Here’s My Story

By Tobias Maxwell

I’ve always wondered about bisexuality. Mine, primarily. Navigating any orientation as a prepubescent is not easy. When I was growing up in the sixties, being gay was generally more complicated. But, imagine raging hormones while having to handle the double-edged sword where every body you saw appealed to you.

By Jason Armstrong

I came of age at the advent of the AIDS crisis. To me, sex and death were intertwined, even as HIV medications turned a terminal illness into a chronic condition. Sex felt like playing a game of Russian Roulette.

By Natascha Graham

A few months ago, someone in a Facebook group for highly sensitive people wrote a post asking for movie suggestions. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve commented on group posts, but for some reason that morning, while I was in my sitting room, drinking tea, I decided to reply, and I posted my list.

By Peter Kupfer

It was a gold Seiko. It wasn’t a particularly expensive watch, but it was priceless to me because it had belonged to my father. It was a part of him, something he’d worn every day.

By Ruth Marner

They called it Rock Creek, but really, it was a lake. And on a hot summer’s day in 1984, we drove out to it. We only had several days together before I needed to return home to St. Louis, so we wanted to make the most of it.

By Jeffrey Round

Of the handful of books that informed my adolescent understanding of what it meant to be gay, E. M. Forster’s posthumously published Maurice was the most revelatory. The reasons are numerous, but the most important was that it held out hope to a confused young mind—mine—enduring a very dark night of the soul.

By Leith Angel Johnson

Pretty much everything DJ knows about Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was learned by watching the iconic, flat-headed monster grunting and lurching about in the classic horror movies by Universal Studios. But these types of films, with bandaged cadavers waiting to be brought back to life by bolts of lightning, are more indicative of a Frankenstein-ish genre that is altogether distinct from any imagery presented in Shelley’s novel.

By Phil Tarley
In 1964, I turned thirteen. I was a wild child, filled with a bursting curiosity about the world out there I wanted to explore. Craving adventure like the feral, ferocious horn dog, I would soon become, I was on fire for something more in my life.