I'm From Driftwood

by Robert Dominguez

Club Stars was the last of the 3.2 alcohol gay teen bars in 1990, located just west of lower downtown Denver in the railroad yard just off the old 20th Street viaduct. My friend Kyle, a 24-year old blond guy that I had met at the Aurora Mall, suggested it would be a good idea for me to go there and meet some friends my age. The club itself wasn’t that spectacular. It was an old tire warehouse that had been painted all black on the inside with a dance floor at the far end and a bar, lit with Christmas lights, along one wall. Tom, the owner, was a large German man in his mid-thirties with broad shoulders, paunchy stomach and one semi-lazy eye. Situated at the cashier door, he intimidated the hell out of me with his towering ego, large crossed arms and a thick, throaty laugh.

“And just why should I let you in?” he scoffed at me as I stood in front of him in my latest rayon paisley print with black MC Hammer pants to match. I told him that I wanted to meet friends. “Friends? In here? That’s cute. Good luck.” Often, though, after I convinced him to allow me in, I would pull up a bar stool next to the cashier cage because I was too scared to venture past on my own. I tried not to disturb him too much with what I felt were stupid questions, but in some sense I thought of him like a friendly pit bull. As the night would wear on he would often give me a clue or two about the patrons that passed through the front door.

One night a large maroon Mercury stretch limo pulled up outside the door. From it emerged three very tall and glamorous looking women. I was in awe and asked Tom who the women were. “You’ve never seen drag queens?” No, I answered. “They’re not real women,” he continued in his deep voice, “they’re men dressed up like them.” With that the first of the three entered through the front door. Dressed in a blue sequin cocktail mini, adorned with large earrings, glossy lips and a mass of curly hair, she resembled something of a Diana Ross knock off. “Bitch,” said the sparkly lady to Tom, “wha cho up to?” Tom said something about business as usual. Then she turned to me, her tarantula eyelashes widened with delight. “Well hello baby,” she flirted while lightly scratching the side of my face with her long, red nail extensions. “I’m Brown Sugar.”

Completely star struck (I was after all under age in the illusionary presence of a Motown legend) I could only think of one question. “Is that your limo?” She looked at me, then Tom, and laughed. “‘course that’s mine. Why? Would you like to go for a ride?” she asked. I couldn’t contain myself. I had never been in a limousine before and I couldn’t believe that I was going to now. Boy, if the kids at school knew what I was doing on a Friday night, I thought. Having sipped down half a pitcher of beer while seated at the door, I leapt with excitement from my bar stool. I flashed Tom a big happy grin. He shot me back a silent raised eyebrow with a tilt of his head. “Girls,” said Sugar to the other two, “I’ll be right back. Come baby,” her nails now scratching the top of my head.

The driver opened the rear door and I bounded into the back seat. What few parking lot lights there were looked like muted stars against the sky through the dark, tinted glass. Brown Sugar slid into the seat next to me. Before the driver closed her door, she instructed him to take a few laps through downtown Denver and then we were sealed into the dim lit cavern. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked as the car lurched forward over and around the potholes in the parking lot. I told her no, I was fine, but the reality was I had no idea what kinds of cocktails were available. All I knew was beer. “You got the face of an angel, baby.” I smiled with embarrassment and looked out my window as the car started to weave among the streets lined with high rises. I asked her if I could open the rooftop window. She obliged and as the dark glass slid open, I noticed the black privacy window rise between us and the driver.

Instinctively I knew something wasn’t right as Brown Sugar slithered over to me and onto the floor. “Pull down your pants,” she growled. “I want to suck your cock.” All of a sudden I realized I had to pee really bad and that it wouldn’t be a good idea. Plus, she was starting to frighten me. I attempted to be coy and said something like “what about the driver, we can’t do that back here.” She laughed at my naivete and in an instant had my pants half way down around my thighs. Oh god, I thought, this can’t be good. From my crotch this mound of synthetic wavy hair started to rise and fall, but I just couldn’t get hard. My bladder started to really throb. Crap, I worried, I’m going to piss in her mouth if I strike up a boner. Several times she looked up at me with a sneer and I just sat there with a terrified toothy grin. “Why don’t you close your eyes,” she whispered. That made it even worse for me because all I could think was I didn’t want to be known as the guy who took a leak in Brown Sugar’s mouth.

After several minutes, Brown Sugar sat up in a huff and ordered me to put my pants back on. She then lowered the privacy screen and barked at the driver to return us to Stars. I sat in an awkward silence as we returned to the club. When the car slowed to a stop outside, I thanked her and exited quickly before the driver could open my door. I sped past Tom at the cashier cage to the toilet to relieve myself. When I came out of the bathroom, Brown Sugar and her groupies were seated at the bar shrieking in hysterics while they stared at me. What little self-esteem I had was shattered and I bolted out of the club and went home ashamed of myself. For the next two weekends I avoided Stars, and when I finally returned, Tom asked where I had been. I lied and said busy with school. Before we could continue anymore conversation fate would have it that the maroon Mercury limo pulled up to the door again. I panicked, but stood next to Tom as Brown Sugar and company entered.

