The Peaccok in the Break Room

During my senior year, I worked at McDonald’s with a boy I had crushed on since our middle school days. I thought he was beautiful, but, alas, he was a self-centered asshole who was not above letting the occasional homophobic slur escape his full, pouty red lips. One day, I was in the break room when he came on duty. Most of the employees either arrived in their uniforms or they changed in the restroom, but Greg walked into the small room where I was sitting wearing a polo shirt. Before I had a chance to leave or prepare myself for what he was about to do, he pulled that shirt over his head, and suddenly he was standing there above me topless. He was no more than five feet away. So close I could have reached out and touched his soft, smooth skin. I can still remember being surprised and excited by the color of his nipples. I began to blush. Soon, my face was on fire. It didn’t help that he was looking right at me. He noticed me staring, and he noticed that seeing him half dressed affected me. His kissable lips turned up into a little smirk. Thankfully, he didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. He was a narcissistic little peacock, and we both knew I wanted him.

Fear

I have been in love, but I have never had a boyfriend. I’ve went home with a few guys, but I’ve never been on a proper date. I’ve not had sex (with another person) in a very long time. However, I am a very sexual person. I’m nearing 50, and I’m still as lusty as I was when I was 18. I also have a romantic side. I love the idea of having a special friend, a confidant, a partner who really gets you and stands by your side. Even though I don’t have that, never had that, it thrills me to see others enjoying that type of relationship. But I have PTSD and extreme social phobia, and my fear of people overrides my desire for physical and emotional intimacy. I keep my distance because I just can’t shake the belief that something bad will happen if I get too close. I’m aware that this fear is irrational, but it’s a part of me.

I am not alone. I know that many others live in fear, fear of intimacy in particular. I have also noticed that some try to cope with their fear by exalting it. They want to present it as a noble character trait. They want to believe they are morally superior because they are extra cautious and slow to get involved. They advocate the idea that it’s somehow dirty, and reckless and irresponsible to have sex unless it’s with someone you love deeply. They frown on casual dating and attractions they deem superficial. They are quick to warn others about broken hearts, and disease and the supposed horrors of being shallow. Of course, a measured degree of caution is a good thing, but I think there is a danger in holding fear in high esteem.

It is true that if you never get in a car, you’re not likely to die in a car accident. If you never get on a plane, you don’t have to worry about the engines failing and the plane plunging to the ground. But if you avoid these dangers, you’re never going to go anywhere. And if you avoid people and intimacy, your chance to experience love and passion will be greatly diminished.

Henry David Thoreau said, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

We’re all going to die regardless of how cautious we are, so I think we should live as large as we can while we can. I understand that some people will not be able to overcome their fear. I certainly haven’t been able to overcome mine. But if I relished it, I think it would control me even more than it does. And I also think it’s important to remember that fear is like a virus. You can spread it to other people. But I don’t want to do that. I don’t want others to be afraid like I am. I want them to enjoy their lives in a way that I haven’t.

Ding Dong The Witch Is (Almost) Dead!

In the wake of the news that Fred Phelps is on his death bed, many are calling for cool heads to prevail. Many are encouraging us to exercise restraint and even to forgive and show forbearance. And I have noticed that all of these holier-than-thou admonitions are getting on some peoples’ nerves. So I just wanted to say that whatever your reaction, I’m okay with it. If you want to pray for Fred Phelps’ soul, that’s fine with me. If you want to plan a “Fred Is Dead” party, that’s fine with me also. And if your emotions are mixed, that’s perfectly understandable. The man stirred up a lot of emotions in many of us, and his “God Hates Fags” signs waved about at funerals served to focus our anger, fear, disappointment and pain regarding having been brought up in a society that made it clear most despised us…sometimes even our families and the people who were supposed to be on our side when we were young and at our most vulnerable.

