I grew up among fundamentalists, and there really wasn’t any alternative viewpoints commonly expressed in southern West Virginia at the time. Even people who weren’t particularly religious seemed to believe in fundamentalism. They seemed to believe that they were sinners or just not as good as churchgoers. But none of that sat well with me. I wasn’t quite sure what I believed, but I knew I wasn’t a fundamentalist. When I went away to college, I studied religion and philosophy because I was looking for answers.
In my freshman year, I read an essay in my Religious Studies class called Death Watch. It was written by an academic theologian, I forget his name now, and he proclaimed that many who studied Christianity were now convinced that it was a dying religion. He claimed that our culture had changed so much and so quickly in the 19th and 20th centuries that Christianity was unable to adapt.
He pointed out that religions serve the culture in which they exist, and when they stop serving the culture, people begin to gravitate away from it. It finally ceases to be a viable force. It becomes a dead religion. He went on to point out that human history is in fact full of dead religions. It seems that to the author, individual religions weren’t all the important. He seemed to think that religions are merely vehicles that provide a means to express our spirituality and that when Christianity goes, something else will soon come along, something that will better serve our modern culture.
I was blown away by that essay, and I read it over and over again. It really helped me step back from my own personal disappointments and pain and see the religion I was brought up with in a more objective way. We are part of a culture. We’re caught up in it. But it’s only our way of doing things. It’s not essential. There are other ways. Habits can become so ingrained we can forget that we can quit doing what we’re doing anytime we want to.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Monday, October 27, 2014
Hatfields and McCoys Miniseries
I grew up with the story of The Hatfields & The McCoys. Every year or two starting when I was about 8, we would go see a musical based on the feud at nearby Grandview Park at an outside amphitheater. The production was a kind of summer stock thing performed mostly by college students studying drama and dance. One of the reasons I loved it was because even as a little boy, I sensed that many of the attractive young men on stage were kindred spirits. I never saw so many boys like that in one place. But the story the actors and dancers told was a grim one.
I just finished watching the miniseries based on the story, and it covered all the major plot points that are familiar to me—the dispute about the hog, the love triangle between a Hatfield boy and two McCoy girls, the violent assault on Devil Anse’s brother by three McCoy boys and their summery execution by the Hatfield clan when the old man succumbed to his injuries, as well as the bloody New Year’s Day raid on the McCoy cabin.
These events took place in the latter half of the 19th century, and southern West Virginia and eastern Kentucky were wild places where civilization had not yet taken hold. This wasn’t the west, but it may as well have been. People didn’t necessarily rely on the law to protect them or their families. Many didn’t even trust the law. And in this culture where vigilante justice often prevailed, two families began to look at one another with suspicion. That grew into hate and a desire for revenge. Neither side would back down or admit any wrongdoing. Both sides stubbornly insisted that everything they did was justifiable.
The miniseries is a good retelling of the story and an excellent cautionary tell about the darker impulses of human nature.
I just finished watching the miniseries based on the story, and it covered all the major plot points that are familiar to me—the dispute about the hog, the love triangle between a Hatfield boy and two McCoy girls, the violent assault on Devil Anse’s brother by three McCoy boys and their summery execution by the Hatfield clan when the old man succumbed to his injuries, as well as the bloody New Year’s Day raid on the McCoy cabin.
These events took place in the latter half of the 19th century, and southern West Virginia and eastern Kentucky were wild places where civilization had not yet taken hold. This wasn’t the west, but it may as well have been. People didn’t necessarily rely on the law to protect them or their families. Many didn’t even trust the law. And in this culture where vigilante justice often prevailed, two families began to look at one another with suspicion. That grew into hate and a desire for revenge. Neither side would back down or admit any wrongdoing. Both sides stubbornly insisted that everything they did was justifiable.
The miniseries is a good retelling of the story and an excellent cautionary tell about the darker impulses of human nature.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Born This Way
A lot of people talk as if sexual orientation doesn’t take effect or isn’t completely formed until we hit puberty, but I don’t think that’s true.
I knew virtually nothing about sex before I was ten years old. I come from a prudish, fundamentalist family. Everyone stayed covered up all the time, and sex was hardly ever mentioned. But still, I realized I was gay at the age of 11. I put that label on it. I knew exactly what the term meant, and I knew I was gay.