She said hi to Tom and made sweet talk conversation as her crew hovered and passed without paying cover. Then she looked at me. “Wanna go for a ride?!” She howled and hissed in laughter. Her minions jumped in on cue and I felt the blood rush to my head. I wanted to run, but luckily they moved on into the club and I sat mortified next to Tom. After about five minutes of silence, I felt Tom’s meaty left arm weigh in across my shoulder. “Brown Booger?” he said in a low gruff with a squeeze of his elbow. “She’s a tired bitch.” Grateful for his support, I then only had to wonder what “tired” meant.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Rick Clemons

It all started as I kicked out of the womb. No, I didn’t have an epiphany as I ventured down the birth canal. And it wasn’t some stress of being birthed that caused me to be gay. In reality, it was the venturing into the world that launched me into the yet uncharted territory of finding my true self.

Beyond the crib and potty training I embarked into the typical yet atypical life of a young boy. Riding bikes, playing Indians and Cowboys, watching Gilligan’s Island. On the other side of me I was fascinated with art, envisioned myself dancing on stage, and was a veritable fountain of emotions beyond what a “normal” young man should have.

In high school, the yearnings and stirrings led me to tip toe into relationships with girls, enjoying the kissing, heavy petting, and wonderment of what was happening between my legs, yet still not feeling like I was an active participant in the experience. Of course, like most gay men (if they would be honest), I had numerous unconscious crushes on my best friend, the gym teacher, and other guys that I found myself purposefully working my way into any activity that would just get me close to them. However, it was all very unconsciously conscious in retrospect.

In 1982 I was away at college and had 1) been sneaking off campus to take dance classes, 2) cruising around town, finding the few gay bars that existed, yet, never having the nerve to go in, 3) found myself being more and more bold with guys I perceived to be gay in my dorm…yet still not acting on my urges. All of this collided with a phone call home to Mom and Dad in which I announced “I’m Gay!” Not realizing how that conversation would change my life and save my life, I now see clearly that I may have been gay, but wasn’t truly ready to be gay. So back in the closet I went after some therapy and because, quite honestly, it wasn’t my time to be myself.

In 1986, after landing my first job out of college, I met a kindred spirit. This spirit just happened to be a woman. Joy of joys, I wasn’t gay after all. But who was I kidding. Yes we connected – intellectually, energetically, likes, dislikes, etc. I was able to be sexual with her without a lot of effort and before I knew it Mom and Dad were proudly standing for family wedding photos with their son who was no longer gay. Or so it seemed.

The years progressed and the epitome of married with kids prevailed. Nice home, world travel, successful careers, two beautiful daughters, good friends, ample money, yet below the layers of fat (close to 300 pounds on my 6’5” frame) I was miserable and life consisted of drinking, eating, keeping peace at home and sneaking around looking at gay porn and being a cheat. Yes, I admit I was a cheater. Not proud of it and making no excuses. Yet, I don’t believe that “once a cheater always a cheater.” Why? Because when you find yourself and you live your truth, “What is there to hide?” Nothing!

In 2002 on a trip to London, I found myself in the arms of a beautiful Brit, in his hotel room and for the first time I knew what being gay could truly be. We didn’t have sex, we had deep conversation and real intimacy…not sex. This really threw me for a loop! What was this I was feeling? How could this be happening? Who was I becoming? Two days later and a 12-hour flight back to the States I had answered all those questions and was ready to face my truth. A truth that there was no turning back from, or going back into the closet for, ever again.

I had seen what intimacy, passion, communication, and non-sexual life could be like with a man. Even weighing in at close to 300 pounds, this beautiful man had found me attractive, wanted me, and saw in me something that until that moment I hadn’t even seen in myself – a real man, a gay man, who needed to love himself and start living his truth. At that moment, the weight began to drop off of me, figuratively and literally.

Upon arrival at home, I summoned up every bit of courage I had and said, “Frankly my dear, I’m gay!” I’m not going to sugarcoat the rest of the story and say it was a fabulous celebration and we lived happily ever after. However, what I will share is, we (my ex-wife, my two beautiful daughters, my partner, and I) became the Modern Family before it was ever a hit TV sitcom. Did it happen overnight? Hell no. Was it easy? Hell no. Did it take work, compassion, give and take? Hell yes.

Is our story a fairy tale? To some it does seem that way. But in reality, when someone comes out of the closet, the first place to start with acceptance is within themselves. You’ve got to be 100% in you, your mind, your heart, and your body as an LGBT individual before you can expect anyone else to love you and accept you. Secondly, just because you’ve been preparing for this for 18, 25, 32, 38, 54 years – whatever your age when you come out – doesn’t mean all the rest of your peeps have had that same opportunity. It’s a bitch slap upside the head for most people when they hear the words, “I’m gay.” At that moment you have to realize you’ve just come out, but they may have just gone in the closet.

