RFD 181 Spring 2020

Number 181 Spring 2020 • $11.95

LOVE LETTERS

Issue 182 / Summer 2020

LEGENDARY CHILDREN Submission Deadline: April 21, 2020 www.rfdmag.org/upload

Holler if you identify as QTIPOC. What’s that?

You say you’ve never heard the term. No prob. QTIPOC is shorthand for qweer/ trans/intersex people of color. And we want to hear from you.

For too long, qweer culture has pushed the lives and stories of people of color to the sidelines. These days we may be more familiar with the work and voices of famous folk—think of Marsha P. Johnson and George Takei, Bayard Rustin and Sylvia Rivera, Chrystos and Audre Lorde—but what does it take to live now as an everyday QTIPOC? How does the world embrace you? How does it restrict you? Our diverse viewpoints flavor our interactions, from the interpersonal to the intra-communal.

When the QTIPOC realm intersects with the Faerie realm, what happens? How has this intersection changed you? How has this intersection changed Fae space?

We’re looking for essays and free verse, artwork and autofiction, choreopoems* and pix: You choose the format you feel will best communicate your own QTIPOC experience. Think of the QTIPOC generation who are just discovering themselves: What would you like to pass on to them? And the young QTIPOC out there: What info would you like your elders and teachers to keep in mind? What will it take to bring all of us— whether we identify as dyke, homo, Two-Spirit, polyam, pansexual, asexual or bi—to a place of Radical inclusion? Maybe you have a piece of answer. Maybe you’d be willing to share.

So here’s the call, QTIPOC. Now’s the time for all the legendary children to bring that summer heat. Tell RFD what you think, show us how you live, reveal how you feel. We want to see you shine. *“Choreopoems” comes from the playwright Ntozake Shange, in reference to her play “For Colored Girls who have Considered Suicide.”

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RFD 181 Spring 2020

Photo: Josie Faser

Recumbent Fanny Dexterity Vol 46 No 3 #181 Spring 2020

Between the Lines

In this issue we welcome you to experience the joys and passions of others through a variety of forms of “Love Letters.” We ask you to be open to the variety of ideas, experiences and we hope you will appreciate the sharing and exploration of others in delving into passion, emotional connection and building relationships.

One of the more exciting aspects of working on RFD for the collective here in New England is seeing the diversity of our readers interests and the diversity of the people making submissions to our pages. We hope you, our dear readers, will enjoy this bounty as we celebrate the springtime, the gentle release into another season of growth.

Obviously, for some of us the winter is still well with us and we here in New England braved a big winter storm to make this RFD happen, but hot mochas, sloshing down the sidewalks of a small Vermont town and being pleasantly surprised to see queer African American short plays being produced over the weekend of this layout made it all worth the effort. We highly recommend folks check out JAG Productions— www.jagproductionsvt.com—soon to produce Esai’s Table at the Cherry Lane Theater in New York, March 19-April 25.

In this awkward, unkind time of false narratives about truth, we hope you will enjoy the truths told and sought after in this pages.

Enjoy the love and happy spring!

—The RFD Collective

RFD 181 Spring 2020 1

Submission Deadlines Summer–April 21, 2020 Fall–July 21, 2020 See inside covers for themes and specifics.

For advertising, subscriptions, back issues and other information visit www.rfdmag.org

RFD is a reader-written journal for gay people which focuses on country living and encourages alternative lifestyles. We foster community building and networking, explore the diverse expressions of our sexuality, care for the environment, Radical Faerie consciousness, and nature-centered spirituality, and share experiences of our lives. RFD is produced by volunteers. We welcome your participation.

The business and general production are coordinated by a collective.

Features and entire issues are prepared by different groups in various places.

RFD (ISSN# 0149-709X) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302.

Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA

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RFD 181 Spring 2020

01035-0302. Non-profit tax exempt #62-1723644, a function of RFD Press with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., Woodbury, TN 37190.

RFD Cover Price: $11.95. A regular subscription is the least expensive way to receive it four times a year. First class mailed issues will be forwarded.

Others will not. Send address changes to submissions@rfdmag.org or to our Hadley, MA address. Copyright © RFD Press. The records required by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and associated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic material associated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian of records at the following location: RFD Press, 85 N Main St, Ste 200, White River Junction, VT 05001.