When I was teenager, I was told in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t like boys and that I should act like a man. I’ve had a lot of emotional problems over the years–depression, anxiety, that sort of thing–and I’ve had people tell me that I should get over it, or I have no right to feel the way I do. I’ve had gay men tell me exactly what kind of man I should find attractive. I’m sick of people telling me how I should feel, so I’ll try to refrain from telling others how they should feel regarding the passing of Fred Phelps.

The first time I heard of Fred Phelps was when he showed up at the funeral of Matthew Shepard. I had never heard of anyone picketing a funeral before, much less the funeral of a murder victim. It made me sick. It made a lot of us sick.

I probably won’t raise much of a ruckus when ol’ Fred finally buys the farm, but if a bunch of screaming LGBT folk descend on Phelps’ funeral and throw flaming bags of cow pies at the hearse transporting his carcass, I will do what most Christians did when they saw the old bastard tormenting the family of a dead gay boy in their god’s name: nothing.

Skipping At Disney World

I visited Walt Disney World’s Magic Kingdom near Orlando, Florida with my sister and brother-in-law in October, 2004. Toward the end of the day, we found a spot in front of Cinderella’s Castle and waited for the special Halloween parade. We weren’t the only ones. The streets were lined with park visitors, and, of course, the center of the street was kept clear for the parade.

A man and presumably his son took advantage of this open space by skipping back and forth. They weren’t running, or walking or strolling. They were skipping. The son was about 7 or 8, still a little boy but no longer a toddler. The man and the little boy seemed to be having a wonderful time, especially the little boy. As you might expect, they drew some attention. A number of people laughed with delight, and some clapped.

I enjoyed the spectacle, too, and so did my sister…at first. But when she had a chance to think about what she was seeing, she remembered that, according to what she had been taught while growing up, men and boys were not supposed to skip, and fathers, most especially, were not supposed to encourage their sons to do anything deemed “girly”. She said derisively, “That’s weird.”  I asked her what was so weird about it, and she looked at me with a blank expression for a moment–I suppose she wasn’t expecting to be challenged–and finally she said, “You don’t see that, a man skipping with his son.”

I told her that I didn’t care and that I thought it was great. I didn’t allow her to ruin the moment for me. I was 39, so I had a long time to think about the stuff I had been taught when I was young, and I had already come to the conclusion that a lot of it was crap. I had also come to realize that my sister was not the wisest or kindest person around. She is basically a conformist, eager to blend in, and she is quick to join the mob when it turns against someone. She relishes the idea of being a pitchfork wielding villager.  Bless her heart.  (Maybe most of us do on some level.  The mob is very alluring.) 

That’s always been one of the first memories that comes to mind when I think of our last trip to Disney World. It was fantastic to see a father indulge his son in such a way– and in front of a crowd, too–rather than kill his spirit by telling him to act like a man. It was also fantastic that the crowd reacted so positively. Even my sister was happy to see this father and son at first. I think that’s an indication that although these strict rules about what boys are girls are supposed to be like are deeply ingrained in her, as well as many others, they are artificial. We keep those useless rules going with fear, intimidation and sometimes violence. Few want to be thought of as weird, and few want to risk being ostracized or physically harmed.

It’s a nice memory despite my sister’s reaction. I only wish I had had the nerve to invite a complete stranger to skip down the center of the street with me.

The Villains

There was a time when it was understandable for the average person to think LGBTs were a threat. Homosexuality was against the law. People who engaged in homosexual activity or “cross dressed” were considered to be seriously mentally ill. And there were a lot of horrible myths about LGBTs floating around that went virtually unchallenged because LGBTs couldn’t speak up for themselves. Nearly everyone was in the closet. Even LGBT people were often confused about themselves. But then the medical establishment reversed itself, states started revising their laws, and for the last forty years, LGBT people have become increasingly more visible.