I can remember sitting on our back deck and reasoning it out. Many guys around me had started talking about what they’d like to do with girls in graphic terms. I knew I had no interest in doing those things with girls. But I did have a strong sexual interest in boys. I knew a boy who likes other boys sexually but doesn’t like girls sexually is gay. So I was gay. That was me. I was 11. I came from a family that tried to keep me in the dark about sex. And I still figured that all on my own.
Later, I came to realize that there had been many clues that led up to my eureka moment. I had always felt different from other boys. Most boys seemed strangely aggressive to me, and I didn’t get why they were like that. I was often intimidated by them. I didn’t understand their strong interest in sports either. I felt much more comfortable with girls even though I wasn’t one. When I was very young, before I started school, I used to enjoy cross dressing. I remember wishing I had been born a girl.
Even though I didn’t have strong sexual feelings until I hit puberty, I had crushes on little boys in grade school. I remember stealing a kiss from one boy when I was in second grade. I thought he was adorable, and one day when I was coming back into our room after lunch, I found him sitting in a seat up front. He was there all by himself. There were only a couple of other people in the room. And he had his head down. So when I walked by him, I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. He was quite surprised by that. I just went on to my seat without saying a word. I was seven and gay as a goose.
A neighbor boy and I were playing together when we were about five or six, and he decided he wanted to pretend he was a dog. He said dogs don’t wear clothes, so he took his off. I remember being strangely excited by his nudity, and I liked seeing his body in an unexpected way. You might think it’s only because he was naked, and I wasn’t used to seeing people without their clothes on. You might think that seeing anybody, male or female, would have excited me. But I don’t think that’s it because around the same time, a little girl from the church decided to take me with her to the bathroom, and she showed me what she had. I was not interested in that. In fact, I was uncomfortable and left the room.
I’m pretty sure my sexual orientation was deeply ingrained and fully functional by the time I was three or four years old. I strongly suspect it was there from the start. I think I was born this way. ...not that my or anyone's sexual orientation needs an explanation.
I knew virtually nothing about sex before I was ten years old. I come from a prudish, fundamentalist family. Everyone stayed covered up all the time, and sex was hardly ever mentioned. But still, I realized I was gay at the age of 11. I put that label on it. I knew exactly what the term meant, and I knew I was gay.
I can remember sitting on our back deck and reasoning it out. Many guys around me had started talking about what they’d like to do with girls in graphic terms. I knew I had no interest in doing those things with girls. But I did have a strong sexual interest in boys. I knew a boy who likes other boys sexually but doesn’t like girls sexually is gay. So I was gay. That was me. I was 11. I came from a family that tried to keep me in the dark about sex. And I still figured that all on my own.
Later, I came to realize that there had been many clues that led up to my eureka moment. I had always felt different from other boys. Most boys seemed strangely aggressive to me, and I didn’t get why they were like that. I was often intimidated by them. I didn’t understand their strong interest in sports either. I felt much more comfortable with girls even though I wasn’t one. When I was very young, before I started school, I used to enjoy cross dressing. I remember wishing I had been born a girl.
Even though I didn’t have strong sexual feelings until I hit puberty, I had crushes on little boys in grade school. I remember stealing a kiss from one boy when I was in second grade. I thought he was adorable, and one day when I was coming back into our room after lunch, I found him sitting in a seat up front. He was there all by himself. There were only a couple of other people in the room. And he had his head down. So when I walked by him, I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. He was quite surprised by that. I just went on to my seat without saying a word. I was seven and gay as a goose.
A neighbor boy and I were playing together when we were about five or six, and he decided he wanted to pretend he was a dog. He said dogs don’t wear clothes, so he took his off. I remember being strangely excited by his nudity, and I liked seeing his body in an unexpected way. You might think it’s only because he was naked, and I wasn’t used to seeing people without their clothes on. You might think that seeing anybody, male or female, would have excited me. But I don’t think that’s it because around the same time, a little girl from the church decided to take me with her to the bathroom, and she showed me what she had. I was not interested in that. In fact, I was uncomfortable and left the room.
I’m pretty sure my sexual orientation was deeply ingrained and fully functional by the time I was three or four years old. I strongly suspect it was there from the start. I think I was born this way. ...not that my or anyone's sexual orientation needs an explanation.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Those things that you so casually dismiss, Harold, would actually help many of us.
“Too often, people make the mistake of believing that if they only had more money or more sex or a different partner or a better looking body, they would feel the sense of "wholeness" they have always craved. Virtually without exception, this is not the case. What is actually lacking is the dimension of giving and kindness as a means of nourishing the soul. To add this dimension to your life is to nourish your soul.”