I have a theory, and maybe it’s because of the work I do as a coach working with all individuals through the “coming out journey,” that the more room we make for everyone to be in the journey in their way, the sooner we can all continue to live the journey of our lives exactly as we are intended.

Today, I am blessed. Blessed with a loving ex-wife; daughters who are very open-minded and non-judgmental towards others; a fantastic, patient, and sexy partner; parents who’ve taken their own journey and arrived at a space where mutual respect thrives; but most of all, I’m blessed to be doing work that means more to me than my jet-setting life ever did. I’m fortunate to wake up each and every day and work with people to help them cultivate their truth and embrace it.

My story contains pain, hurt, confusion, joy, fear, discouragement, happiness, and a different way of being in the world. In reality, it reflects life. The same life that anyone from any walk of life experiences. I’m thankful that I’ve been able to have this life, this experience, and to now help others grow into themselves with love, compassion, and respect.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Erv

I was always confused about my sexuality. Sometimes I felt straight. Sometimes I felt gay. It would fluctuate like the seasons. I went to school, and got a great job. But I felt confused. And I didn’t want to be with anyone because of that.

Then I felt nothing. I was neither gay nor straight. And I found this was relieving. I didn’t have to worry about hell or what other people think. Or worse yet losing the love of my mom. I also didn’t want to feel different from all I knew. But I wasn’t happy. I started losing the hair on my body and became really tired to the point I slept 12 hours a day.

One day I went into a eye exam. The doctor saw something. He sent me for an MRI. I was diagnosed with prolactinoma — a reoccurring brain tumor that affects the hypothalamus and the pituitary gland. Not knowing the success rate of this condition, I was terrified. My mom came to stay with me as I went through the process of preparing to have a 4.7 centimeter tumor removed through my nose (transphenoidal surgery). She came to every appointment. My brothers called daily. My co-workers came the morning of my surgery and sat with my mother who was all alone. I was terrified but I had to be brave for her.

I woke up 14 hours later, a spinal drip in my back, a catheter. And tubes in both arms. My mom was asleep next to me, her hand on my arm.  I woke her up. She hugged me and told me with tears that something happened. I lost my pituitary gland.

Now for those of you who don’t know, the pituitary gland is the brain of the endocrine system. So, I lost my adrenal function, my thyroid function, and my testes function. Fortunately, I could wear a patch and take medicine.

With the patch I received a normal testosterone level for the first time. I came alive for the first time as an adult. I was 35 and just waking up from a nightmare that I didn’t know existed. Along with accepting a new physiology I also accepted myself as a man for the first time. And for the first time in my life, a full understanding of the gift of my sexuality came alive.

I was Gay. I am Gay.

I didn’t know how to approach this. I never really dated. Because of my pituitary issues, I was as asexual as you could be. But now, things were normalized. And normal meant gay. Gay. Wow. It felt so right. I never even kissed but here I was. I didn’t need to test myself or sleep with someone. I just knew who I was attracted to. And it was great.

I told my mother, and she wasn’t “happy” at first but after everything I had been through, she was okay. Now she is great.

That was five years ago this summer (2010). I am turning forty soon. Everyone knows now. It has taken time to get where I am. I have lost some things, and I have gained some things. And that is okay, for life is about the losing and winning. I have gone through a “second” puberty. And I have learned who my friends are.

I am ready to bring someone into my life. Even though I am nervous every time a man sees my hypogonadism (a result of the pituitary loss). I want to get married, and even have a kid. It will be difficult, but I have been through worse. One day I am going to find the man I love. I know that he is out there. I feel it for the first time that I am not going to be alone without friends, without family, and without a man to love and who loves me.

I know a lot of stories talk about falling in love and realizing who they were and what they need at that moment. Well, that is sort of true. I am a person who finally loved himself. Who finally realized who I am. And that being gay is one of the greatest things about me. I am not saying I don’t have my moments where I get angry about being left out of society. I am not saying that I agree with every gay person on the planet or the country. I am saying, that the rainbow flag has a hue that includes me. And I am proud of that.

So, to all of you out there who are afraid of coming out, I am here to tell you, it’s scary and wonderful. I did it and so can you. In spite of all I have been through and dealt with, I have never lost faith in people and my belief systems. I now know that God wanted me to be here living my life as a Gay man. And I thank him for this.

-(Share your story with us!)

(TRIGGER WARNING: Child abuse, Drug use, Depression, Suicide attempt)

by Priscilla James

I was always raised in a Christan home. My parents always worked hard to help us kids. My family comes from Jamaica, but I was born here in the United States. I take a lot of pride in my family’s heritage. Growing up was hard because I had left a Christan school called Mt. Zion in Utica, New York and began going to public schools. I was very nervous and I struggled throughout high school always wanting to fit in and be popular. I hated myself because I was living a life no one would imagine. I was gay and afraid. I told some of my friends growing up that I struggled with identity issues and whether or not I wanted to be with a man or a woman. I lived a separate life not knowing what to do. My parents’ marriage was failing and my father was abusive to my mom. My mom got enough courage to leave him even though she lived in fear. She stood by her faith and never gave up hope that things were going to get better. This was all going on when I was 16.

