Browsing: Here’s My Story

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Spring 1955 in Paris. WWII was long past, but times were still tough all over Europe. Nevertheless, the Paris theater, opera, fashion, and art scenes were flourishing.

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My first haircut in Michael’s apartment culminated in him seducing me and giving me a blowjob. It was amazing, but it left me even guiltier than before. I not only had thoughts and desires, I had now succumbed to them.

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I was elated to find my first love in the disability LGBT space—another blind man named Frank. It happened after chores on a Sunday. Skype rang. My screen reader, through…More

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“A Gay Wedding?” I asked Gerd in German. It was late April; we had just ordered our suits – comparable blue ones, mine blue with a silver vest and his blue gray – and we were discussing plans for our July wedding in our apartment in Berlin where we had lived together for the past four months.

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I debate with myself, back and forth, for a week, and now I have to choose one photograph to give to the designer. All three elegant black and white photos in front of me are beautiful shots with lovely dramatic lighting, great contrast. …

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Virginia Beach in the 1960’s was a genuinely exotic, if earthbound, destination long before exploding into the garish paved-over Virginia Beach of today. Even with incursions of asphalt and neon it resembled such pleasant gray-shingled venues as Cape Cod or the Hamptons.

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We struggled emotionally after my father’s sudden death and we were destitute financially. A few years later my mother became sexually active with other men.
What I didn’t realize or appreciate at the time was that my struggles at home, and especially around mum’s sexual adventures, were heightened by the confused feelings I had towards men.

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Paul wanted to see crazy layering, pants under skirts, t-shirts over button downs, suit jackets with cargo pants. “Mix it up, mix it up,” Paul would say. He was like an annoying bald parrot.

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At that moment, looking into his sad, ancient eyes filled with vintage mascara, I realized that Quentin Crisp must be the loneliest man I had ever met. His deep melancholy was only exceeded by the abject bitterness he had learned to temper with acerbic wit and self-depreciating humor.

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A cable had come from Washington on October 20, 1995—four months after I had filed for early retirement—informing the Consulate that my application had been approved. I was told that from that moment on I was no longer permitted in the Consulate building, that I should pack up all my personal belongings and leave the building as quickly as possible.

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