—Harold Kushner
I only agree with this to a point. I have just enough money to scrape by, but when I was living with my parents in Fayetteville, I had a little more money. I wasn’t rich by any means—I was still poor by American standards—but I didn’t fear homelessness, and I was never in danger of running out of groceries by the end of the month. I also had a little extra to spend on things like plants and flowers for the yard, holiday decorations, socks and underwear. Those things did make me happy. I was happier then. I was.
I was also significantly thinner and in better shape. No, I certainly did not look like a 21-year-old fashion model. In fact, I was still a little chubby. And, of course, I dreamed of being young and beautiful, but I still felt better than I do now, and I was happier.
I remember getting laid, and sometimes that was awkward, and no, sex is not the be-all and end-all of life. But getting some can be nice. Going decades without, not so nice.
I think these people who tell you that what you have is enough and that happiness is merely an attitude probably do have enough. They may not be millionaires, but they probably have enough to keep them from being scared. They may not have the kind of looks that would sell magazines, but they’re probably in decent shape, and they probably have some admirers. They’re probably getting it fairly regularly, too. So it’s easy for them to tells us to be satisfied with what we have.
—Harold Kushner
I only agree with this to a point. I have just enough money to scrape by, but when I was living with my parents in Fayetteville, I had a little more money. I wasn’t rich by any means—I was still poor by American standards—but I didn’t fear homelessness, and I was never in danger of running out of groceries by the end of the month. I also had a little extra to spend on things like plants and flowers for the yard, holiday decorations, socks and underwear. Those things did make me happy. I was happier then. I was.
I was also significantly thinner and in better shape. No, I certainly did not look like a 21-year-old fashion model. In fact, I was still a little chubby. And, of course, I dreamed of being young and beautiful, but I still felt better than I do now, and I was happier.
I remember getting laid, and sometimes that was awkward, and no, sex is not the be-all and end-all of life. But getting some can be nice. Going decades without, not so nice.
I think these people who tell you that what you have is enough and that happiness is merely an attitude probably do have enough. They may not be millionaires, but they probably have enough to keep them from being scared. They may not have the kind of looks that would sell magazines, but they’re probably in decent shape, and they probably have some admirers. They’re probably getting it fairly regularly, too. So it’s easy for them to tells us to be satisfied with what we have.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Waiting for Lianna
During my freshman year of college, they scheduled a screening of Lianna (1983) at the theater in the student union at WVU. It was at night, so the crowd in the student union had thinned out, but there were still people around, and I was terrified of anyone seeing me going to a movie about homos. It was my intention to duck into the theater quickly, but the theater was locked when I got there. I went across the hall and leaned against the wall. I hoped no one would realize I was waiting to see Lianna.
When my nerves had settled, and I was no longer completely self-absorbed, I noticed another boy was leaning against the wall across from me. I’ll never forget how scared, alone and vulnerable he appeared. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. He kept his head down. And there was just something about him, the way he carried himself, that told me he had been deep inside of his shell for a long time. His skin was even unusually pale as if he avoided sunlight.
I was fascinated by him because we were so much alike. We were kindred spirits. We were both afraid. So afraid neither one of us could manage to cross the short distance between us and strike up a conversation. Looking back on that night, I see it as a missed opportunity. That traumatized boy could have been my friend. Who knows, we may have even become partners. We may have been able to live our lives more courageously as a couple than we ever could on our own. But eventually someone came by and noticed a poster by the door had fallen down, and it said that the screening of Lianna had been canceled. In a flash, the boy was gone, and I never saw him again.
When my nerves had settled, and I was no longer completely self-absorbed, I noticed another boy was leaning against the wall across from me. I’ll never forget how scared, alone and vulnerable he appeared. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. He kept his head down. And there was just something about him, the way he carried himself, that told me he had been deep inside of his shell for a long time. His skin was even unusually pale as if he avoided sunlight.
I was fascinated by him because we were so much alike. We were kindred spirits. We were both afraid. So afraid neither one of us could manage to cross the short distance between us and strike up a conversation. Looking back on that night, I see it as a missed opportunity. That traumatized boy could have been my friend. Who knows, we may have even become partners. We may have been able to live our lives more courageously as a couple than we ever could on our own. But eventually someone came by and noticed a poster by the door had fallen down, and it said that the screening of Lianna had been canceled. In a flash, the boy was gone, and I never saw him again.