I had dealt with some abuse when I was about 12. I always held it inside because I was ashamed. I had many friends, some who gave up on me and walked away because my lifestyle was out of control. I was drinking a lot, partying more than ever. I got into doing drugs and that’s when my life changed forever. I started getting so heavily into drugs that I started getting very depressed. My relationships weren’t always the greatest and I would always pull away. I broke hearts. I lived my life in chaos. I had lost jobs over the years. I always felt alone and that no one could help me.

I’m 26 years old now. There was one person that always made me feel like I was alive and that was my high school sweetheart. I knew I loved her more than anything in the world but I turned her world upside down. I never could forgive myself for that along with many other things. I was a broken soul that needed lots of help and on October 15th, 2010, I did the scariest thing you could imagine. I overdosed on pills. These pills were all half bottles of hydrocodone, flexeril, and paxil. I had cocaine and beer in my system, too. I wanted to die so bad and, well, I did.

My mom said God told her to go upstairs and she found me with a note, passed out slowly dying. I had burned my face with a cigarette. I’d left a letter telling my mom I would never fit in and that I had identity issues for a long time. Well my mom called the ambulance were she works and they rushed me to the hospital. That’s when everyone in my family waited to hear my fate. Well my mother had shouted at the top of her lungs saying we need a miracle and told the doctors that they needed one that time, then the doctors said they were loosing me. My mom called the pastor of the church I was born in, Mike Servello, and his wife Barb Servello of Redeemer Church, and they all prayed for me in the church. Then my aunts in New York City put my name across the radio for prayer and I had woken up the next day. I was in a coma for a long time. When I woke up, I looked at my mom and her friend that kept my mother company the whole time and I asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you crying?” They nearly passed out.

I was in Rochester Strong Memorial Hospital in the ICU. They brought me to the part of the hospital where I could get a new liver. My liver completely failed on me, but I never had to get a new one because I was healed. I was there for a month. I had to learn how to walk all over again and it was about three weeks before I could get my energy back because I was so weak. The doctors that worked with me explained I had a disorder called Bi-polar and major depression. I never knew I had this all these years. I knew I was depressed my whole life but couldn’t figure out why. Well from there I left to another hospital called MVPC in Utica, New York. I was there for 6 months and it was the hardest thing I ever went through in my whole life. I did everything I was told to do. And that kept me from staying there any longer. I told my doctor that I would do whatever it takes to get my life back together and when I told him that he was surprised because he never knew what I meant that day. Well he diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Anxiety. Well after knowing about my disorders and learning about them, I challenged myself to stay focused on getting out and becoming clean and I went straight to McPike Rehab center.

I only left the hospital about 4 times out on pass because I had wanted to recover and do it without any distractions. Going to rehab was fun. I ended there I wanted to go to this place called Conaford Park, another rehab place were they had a buffet and a pool. I really wanted to go and got my hopes up, but then was told I was going to McPike. When I was there I was a little afraid but knew if I could go through two other hospitals and do this, it’s worth it. And my counselor loved me there. A lot of people liked me even in the hospitals. I was always worried what people would think about me and now I’m a lot stronger than I was before. This place was a great place for my recovery. I was so proud of myself when I got my medallion with the Serenity Prayer on it. I carry it everywhere I go.

When I talked and gave my speech, I thought of what my mom always says. “No matter what any of you do or what you have gone through, everyone deserves a second chance.” And she was right. I was given back my life and I’m here today to share my story, and my journey and what I had to do to get here. I did it all on my own and I am ten months sober today. October 16th will be one year for me. I’m going the long way and staying happier with my medications, great friends to talk to when I need help and a loving church that supports me. My life is totally changed and I’ll never be the same person again. Now you can catch me volunteering in church  or doing some kind of benefit walk, plus my favorite hobby Zumba salsa dancing. I have a large support network and I know what to do when I need help. You see, I spent my whole entire life suicidal always afraid to tell my mother and we share such a bond now that I have been very blessed and fortunate. My father died on December 21, 2007, and my grandfather died just four days later. It was a very hard year for my family so even with that I kept all my feelings inside about how I felt about it. I never got the closure I wanted because the burial was done without us and I always blamed myself but it was never my fault. I say what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger and I learned a lot of lessons out of this to just talk about it. You don’t have to fit in to be popular and i am unique for a reason. We all have a plan and purpose and I’m just glad I’m able to help others and reach out to them especially because I know how it feels to not have anyone to go to. This is my story and I consider myself a miracle, more than just a hero. Now my life is starting its new chapter of happiness.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Anonymous

Until 4th grade I lived in a town of 600 people. Then through high school I lived 5 miles away from a town of 40 people, about 30 miles from the nearest sidewalk. In college I lived in a town of 12,000 people and it was the largest city anywhere for the next 300 miles until you got to Albuquerque or Denver.