Most of those who still believe the old myths are engaged in a kind of willful, malicious thuggery. The bigots aren’t even above viciously harming their own children. This isn’t merely a difference of opinion, and the homophobes shouldn’t be given a pass because they claim their nasty myths about LGBT people are part of their religion. Just because you go to church, sing hymns and call yourself a “brother or sister in Christ” doesn’t make you a nice person. “That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”

Falling For a Straight Boy

He put his arms around his friend on the pretext of steadying him, but the moment he did it, he knew he had gone too far. He knew he had given himself away, and he was suddenly filled with fear. He looked at his friend pleadingly. He hoped that his friend would take pity on him and not be angry. He couldn’t help it that he was in love.

His friend lowered his camera and turned to him. At first he couldn’t read the expression on his friend’s face. Was he shocked? Was he disgusted? Would his friend tell him he never wanted to see him again?

Finally, his friend grinned and mussed his hair. He playfully said, “Get your hands off me, you perv.”

His friend then reminded him that he had to get going because he had a date with a girl later.

This, of course, felt like a kick to the stomach. Who had he been fooling? He never even had a chance.

Then his friend said, “I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can do something.”

“So we’re still friends?”

“Sure we are. I can deal with it if you can. I might even let you kiss me next New Year’s Eve. …but you’ll probably find out I’m a complete jerk by then.”

Subjects and photographer unknown.
Little fictional story by me.

Confronting My Dark Side

I was in survival mode when I was a kid. I didn't open up to anyone because I was afraid something bad would happen if I was honest. I was so used to living like that I was estranged even from myself by the time I got to college. I didn't know how to talk to people or how to be with people. I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t know what to reveal about myself. I didn’t know what was safe or appropriate. Others seemed so free in the way they spoke of their likes and dislikes, ambitions and desires. I didn’t know how to be like that. And in many ways, I couldn’t interact with people because I didn’t know who I was. I was buried deep within myself. I was a mystery even to myself. I actually worried that I wasn’t a real person or a whole person. I thought I might be missing something.

So I went to see a therapist. I would tell her about the major events in my life, and she would ask me how I felt about those things. I didn't know what to say. Every week she kept asking, "How do you feel?" It took over a year before my protective wall started to crack. Looking back on it, I’m sure I frustrated the hell out of her, and she probably wanted to shake the shit out of me more than a few times. Finally, she asked, "Aren't you angry? You know, you're allowed to be angry. I would be angry if I was you." That's when the floodgates really opened.

I was so pissed off because I hadn't been nurtured and because I had been made to feel unsafe and worthless. But over time, I realized the anger didn't consume me as I instinctually feared it might. I had been avoiding that dark hole of anger. But I didn't turn into a homicidal maniac. I didn't seek revenge. But a part of me was very angry, and that's when I started to believe that I was just as good as those who put me down or ignored me while I was growing up. I knew it wasn't right the way I had been passed over, put in my place and humiliated a million and one times. I knew it wasn’t right that the only person I could rely on when I was a small child was psychotic.

Then after I owned my own feelings, and began to believe that I had worth and began to believe that I had been mistreated, that’s when I was able to see things from the perspective of those who should have been more carrying, nurturing and more attentive to my needs. I realized that they were deeply flawed human beings, and they mistreated me out of ignorance and fear and that they were too busy worrying about themselves to give me much consideration. That’s when I learned you can be angry at someone and still feel compassion for them. The anger does not negate the love. It’s not an either/or thing.

I think the idea that homosexuality is a sin is wrong.

I think it is perfectly reasonable for those who are being judged because they are attracted to the same sex–and act on those attractions–to hold those doing the judging in contempt. Religion is a choice. Moral code is a choice. And I think believing homosexuality is a sin–whether we’re talking about orientation, identity or actions–is wrong. I also think it is naïve to believe that the idea that homosexuality is a sin can remain suspended in some theoretical playground of the religious mind.