Fear of Rejection
I think it’s an ongoing process, overcoming the homophobia. The programming is always there. You have to keep overriding it. I recently turned 49, and just the other night, I had a disturbing dream about my father. As many know, I like to share sweet, romantic images depicting young men in love. Images such as this were simply not available to me when I was growing up in southern West Virginia, so it lifts my spirits in a significant way when I see them now, and it makes me happy to share them with others who appreciate them. But in my dream, such pictures were illegal, and my father—my dream father, not my real father—discovered that I had a collection of these images. They were hard copies inside of a crinkled brown paper bag because, I guess, the dream was set in the early ‘80s. And he intended to turn me in, so I was desperate to get rid of these illegal images of young men in love. I feared I would spend the rest of my life in prison. So I ran along a path into the woods with the intention of burning the photos once I was far enough away for the fire to go unnoticed. However, my dream father saw me running with the bag of “evidence,” and he came after me. I was scared to death, and I ran as hard as I could, but I was unable to get away. My dream father grabbed my arm and forced me to stop. I considered punching him, but I looked into his eyes, and I felt defeated. I had done something that wasn’t allowed, and I had been caught. My dream father didn’t care that I was his son. I had broken the law, and I had to be punished.
My actual father would never have been that heartless, thank goodness, and gay romantic images, however scarce, were not illegal when I was growing up. But they didn’t have to be illegal. Societal disapproval was so extreme, so nearly universal that most were too terrified to produce or share simple, sweet romantic images of men in love. Everyone talked about the “queers” and the “faggots,” and once in a while you saw a gay character in a movie, but there were no out gay people where I lived, and I never saw any examples of men in love. Straight romance was all around, but gay romance was invisible. So I learned to keep my feelings hidden. All these years later, I have to fight against that instinct. I think the dream shows that there’s still a part of me that fears I will be rejected and punished if I let the truth out of the bag.
My actual father would never have been that heartless, thank goodness, and gay romantic images, however scarce, were not illegal when I was growing up. But they didn’t have to be illegal. Societal disapproval was so extreme, so nearly universal that most were too terrified to produce or share simple, sweet romantic images of men in love. Everyone talked about the “queers” and the “faggots,” and once in a while you saw a gay character in a movie, but there were no out gay people where I lived, and I never saw any examples of men in love. Straight romance was all around, but gay romance was invisible. So I learned to keep my feelings hidden. All these years later, I have to fight against that instinct. I think the dream shows that there’s still a part of me that fears I will be rejected and punished if I let the truth out of the bag.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Made in the shade?
Government housing subsidies are distributed by local housing authorities. These housing authorities are given a limited amount of funds to distribute in their area according to strict guidelines. The funds provided do not necessarily increase if the need in the local area increases.
Local housing authorities do not always accept applications. If they have reached the limit of their funding, they will stop accepting applications for housing subsidies. A year or two can go by before a person in need can apply for a housing subsidy.
If you do apply, and if you do meet the strict guidelines, you will not necessarily begin receiving a subsidy immediately. You are usually placed on a waiting list. You can be on that waiting list for one or two years.
The amount of your subsidy is based on two factors: your income and the “fair” market value for your basic housing needs in your area. Basically, you are expected to pay 30% of your income for a modest rental unit. If you’re single and making $1,200 a month and a basic studio or one bedroom apartment in your area costs $600 a month, you would be expected to pay around $360 a month and your subsidy would pay up to $240.
However, the subsidy comes with strings, so it’s not as if you’re being given cash to spend on your unit. You must find a landlord willing to take the subsidy, and this can be difficult because the housing authority will insist on inspecting a modestly priced unit, and they might make certain demands regarding upkeep. These maintenance issues are sometimes over and beyond what would be expected if the landlord were renting to someone without a subsidy. So most landlords simply prefer not to deal with housing subsidies.
When you are approved for a subsidy, you are given a limited amount of time to find a unit. You have about two or three months. It doesn’t matter if it’s difficult for a renter to find a unit that fits their needs at the low cost set by the housing authority. It doesn’t matter if most landlords refuse the subsidy. You are given a few months, and that’s it. If you do not find a place that will accept the subsidy in that short amount of time, you loose the subsidy, and the whole process starts all over again. You’ll have to reapply. If the housing authority is no longer accepting applications, you will have to wait until they do. Maybe a year or more. When they do begin accepting applications, and if you still qualify, you might be placed on a waiting list. That might take a year or more.