On the Covers

Front & Back: Photographs by Chang Martin

Production

Managing Editor: Bambi Gauthier Art Director: Matt Bucy

Visual Contributors in this Issue

Images or pieces not directly associated with an article.

Virgo Paraiso. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Dmitry Bitjukov. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6, 15, 21, 47 Dragon (Arthur Durkee). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12, 31 Andres Catter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Mr. Voice Love (Vojislav Radovanović). . . . . . . . . . 19 Eric Lanuit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Tino Rodriguez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Chang Martin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Covers, 33, 49 Richard Vyse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36, 51 Jan Ziegler. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Chris Moody. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Philip Hare (Sweet Marie). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Mark Golamco. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Rick Paxson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Gordon Binder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

“Madreselva” by Virgo Paraiso

CONTENTS Gathering Guide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Love or Bust. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jay “Jaybird” Warren. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Dear You. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dami and Nikita. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Afterglow (Love Poem to A Filipino Man). . . . . . . . . . James Schwartz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Made for Each Other, or Love Italian Style. . . Dolores DeLuce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Uniti Dalle Stelle (United By The Stars) . . . . . Charles Mazzarella . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Three Pieces. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Steven Finch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Edward, Be Loved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. Wellbeloved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Spiral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Silver. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 August Morning. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. Nguyen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Body, Speech, Mind. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Blackbird. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Bobby Bish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Quinoa / Chris Kirk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 What This Poem Wants. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dustin Brookshire. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Dread in November. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Spriggan Radfae. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 True and Valiant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Al Cole. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Feathers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Raymond Luczak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Texas Blue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Raymond Luczak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Thank you, Sir, may I have another? . . . . . . . . D. Scott Humphries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Cakes In General Are Fine. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Cummer (Martha). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Love Doesn’t Conquer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bobby Martinez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Words unwritten. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Qweaver. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Beltaine At Sms: The Power And Purpose . . . Mountaine. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 An Interview with Murray Edelman, Faerie Elder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hammer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Maqui March 24, 1958 – January 27, 2020. . . Cara Coven. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

RFD 181 Spring 2020 3

GATHERING GUIDE Jan 4-9 Jan 6-13 Jan 17-19 Jan 17-20 Feb 6-16 Feb 13-17 Feb 15-24 Mar 6-17 Mar 20-23 Mar 21-28 Apr 5-13 Apr 6-12 Apr 7-13 Apr 18-25 Apr 19-25 Apr 29-May 3 Apr 29-May 4 May 8-10 May 15-18 May 15-18 May 15-25 May 15-25 May 16-23 May 22-25 May 22-25 May 22-25 May 24-30 Jun 1-9 Jun 6-13 Jun 11-18 Jun 13-20 Jun 17-22 Jun 18-21 Jun 20-24 Jun 25-Jul 2 Jun 29-Jul 5 Jun 29-Jul 6 Jul 2-5 Jul 4-11 Jul 11-18

Jul 11-19 4

Alto das Fadas, Portugal Tzununรก, Solola, Guatemala Mountain Retreat & Learning Center, NC Groundswell, Yorkville, CA Koh Chang, Ranong, Thailand Breitenbush Hot Springs, Breitenbush OR The Western Cape, South Africa Alto das Fadas, Portugal Blue Heron Farm, DeKalb Junction, NY Alto das Fadas, Portugal Tzununรก, Solola, Guatemala Valle de Sensaciones, Granada, Spain Raglan, New Zealand Raglan, New Zealand Folleterre, Ternuay, France Saratoga Springs Retreat Center, CA Folleterre, Ternuay, France Mountain Retreat & Learning Center, NC Evans Lake, Squamish, BC Canada The Land aka Amber Fox, ON Canada Paddington Farm, Glastonbury, UK Zuni Mountain, Ramah, NM Alto Das Fadas, Portugal Kench Hill, Tenterden, United Kingdom Pathfinders Ranch, Mountain Center, CA Faerie Camp Destiny, Grafton, VT Folleterre, Ternuay, France Gavados, Greece Folleterre, Ternuay, France Alto Das Fadas, Portugal Laurieston Hall, Castle Douglas, UK Folleterre, Ternuay, France Faerie Camp Destiny, Grafton, VT Faerieland, Nimbin, Australila Dos Rios, CA Saratoga Springs Retreat Center, CA Folleterre, Ternuay, France Faerie Camp Destiny, Grafton, VT Wolf Creek Sanctuary, Wolf Creek OR Ferry Beach Retreat & Conference Center, ME Folleterre, Ternuay, France