Maybe my region is unusual, but we’ve always had a fairly well networked gay community here. There are picnics, camp outs, dances, happy hours and other social events. People here are also fairly live-and-let-live, I never encountered much homophobia growing up.

I started coming out to my friends and family when I was 20. I moved to Denver when I was 23, but moved back last year for work. I am now completely out to all my friends I grew up with, and also completely out in a ranching community. I have never had a problem. The worst I have encountered is that some people don’t know how to react so they don’t have too much to say. That’s fine with me as I am still treated courteously and as an equal.

I was excited to live in Denver and to be in a larger gay community. It is fairly easy to get to know all the guys out here within a couple of months. Pure numbers game, I guess.

But while I was in Denver I encountered a lot of gay guys who openly made fun of where I grew up. I also had a lot of trouble relating to people who spent their entire lives in cities and suburbs. While I was in Denver I got into a long-term relationship, but ironically, the guy was from rural Wyoming. That showed me a lot about what I wanted in a relationship.

I made many great friends in Denver, but I was always a little lonely there, especially in trying to find my way through the gay scenes there. I think we need to remember that bailing out for a gay scene in a major city won’t always lead us to happiness, especially if our roots are in a smaller area. It is important to give some credence to both environments. Go make connections in the cities, but if it is your home, don’t forget where you are from.

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by Rob C.

I’m the older brother of a small family. I just recently came out to my parents, and it was by far the hardest thing I’ve done. In my 20 years of life I’ve only seen my dad cry twice: for 5 minutes when his mother died, and the night I told him I was gay, he must had been crying all night long because the next day at breakfast he had his eyes all swollen up and so did my mom. It crushed me seeing them like that.

They told me they love me, I’m their son, and they won’t stop loving me, but I told them it isn’t enough. It’s not enough for me that they love me as their son, I needed them to see me as a human being, and understand me as a gay guy. I’m a guy, I love being a guy and I just happen to love guys too, and that DOES NOT make me any less of a guy than any straight guy. I needed them to understand that, and that kind of calmed things down a bit.

Now I’m in therapy, but it’s great because it’s not meant to change me but to help me be happy as I am. My parents, though, aren’t as okay as I would like them to be about the subject. We don’t talk about it, and they stay out of my personal life. But it’s only been about 2 months that I told them so I expect that in the future they come to peace with it.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Nikki Olsen

I once read that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand and the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is when SHE brushes up against me and puts her arms around me.

And there are no words for that.

When I was approximately 14 years of age my mother and step-father took me to my favorite Mexican restaurant. I was in the middle of a bite of deliciousness when my Mom softly whispers, “We believe you are having homosexual tendencies.”

I spit out my food and stared at the two of them. She may as well have been on stage with a microphone and holding a huge spotlight on me. It felt like the entire restaurant came to a halt and all eyes were on me. In my mind you could have heard a pin drop in that establishment. “We know you have been kissing girls,” is what I heard, “and you are going to hell.”

“Umm…well…uh, I think you are wrong! NO” is what I believe I said while viciously shaking my head back and forth.

The 14 years of knowledge I had was far vaster than these two whose combined age was around 88. The reason they took me to the restaurant was because I would run like hell from anything uncomfortable. Literally, out the front door and down the street not to be seen for hours was my method of operating. I suppose this is still my modus operandi but at least I am aware of it now. Simply because he was a social worker and she worked with emotionally challenged individuals, what the hell did they know? Who cares if I had a girlfriend and the majority of my friends were all gay? These two were just plain stupid. I was not going to be one of those homosexual people made fun of. I was not going to be referred as a “dyke, lesbo, lezzy, queer, carpet muncher, fruitcake” and my favorite “crack snacker.” Of course I could pull a “Vagina Monologue” here and make a list for days but you get the idea. It’s not that I wasn’t gay; I just didn’t want to be.

I fought it, lied, made myself miserable and acted out in the face of all of the love and support most people long for from family and friends. Somehow, despite the understanding and acceptance I had, I was determined it was wrong. I was a latent homosexual I guess. I suppressed and repressed on a conscious level. At the age of 24 is when I finally accepted myself after numerous relationships.

I didn’t drape myself in a rainbow flag and run through the streets screaming, “I am here, I am queer and I am here to stay.” I simply stopped lying to others and more importantly, myself.

And now, 17 years later I am completely out and it is the best feeling. I can’t begin to tell you how fortunate I am to have the love, support and acceptance that I do have now. In closing I would like people to ponder something: What if a gay person did not have sex? Would they still be gay?

The answer is yes. I can assure you one thing: If I could get the same mushy, weak in the knees, passion throughout my soul with a man I would. It has never happened. It’s the same feeling anyone gets when love enters your being, mine just happens to be with the same sex. It is not a choice. I am not going to be someone else or not love simply because hate exists out there in this world.