If you’ve gone through all of that, and you’re lucky enough to have found a landlord willing to accept the subsidy who has a modestly priced unit that fits your needs as determined by the housing authority, you’re not yet home free, so to speak. The housing authority will send someone to inspect the unit. They will do this in their own time. If they decide they will inspect the unit sometime next Monday, both you and the landlord are expected to be at the unit when the inspector arrives. Failure to comply might result in the lose of your subsidy. After looking over the unit, the inspector will either give the unit a pass or give the landlord a list of improvements that must be made before the subsidy will begin. If the landlord agrees to make the improvements, another appointment will be made, and the unit will be inspected again. The landlord is not obligated to agree to make the improvements. If the landlord doesn’t, you have to start looking for another unit, and the clock is ticking. When and if the unit passes inspection, both you and the landlord will be expected to sign a one year contract.
At the end of that year, you have to reapply for the subsidy, and the unit will have to pass inspection again, and the landlord will have to agree to make necessary improvements and sign another one year contract. After the year is up, the landlord is not obligated to deal with you and your housing subsidy bullshit for another year. The landlord can tell you to hit the road. If that happens, you have to find another suitable place in a few short months, or you will lose your housing subsidy.
If you are the recipient of a housing subsidy, you are not allowed to have guests staying at your home for more than a few nights within a given year. And you are not allowed to leave your home for more than a few days at a time in a given year. So if you meet someone, and the two of you start spending your nights together either at your place or his, you run the risk of losing your subsidy even if there is no guarantee that the relationship will work out. If you’re sick, and you’re sent to a nursing home or a rehabilitation hospital for a few weeks or a couple of months, you run the risk of losing your subsidy.
Imagine being in this situation if you’re old, or frail or if you’re disabled in some way. Those who receive housing subsidies obviously don’t have a lot of money, but what some might not realize is that those getting the subsidy may not have a lot of friends willing or able to help them find another place to live, or help them move, or give them a place to stay if they suddenly find themselves homeless.
I have a number of friends that I keep in contact with online. I greatly appreciate them, especially considering how hard it is for me to make friends given my PTSD and extreme social phobia. I don’t know anyone here in the area, and I don’t have a car or savings. I used to have one friend here, but he, too, was disabled, and he sadly died last spring. If I could no longer live in this apartment or if I could no longer afford it, I would be in a lot of trouble. That sometimes worries me, and I know I’m not alone. A lot of marginalized people in this country are living right on the edge, and many foolishly believe they have it made in the shade.
Local housing authorities do not always accept applications. If they have reached the limit of their funding, they will stop accepting applications for housing subsidies. A year or two can go by before a person in need can apply for a housing subsidy.
If you do apply, and if you do meet the strict guidelines, you will not necessarily begin receiving a subsidy immediately. You are usually placed on a waiting list. You can be on that waiting list for one or two years.
The amount of your subsidy is based on two factors: your income and the “fair” market value for your basic housing needs in your area. Basically, you are expected to pay 30% of your income for a modest rental unit. If you’re single and making $1,200 a month and a basic studio or one bedroom apartment in your area costs $600 a month, you would be expected to pay around $360 a month and your subsidy would pay up to $240.
However, the subsidy comes with strings, so it’s not as if you’re being given cash to spend on your unit. You must find a landlord willing to take the subsidy, and this can be difficult because the housing authority will insist on inspecting a modestly priced unit, and they might make certain demands regarding upkeep. These maintenance issues are sometimes over and beyond what would be expected if the landlord were renting to someone without a subsidy. So most landlords simply prefer not to deal with housing subsidies.
When you are approved for a subsidy, you are given a limited amount of time to find a unit. You have about two or three months. It doesn’t matter if it’s difficult for a renter to find a unit that fits their needs at the low cost set by the housing authority. It doesn’t matter if most landlords refuse the subsidy. You are given a few months, and that’s it. If you do not find a place that will accept the subsidy in that short amount of time, you loose the subsidy, and the whole process starts all over again. You’ll have to reapply. If the housing authority is no longer accepting applications, you will have to wait until they do. Maybe a year or more. When they do begin accepting applications, and if you still qualify, you might be placed on a waiting list. That might take a year or more.