RFD 181 Spring 2020

altodasfadas.org bosquedelibelulas.dudaone.com gayspiritvisions.org www.blackleatherwings.org AsianFaeries.com www.cascadiafaeries.org gg3.faenet.org altodasfadas.org sites.google.com/site/blueheronfaeriehome/home faeriesexmagick.org bosquedelibelulas.dudaone.com sensaciones.de/en www.radfae.org faeriesexmagick.org www.folleterre.org thebillys.org www.folleterre.org gayspiritvisions.org bcradfae.ca akaamberfox.ca albionfaeries.org.uk/gatherings/glastonbury www.zms.org altodasfadas.org www.edwardcarpentercommunity.org.uk thecmg.org www.faeriecampdestiny.org www.folleterre.org www.facebook.com/groups/1409750252484141/ faeriesexmagick.org altodasfadas.org www.edwardcarpentercommunity.org.uk www.folleterre.org www.faeriecampdestiny.org www.ozfaeries.com faeriesexmagick.org thebillys.org www.folleterre.org www.faeriecampdestiny.org faeriesexmagick.org www.ferrybeach.org/GAYLA www.folleterre.org

Jul 12

Jul 12-19 Jul 12-19 Jul 15-19 Jul 17-25 Jul 20-27 Jul 21-30 Jul 24-26 Jul 25-Aug 2 Jul 26-Aug 2 Jul 29-Aug 3 Aug 4-13 Aug 13-25 Aug 15-25 Aug 17-24 Aug 22-29 Aug 25-Sep 1 Aug 29-Sep 5 Aug 31-Sep 7 Sep 3-7 Sep 4-7 Sep 17-20 Sep 18-26 Sep 19-21 Sep 23-28 Sep 24-27 Sep 25-28 Sep 26 Oct 3 Sep 27-Oct 4 Oct 3-10 Oct 5-9 Oct 9-12 Oct 9-12 Oct 13-22 Oct 17-27 Oct 23-25 Oct 28-Nov 1 Dec 15-22 Dec 29-Jan 3 Jan 15-17 Feb 5-7, 2021

Ferry Beach Retreat & Conference Center, ME www.ferrybeach.org/GAYLA Wolf Creek Sanctuary, Wolf Creek OR nomenus.org Northern California www.blackleatherwings.org Faerie Camp Destiny, Grafton, VT www.faeriecampdestiny.org Alto Das Fadas, Portugal altodasfadas.org American Ridge, Naches, WA americanridgegathering.org McLouth, KS midwestmensfestival.com Tortuga del Sol, Palm Springs, CA www.calcommen.com Faerie Camp Destiny, Grafton, VT www.faeriecampdestiny.org Folleterre, Ternuay, France www.folleterre.org The Land aka Amber Fox, ON Canada akaamberfox.ca Featherstone Castle, Northumberland UK albionfaeries.org.uk/gatherings/featherstone Zuni Mountain, Ramah, NM www.zms.org Mühlbach am Hochkönig, Austria radicalfaeries.at/gatherings/gathering-2020/ Alto Das Fadas, Portugal altodasfadas.org Malvern Worcestershire, UK faeriesexmagick.org Langdale Youth Hostel, UK www.edwardcarpentercommunity.org.uk Folleterre, Ternuay, France www.folleterre.org Blue Heron Farm, DeKalb Junction, NY sites.google.com/site/blueheronfaeriehome/home Saratoga Springs Retreat Center, CA thebillys.org Enchanted Hills Camp, Napa CA thecmg.org Lotus Ranch, Wimberley, TX austinradfae.org Folleterre, Ternuay, France www.folleterre.org Faerieland, Nimbin, Australila www.ozfaeries.com Saratoga Springs Retreat Center, CA www.generategathering.org Mountain Retreat & Learning Center, NC gayspiritvisions.org Coldwell Activity Centre, UK www.edwardcarpentercommunity.org.uk Alto das Fadas, Portugal faeriesexmagick.org Folleterre, Ternuay, France www.folleterre.org Faerieland, Nimbin, Australila faeriesexmagick.org Folleterre, Ternuay, France www.folleterre.org Faerie Camp Destiny, Grafton, VT www.faeriecampdestiny.org The Land aka Amber Fox, ON Canada akaamberfox.ca Featherstone Castle, Northumberland UK albionfaeries.org.uk/gatherings/featherstone Folleterre, Ternuay, France www.folleterre.org Unstone Grange, Derbyshire, UK www.edwardcarpentercommunity.org.uk Saratoga Springs Retreat Center, Upper Lake, CA thebillys.org Exact locale TBD, Australia www.ozfaeries.com St. Dorothy’s Rest, Camp Meeker, CA thebillys.org Mountain Retreat & Learning Center, NC gayspiritvisions.org Camp Nawakwa, Angelus Oaks, CA www.calcommen.com RFD 181 Spring 2020 5