-(Share your story with us!)

by Anonymous

I want to join a conservative Christian Church which promotes abstinence and prayer as a solution to homosexuality. However, I do so with a degree of guilt [my motivations are suspect]. I delayed coming out until I had left the house at 19. Coming from a strict clergy family, my parents were devastated and broken by the news. Over the subsequent months my mother suffered a nervous breakdown and my father put on a great deal of weight and receives regular counseling. However, it is not to appease them and their fears of promiscuity, AIDS and eternal suffering that I have decided to return to Church, but for a man. I have fallen for a closeted gay man within the ranks of the Church. It is with Catholic guilt that I have decided to approach him, strike up a friendship and make my intentions known. Am I a sinner?

-(Share your story with us!)

by Rick Landman

NOTE: This story was originally published on the author’s, Rick Landman’s, website, InfoTrue.com. The story is well beyond the 1500 word limit but it’s an intimate look into the beginning stages of an LGBT movement so we wanted to share it anyway. Get comfy and enjoy.

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1969 was a pivotal year in most baby boomers’ lives and the same was true for me. I was graduating from high school, Nixon was president, people were rioting all over the place, my friends went to Woodstock, and I was at home thinking about going to Buffalo. Besides, to me, Woodstock was this tiny village down route 28 from where I went to summer camp. Who knew? I imagined that it would be a small folk festival with Peter Paul and Mary, and never would have known that it was going to be the event of the summer. Besides, I wasn’t ready for a free love experience. I was still a virgin for god’s sake.

But that June was very special to me. No, not because of Judy Garland’s death, and not because of the Stonewall Riots, but because I turned seventeen on the 15th and was going away to college in September. My luck, I was a virgin in the class of ’69. I knew this must have been a sexual omen. School ended before my birthday, so technically I was 16 when they graduated me, but I was 17 when I left home. It was more of a passage into adulthood than my Bar Mitzvah at 13. I actually was going to be on my own for the first time in my life. I didn’t think about it much, but I left to go to “sleep-away school” and ended up stepping out into a new world of my own. Besides from being a virgin and only 17, I was also 5’2″ tall and didn’t really look and act like the other kids going away to college. I was a nice Jewish boy who finished high school and had no choice but to go on to college to become either a doctor or a lawyer.

I was good at school stuff, and was accepted at a few places, but for financial and guilt reasons I knew that I wanted to go to a college that was free. My older brother stayed at home and went to Queens College for free, so I figured that I better not cost my folk’s too much money. My parent’s did help out with room and board and that was all that I wanted to burden them with. So the problem was which school to go to?

I wanted something far away enough that my mother wouldn’t be able to come up at the spur of the moment. An eight hour drive seemed long enough to accomplish this. But I didn’t even know where Buffalo really was. All I knew was that it was still in New York State and my Regents Scholarship Award would pay for all the tuition. It was also being touted as the world’s largest construction project and that it would be a huge university where I could find anything that I wanted. I knew that it was near Niagara Falls, because we visited it for sweat shirts on my senior trip in summer camp when we stopped by the Falls. I knew it was also near the Canadian border, which during the Viet Nam era, seemed to be a big plus. A lot of kids in my grade were considering fleeing across the border, and being a son of two Holocaust Survivors, the comment, “Where would you flee to if you had to leave?” was a familiar one to me.

So that July I flew up to Buffalo for a summer orientation program to see if I would be happy there. It was my first plane flight and was my first time ever traveling alone. I put on my new jeans, button down blue shirt, penny loafers and headed into the world of student standby flights. I think American Airlines charged $11.50 each way.

When I landed I asked the taxi driver to bring me to the house at the corner of Main and Merrimac across from the U.B. campus. A neighbor named Judy was going to U.B. at the time, and I was going to stay over for the weekend. She was actually the one whose description of the place sold me on going to Buffalo. She made it sound radical, fun, exciting and totally different than the quiet block that we grew up on in Floral Park, New York. It seemed that that year, all the baby boomers from New York City were going to school in Buffalo. But the cab driver didn’t know where Merrimac was so he dropped me off in the middle of the Main Street Campus in front of what was then called Norton Hall, which was the Student Union. There I stood in my new clothes and a little suitcase wondering what to do. A tall, handsome senior was lying on the lawn in front of the building reading a book. I asked him if he knew where Merrimac Street was and he corrected me that in Buffalo you didn’t have to say Street after the name and that he lived one house up from Judy on the corner of Main and Merrimac. She actually lived one house down on the block. We talked a while and then he escorted me over to Merrimac. I thought he was gorgeous, politically aware, brilliant and friendly, and he thought I was funny, different and a bundle of energy. It ended up that his girlfriend Sandy was one of the freshmen orientation leaders, so I was able to see Greg througout the entire weekend. I went to the program, but the only event that I remember is getting a little crazy from a glass of wine and dancing in the water fountain behind Norton Union. But my fate was settled. I would be attending U.B. for the next four years, and I had a new friend named Greg who knew everybody and was my new close friend.

When I got home I immediately wrote to Greg and couldn’t wait to get back in September. I remember that when my family was sitting on my bed watching the men land on the moon later that month, I was at my desk writing Greg a letter. 1969 was full of everything.