If you’ve gone through all of that, and you’re lucky enough to have found a landlord willing to accept the subsidy who has a modestly priced unit that fits your needs as determined by the housing authority, you’re not yet home free, so to speak. The housing authority will send someone to inspect the unit. They will do this in their own time. If they decide they will inspect the unit sometime next Monday, both you and the landlord are expected to be at the unit when the inspector arrives. Failure to comply might result in the lose of your subsidy. After looking over the unit, the inspector will either give the unit a pass or give the landlord a list of improvements that must be made before the subsidy will begin. If the landlord agrees to make the improvements, another appointment will be made, and the unit will be inspected again. The landlord is not obligated to agree to make the improvements. If the landlord doesn’t, you have to start looking for another unit, and the clock is ticking. When and if the unit passes inspection, both you and the landlord will be expected to sign a one year contract.
At the end of that year, you have to reapply for the subsidy, and the unit will have to pass inspection again, and the landlord will have to agree to make necessary improvements and sign another one year contract. After the year is up, the landlord is not obligated to deal with you and your housing subsidy bullshit for another year. The landlord can tell you to hit the road. If that happens, you have to find another suitable place in a few short months, or you will lose your housing subsidy.
If you are the recipient of a housing subsidy, you are not allowed to have guests staying at your home for more than a few nights within a given year. And you are not allowed to leave your home for more than a few days at a time in a given year. So if you meet someone, and the two of you start spending your nights together either at your place or his, you run the risk of losing your subsidy even if there is no guarantee that the relationship will work out. If you’re sick, and you’re sent to a nursing home or a rehabilitation hospital for a few weeks or a couple of months, you run the risk of losing your subsidy.
Imagine being in this situation if you’re old, or frail or if you’re disabled in some way. Those who receive housing subsidies obviously don’t have a lot of money, but what some might not realize is that those getting the subsidy may not have a lot of friends willing or able to help them find another place to live, or help them move, or give them a place to stay if they suddenly find themselves homeless.
I have a number of friends that I keep in contact with online. I greatly appreciate them, especially considering how hard it is for me to make friends given my PTSD and extreme social phobia. I don’t know anyone here in the area, and I don’t have a car or savings. I used to have one friend here, but he, too, was disabled, and he sadly died last spring. If I could no longer live in this apartment or if I could no longer afford it, I would be in a lot of trouble. That sometimes worries me, and I know I’m not alone. A lot of marginalized people in this country are living right on the edge, and many foolishly believe they have it made in the shade.
Monday, October 6, 2014
In the Woods
You met him at a party, and you went out with him a few times, but none of your friends knew him. However, trust had already been established, and rarely were your instincts wrong, so when he invited you to drive up into the mountains with him one Saturday, you agreed to go. But then he turned onto an unpaved road, and he fell silent. You asked him what was wrong a couple of times, but he wouldn’t answer. He wouldn’t even look at you. You began to feel uneasy. You thought about asking him to let you out, but you were in the middle of nowhere, and it had been twenty minutes since you had seen another car.
You told yourself to stay calm, but you couldn’t help but think about those people, those ordinary, unsuspecting people like yourself who had been led to remote locations by charming, handsome psychopaths. You feared you were about to be murdered.
He suddenly stopped the car, and you were terrified. You were ready to fight for your life and run like hell if you managed to get out of his SUV. He finally turned to you. He looked desperate, and you noticed that he was starting to sweat a little despite it being a chilly, wet day.
He said, “I’m sorry. I know you’ll probably think I’m a loser after this, and you probably won’t ever want to see me again, but I’ve got to… I have to go behind one of these trees and do what bears do in the woods.”
You sighed with relief and said, “Sure. Take your time.”
He dashed off in such a hurry that he left his door ajar.
Photographer and subject unknown
Fictional story by Gary Cottle
You told yourself to stay calm, but you couldn’t help but think about those people, those ordinary, unsuspecting people like yourself who had been led to remote locations by charming, handsome psychopaths. You feared you were about to be murdered.
He suddenly stopped the car, and you were terrified. You were ready to fight for your life and run like hell if you managed to get out of his SUV. He finally turned to you. He looked desperate, and you noticed that he was starting to sweat a little despite it being a chilly, wet day.
He said, “I’m sorry. I know you’ll probably think I’m a loser after this, and you probably won’t ever want to see me again, but I’ve got to… I have to go behind one of these trees and do what bears do in the woods.”
You sighed with relief and said, “Sure. Take your time.”
He dashed off in such a hurry that he left his door ajar.