I grew up among some older, very conservative Christians. Some believed that dancing, playing cards, playing pool and drinking were sins. And when I say they thought drinking was a sin, I mean they thought taking three sips of wine with dinner was a horrible and grotesque sin. Sure they knew people who drank. And no, they would not be rude to them. But whenever a drinker’s name came up in conversation, it was always pointed out that they drank. The implication being that there was something just not right about that person. It’s okay to like that person, but you weren’t supposed to hold that person in high esteem. You weren’t supposed to look up to a person who drank. If something happened in that person’s life, if a spouse left them or a child got run over by a car, you weren’t supposed to have as much sympathy because that person drank.

When you say something is a sin, there are going to be real life consequences to that. The boots on the ground practical result is going to be that many people who don’t engage in whatever “sin” you’re talking about are going to see themselves as superior to those who do, and they’re going to treat those who do as if they are less than.

If you think you shouldn’t have sex with someone of the same sex, then don’t. If you think you should only have sex with one person and lead a monogamous life, then live that way. But if according to your religious beliefs everyone should live that way, then I don’t think much of your religion. People are sexual beings–aside from a small minority who are asexual–and most of them are going to have sex. A great many of them are going to have sex outside of a monogamous relationship. People want physical intimacy. They long to have someone in their arms. They long to experience orgasms with other human beings. And sometimes they act on these urges with people who are not long-term partners. Sometimes they act on these urges with people who have the same type of genitalia as they do. They’re not being rebellious. They’re not trying to do anyone any harm. They’re only doing what they feel they need to do. That’s life, and I accept it for what it is. I’m not going to worry about what a bunch of old guys who lived thousands of years ago had to say about it.

Ryan's Hero by Gary Cottle

The path through the woods was near Ryan’s house, and it led to a pond. Ryan liked to go swimming there in the warmer months. He hardly ever saw anyone there, but he liked the solitude. But one day, after swimming for about an hour, he got out of the water and twisted his ankle on a root while drying off. Ryan discovered that every time he put his weight on the ankle, it hurt so much that it brought tears to his eyes. Since no one else was around, and because he had neglected to bring his phone, he had no choice but to try to limp the mile and a half back to his house. He could usually cover this distance in less than twenty minutes, but if he limped all the way, it was going to take more than an hour. Getting home was going to be very painful, and he feared that he was going to cause even greater injury to his ankle. Summer was just starting, and he didn’t want to spend his vacation hobbling around on crutches.

Ryan had only went a short distance when he ran into Landon, but rather than being relieved, Ryan was actually terribly embarrassed. That’s because a mortifying incident involving Landon occurred a couple of weeks before. Everyone at school knew Ryan was gay. He had come out when he was still a freshman. But he was fairly circumspect about telling people about the guys he was crushing on. However, not long before school was let out for summer, he was at a party with Landon, he had too much to drink, and he told a couple of people he thought Landon was hot. The next Monday, he found out that everyone in school knew he had a thing for Landon…including Landon.

So when Ryan’s dream boy got close, Ryan lowered his gaze, tried to pretend nothing was wrong and quietly said, “Hi.”

Ryan hoped the boy would continue on his way. He didn’t want to add humiliation to the physical agony he was experiencing, but Landon noticed something wasn’t right.

“You’re limping.”

“I turned my ankle, but it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You can hardly walk.”

Much to Ryan’s surprise, Landon offered to escort him back to his house. Ryan tried leaning on the boy for support, but it just wouldn’t work. It hurt too much.

“Maybe you should go back and get some help.”

“That would take too long, and I don’t want to leave you here. I’ll carry you.”

Ryan reluctantly agreed to let Landon pick him up, and he apologized several times for being a burden, but Landon insisted that it wasn’t any trouble and that he was stronger than he looked.

“Okay then,” Ryan said. “But surely this must be awkward for you…considering what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know.”

“Oh, that. Why would that make me feel awkward? Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might think you’re hot, too? Getting to carry you like this is the highlight of my day. …week even. Maybe it’s the highlight of my life.”

Photographer: Mikko Puttonen
Subjects: Unknown
Fictional Story by Gary Cottle