I knew that liked boys in a special way, but hadn’t really told everyone except my summer camp counselor when I was 12 and a few select people. At the time, the word gay was something new. The books all called men homosexuals if they liked other guys, and school kids still used the word
faggot. Compared to those terms I was glad when the word gay became popular. But even though Greg had a girlfriend, he was extremely liberal and progressive. He lived with Gene, a 40-year-old gay black man with alcohol problems who worked at a bar, and Gary, another student who was very “sensitive”. So in September, when my parents drove me up to stay in some garden apartment development called Allenhurst which was used as emergency housing for the baby boomers who flooded U.B., I knew that my time would be spent elsewhere.

Allenhurst was actually a new experiment in college living. You could only get to live there by winning a lottery. It was sort of off-campus, co-educational with five same sex people living in a two-bedroom two duplex with a garage beneath. But there could be five women living in an apartment right next door. This was also the first year that some of the other dorms actually became co-educational with men being on one floor and women being on the other. I remember the stories of how the women had urinals in their bathrooms and placed ivy growing in them.

My housemates were also four freshmen. I lucked out and only had one other boy as my roommate, named Paul, and three other guys shared the other bedroom. There was a bunk bed and a regular bed. Nowadays, I wonder how we all shared one bathroom in the morning. But I guess we did. I had five upper class wrestlers living next door. We didn’t have much in common, except for the fact that I could have had a crush on them if they weren’t such idiots. I became the mascot of the entire courtyard. I painted our apartment, and did the cooking and cleaning and was the town yenta. Everybody sort of knew me. It was my way of getting over the loneliness of living alone I guess. I was known as being political and crazy, but it wasn’t until after I left that Thanksgiving that the rumor must have gone around that I was also queer. My poor roommate must have had a lot of explaining to do.

The college ran a bus run up the street to campus, but I used my bicycle, rain or shine, dry or snow, to get to classes, and then after school I would visit Greg. After one month of school, we started having demonstrations against the Viet Nam war and administration policy. I remember protesting against THEMIS, which was some underwater military project, and know that we protested against ROTC, the changed location of the campus from the democratically controlled downtown to the republican swamp called Amherst. We were demonstrating against everything. By the time we reached Halloween, I think the school was closed more than open. Then came the national anti-war demonstrations and I think classes actually stopped. We spent our time having snow ball fights with the campus police and then the City police. That sort of ended after the Kent State massacre, and after the Buffalo City Police started using shotguns to shoot at us. When I left in 1975, you could still see the buckshot holes in front doors of the Student Union.

It was 1970 and I had my first drink, my first smoke, and my first riot before the year was out. I also remember that one of the wrestlers next door broke a chair over my back for allegedly bringing friends into the house who smoked marijuana. So over the 1969 Thanksgiving Break I moved out of Allenhurst and into Greg’s attic at the corner of Main and Merrimac on top of a store for $25 a month. By the second semester I was in love and ready to do anything for the revolution that was coming, the new way of life and the man I loved so dearly.

I was in heaven. I was surrounded by interesting people, including this sort of woman’s collective next door on top of a cleaners. Five U.B. students, Marsha, Barbara, Cindy, Dana, and Margie lived there, and we shared almost everything and spent most nights together. My closest friend next door was Marsha who was the one I would share all of my closest secrets. You have to remember, this was an era of change and free thinking. We all spent hours debating esoteric or political issues way into the wee hours of the morning. Besides, being young and inquisitive, the early 1970′s were geared to reinforcing all the beliefs of the late 1960′s. The women’s movement was becoming stronger and the gay movement was starting in New York City. In 1969, the Gay Liberation Front and a group called the Gay Activist Alliance were forming in New York City. Buffalo already had a Mattachine Society (of which I considered older, more apolitical homosexuals) and had this new group of women who called themselves the Radicalesbians. Marsha, Barbara and Cindy all had feminist friends who would stop by and leave books or have discussions on breaking down sex roles and loving whomever you wanted. This was also the period of “Free Love”, the birth control pill and no AIDS. The worst thing that people got was the crabs, and you would hear occasionally that someone got the clap. But I was still a virgin in love with a man with a girlfriend.

But when I was hanging around the women next door too much, someone told methat no men were allowed and why didn’t I go and start my own group. But there wasn’t any men’s group. There was Women’s Liberation, there were lesbian groups, but no place for feminist men or gay men to go. So I figured I could change that.

I was always starting groups and getting involved in one thing or another, and besides, I knew most of the people in the Student Association due to my other activities. I had helped to start food co-ops, intermural instead of intercollegiate sports, political clubs, etc., so why not start a gay men’s group? I filled out a form, and attended a meeting and asked for $800 to start the Gay Men’s Liberation Front. I got the name from reading something about New York City’s GLF. I think Buffalo was one of the first, if not the first place outside of New York City to have a GLF.