Photographer and subject unknown
Fictional story by Gary Cottle
Asher at the Dance
Asher came out to his parents when he was 14, and he came out at school when he was 16, but he had never been on a date. He was from a small town, and he only knew a few gay people his age. Romantic opportunities were limited to say the least. Oh, a couple of jocks had hinted that they would be willing to do things if Asher kept his mouth shut, but Asher wanted to meet a nice boy who wasn’t ashamed of him. So when he was a senior, he was excited when his guidance counselor told him about a special dance and that all the LGBT students from the surrounding counties were invited. But when he got there, Asher felt shy and tongue tied. He couldn’t bring himself to talk to anybody, and nobody was approaching him. Asher was thinking about leaving when a cute guy came up to him and asked, “You ever dance with a boy before?” When Asher said he hadn’t, the guy said, “Don’t you think it’s about time you did?” Asher smiled, and suddenly he was glad he came.
Photographer and subjects unknown
Fictional story by Gary Cottle
Photographer and subjects unknown
Fictional story by Gary Cottle
Friday, October 3, 2014
My High School Boyfriend a novel by Gary Cottle
My High School Boyfriend is now available as an ebook at Amazon and Smashwords.
This is the book I dreamed of writing when I was still in high school. I tried several times but I just couldn’t get it to work. I imagined having a special friend, and I could picture us agreeing to meet at a scenic, romantic spot after we had graduated and leaving town in search of a place where two young men could make a life together. The trouble is I couldn’t get past that basic concept because I couldn’t actually imagine having a boyfriend. It seemed impossible. I didn’t know any out gay men, and rarely did I come across gay characters in books, TV shows or in movies, and when I did, they were usually pathetic and sad. Being gay was almost always presented as a tragedy, but I wanted to write a sweet romance.
I got older, and the need to write that teenage romance became less intense, but the premise has always stuck with me, and last summer, I decided it was time to give my little hopeful love story about two West Virginia boys falling for each other one last try.
Now and then, someone will ask, if it were possible, what would you say to your teenage self. In a sense, My High School Boyfriend is the letter I would send to myself at 17 if I could.
In 1983, Glen Farris, a poor teenager who was bullied at school and ignored at home, believed he was destined to lead a life of loneliness and solitude until Shannon Dupree, a handsome and stylish young man from the city, moved into the abandoned house next door. Shannon lived alone because his recently divorced mother liked to travel, and the rambling old mansion near the ghost town of Thurmond, West Virginia, built with coal money by Shannon’s great grandfather, provided a refuge, a place where the boys could relax and not worry about those who would judge them. They became close during the summer between their junior and senior years of high school, and in the fall, they became boyfriends. They planned to run away together after graduation, but their dreams were almost destroyed when Glen’s father, a fundamentalist preacher, discovered they were more than friends.
This is the book I dreamed of writing when I was still in high school. I tried several times but I just couldn’t get it to work. I imagined having a special friend, and I could picture us agreeing to meet at a scenic, romantic spot after we had graduated and leaving town in search of a place where two young men could make a life together. The trouble is I couldn’t get past that basic concept because I couldn’t actually imagine having a boyfriend. It seemed impossible. I didn’t know any out gay men, and rarely did I come across gay characters in books, TV shows or in movies, and when I did, they were usually pathetic and sad. Being gay was almost always presented as a tragedy, but I wanted to write a sweet romance.
I got older, and the need to write that teenage romance became less intense, but the premise has always stuck with me, and last summer, I decided it was time to give my little hopeful love story about two West Virginia boys falling for each other one last try.
Now and then, someone will ask, if it were possible, what would you say to your teenage self. In a sense, My High School Boyfriend is the letter I would send to myself at 17 if I could.
In 1983, Glen Farris, a poor teenager who was bullied at school and ignored at home, believed he was destined to lead a life of loneliness and solitude until Shannon Dupree, a handsome and stylish young man from the city, moved into the abandoned house next door. Shannon lived alone because his recently divorced mother liked to travel, and the rambling old mansion near the ghost town of Thurmond, West Virginia, built with coal money by Shannon’s great grandfather, provided a refuge, a place where the boys could relax and not worry about those who would judge them. They became close during the summer between their junior and senior years of high school, and in the fall, they became boyfriends. They planned to run away together after graduation, but their dreams were almost destroyed when Glen’s father, a fundamentalist preacher, discovered they were more than friends.
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