people who would drink too much fermented liquids and thus could not walk a straight or gay line.

The merchants quickly discovered that the majority of people who purchased their fabrics were male.  Indeed, in those ancient times and into our modern day the males would wear highly colored fabrics with varied glyphs, runes, borders, and designs to make themselves look more important than another.  This became a quasi-universal trait among males of any community.  They were easily recognized by their plain or elaborate dresses, robes, and evening gowns.  Eventually, these men became known as “men-of-the-cloth” because “men-of-the-fabric” seemed too formal.

As the cost of the fabrics became prohibitive for the poorer members of a community, the “men-of-the-cloth” were looked upon as being wise and knowledgeable because they could afford to buy clothing made of fabric.  So, gradually the men-of-the-cloth were granted leadership positions and the power of authority over other community members.  This did not always work out well.

There are remnants of this practice today.  Traditional men-of-the-cloth still exist nearly everywhere, but they are not as powerful as they once were.  Modern men-of-the-cloth can be identified by the red color of their neckties and can still be heard talking as if they were all wise and knowledgeable.  In our day, the most flamboyant of the men-of-the-cloth often attend after work establishments and entertain the crowds.  Reportedly, they are well respected and revered by everyone except those known as being “dragaphobic”.

With hindsight, perhaps it would have been better if the ancient fig leaf wearing cave people had stayed nudists.

© 22 September 2014

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 was sent to live 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.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Believe, by Ray S

Dear Friends,

I come to this meeting in hopes to gain some insight into what you have to write about this subject. For me “seeing is believing” is irrefutable.

But, then when we are so often confronted with America’s bumper sticker mentality “BELIEVE,” dare we ask in what? There are the declarations of the drivers’ school, fraternity, fish sign or amphibious fish, sexual persuasion, political beliefs, etc., etc.

Now this is where BELIEVE becomes nebulous, it’s every man or woman to his/her best. Watch out as this can sometimes be disastrous, and sometimes mind enlightening—depends on which side of the bed you got up on and sometimes with whom.

I expect to hear some inspiring and personally emotional beliefs. Thinking about how much of a private belief one owns can often be so much so that it is never shared or open for inspection.

The beliefs worn on the sleeves are far too often imposed on us by the “true believers.” They are the ones who are enlightened and always available for an opinion or argument—that is one of the negatives that arise more times than you would wish for. On the positive e side as is evidenced here we or most of us do have some self-evident beliefs that we share when the appropriate time shows up. These are the spiritual beliefs, not the ones you see, except in the responses by your friend or neighbor to your actions. This action has many names, but can be consolidated with the word LOVE. 

Denver, © 2016