The S.A. meeting was uneventful. When I stood up to explain my proposal for funding a Gay group, the first reaction from my friends was laughter. They thought I was not serious and was putting on a comic routine for them. I had to really shift gears to get them to realize that this was important to me and that I would fight to get it. With giggles on their face, they approved the club and I remember walking across the long lawn down to a bank in a small shopping center across from the dorms with the $800 check, saying to myself, that there is some truth to the expression that I laughed all the way to the bank.

I deposited the $800 and then wondered what I would do with it. I remember speaking with the few gay students that I knew by then, and we decided that we would put on a dance and see if anyone came. I remember flying down to the Oscar Wilde Bookstore on Christopher Street to buy anything gay to bring back for a library at school. I think most of the literature had pictures. We booked the large room at Norton Union and made flyers which I posted on the windshields of the cars in the parking lot in the gay bar downtown, which I think was called the Hibachi Room and hired a group named Rufus to play music for us. I put my name down as the president and Mike Hamilton was the vice president and I think that Benny Wohlman was another officer. To my surprise, over 50 people came to that first dance, and from then on people signed up and joined our group. Before long, a woman wanted to join, so we voted to drop the “Men’s” from our name and become a Gay Liberation Front similar to the movement spreading across the country. I wrote articles for the student newspaper the Spectrum, and spoke in Sociology classes, handed out flyers on Gay Liberation and started Men’s Consciousness Raising Groups, but to tell you the truth, I was still a virgin at the time. And that was how the group got started. We tried to be as political as we knew, and it seemed that everyone else was also trying out the sexual part of the liberation experience, but not me. I was still a bit uneasy and no one ever really approached me in that way. Within a year, we had three Men’s Consciousness Raising groups in progress and were planning to participate in the March 14, 1971 March on Albany for Lesbian and Gay Rights. I know we sent some buses and a carpool to attend the event. I think I went on the bus. It was around that time that I figured I had to explain all of this to my parents. They knew of my politics, dope smoking and feminist views, but the actual sex stuff never came up.

It was on February 26, 1971, at one of our Consciousness Raising sessions that I mentioned to a newly forming group that I was a virgin. You see, I would attend the first meeting of the group, and in similar fashion to the group therapy session that I was attending from U.B.’s clinical program, would ask the group to go around answering some simple questions like when was the first time that you had a gay experience and how it was. When it came to my time, I told the group that I was an 18-year-old virgin and had to go to another meeting. I mean I was only starting the groups, I couldn’t be expected to spill my guts with everyone at the group. So after telling them of my sexual status one of the guys named Sam Goldsmith escorted me into a side room to discuss it more fully. I had my first sexual experience right there in the room next to all that consciousness being raised.

I called home that night to wish my parents a Happy 25th Anniversary, and mentioned that when they asked me over Christmas Break about drugs, sex and politics I told them I had done two out of the three, but that now it was three out of the three. My father asked if we knew the girl and I answered, “there were no girls there.” That is how I sort of came out to my folks. They knew that I was active in sexual politics but thought that it was an academic political rebellion phase up to that point. Now they had to really come to grips with it.

My father joked that my mother and I lost our virginity on the same day, just 25 years apart. Then he asked what Sam did. I told him that he was pre-med. He laughed again, and told my mother on the other extension phone that at least I was going with a Jewish doctor. He then went on to use an analogy of what his life was at the time. He told me how as a young 17-year-old Jewish boy in Germany, he would come home from school and asked his mother why everyone hated him. She told him that the whole world was crazy and that there was nothing wrong with being Jewish, but that his life would be harder because of it. But that he should be proud of himself and his religion. My father then told me that the whole world hated homosexuals, and that my life would be harder because of it, but that I was still his Ricky, and that even though they didn’t know any “gay people” they would not make things harder for me. They suggested that I come home to discuss this all, but I told them about going to Albany the next month for a Gay Rights Rally.

It was hard for them to say anything negative, after teaching me all my life that we must fight discrimination with all our might and make sure that the hatred of the Holocaust never occur again. So in a way I was lucky. I received more support than most. But I think that is why I had the guts at 17 to start a gay group.

But on an eventful night that year, after I was no longer a virgin, while Greg and I were in his bed having one of our platonic all-night discussions, I asked him if he was gay. He said that he thought about such things from time to time, but never had any experiences, but that there was nothing wrong with it. Remember Gene, our other housemate was gay, so obviously I thought it wouldn’t be a problem. But then I mentioned that I was not only gay, but I that I loved him. Whoops…now everything changed.

Greg told me that things have gotten out of hand, and that it would be best if I would move out. So I went to Marsha and cried and complained and told her how upset I was. Well, although everyone was understanding and helped me to pack, I sort of had a difficult time of it.

To make a long story short, I moved out and Greg and Marsha fell in love and are married now for about 20 years and have two children. GLF continued to grow during our first year, in numbers of people and importance. We were an important part of the March on Albany, and did help to set the climate for the formation of College F and other pro-diversity programs. I found some flyers which is all that I have left from those days. Too bad none of us knew that we were creating history. But for 27 years no one ever cared much about it. Now I’ve heard that most of my early friends are dead, and I thought it would be important for people to know how things started.

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