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RFD 181 Spring 2020

“Kissing Chavs” by Dmitry Bitjukov

Love or Bust

by Jay “Jaybird” Warren

I

n the fall of 1983, Jim invited me to move from New York to live with him in Cambridge, MA. The two of us had enjoyed the process of getting to know each other over the course of long-distance dating for two and a half years and our connection had grown to the point where postulating a life together seemed like a reasonable proposition.

Up until that point, we were both reticent to use the “L” word given the power and implications that we associated with such a bold expression of feelings. I found a cartoon in the Advocate which depicted two men facing one another with the caption: “I have this feeling for you, but because I’ve been hurt so often in the past I am hesitant to say it… but it rhymes with ‘dove’.” From then on we playfully would say, “I dove you!” in moments of shared but cautious connectedness.

Fast forward a year. I moved up to Cambridge and our connection managed to remain positive.

Yet there was still an ambivalence that dominated the relationship, particularly on my end: Was he the right person for me?

Would I face hurt and abandonment if things didn’t work out? Some of my friends didn’t particularly like him. Were they seeing something I didn’t?

One day, Jim, a painter who was also working at the time in ceramics, asked me to sit for him so that he could create a bust of my head. I was essentially agreeable to the idea but was aware of an uneasy feeling about it. I decided to push through the discomfort and to sit for the piece. I’m not sure whose idea it was but I ended up posing with a wool overcoat over my head which I had recently purchased at a secondhand store. If I had to guess I’d say it was my way of being present yet also hiding a part of myself - an expression of my ambivalence.

Photo courtesy author

I sat in his studio with the coat over my head for many hours as Jim worked his fingers through the clay blob in front of him. We mostly were silent as the process unfolded and the bust took form. It ultimately transformed into a pretty good likeness of me.

I can’t fully explain it but we both became aware that in the process of my sitting for him something shifted in our relationship. On my end, the act of

observing him study me so intently and, for him, something in the act of honing in on the details of my head and face, moved us from a tentative and cautious place to a bolder and more secure one.

Saying “I love you” no longer felt scary.

Once the bust was fired in the kiln, Jim painted it and brought it home. It has lived on a dresser in our bedroom ever since. As I reflect on it now, I think there was a growing trust that had built up in that first year of living together that consolidated during the creation of that artwork. It sits on that dresser as a testament to our love and connection, and a reminder of a pivotal moment: The crossing of a threshold—from “dove” to “love”—in our lives together.

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Continues on page 10

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RFD 181 Spring 2020

Photo courtesy authors

Dear You

by Dami and Nikita

O

ne sunny afternoon just after Beltane many years ago, a shy but earnest little faerie saw a sexy tranimal strolling across the knoll at the Short Mountain Sanctuary. They summoned the nerve to smile and cruise them, and they set a date for the following night. After snuggling by the maypole in the moonlight, exploring a filthy kink scene (the “Sheagle”) under the pavilion, and hiking far off into the woods, they spent their first giddy night together by flickering candlelight in an abandoned barn deep in the forest. After a delirious thirty-six hours of countless orgasms, playful conversations, and fucking all night under the full moon, the faerie left the gathering and their new tranimal lover and returned to their life in a small Southern town. Finding that they could not concentrate on anything, they decided to respond to the tranimal’s request that they “send them a dirty letter.” That first letter—which would be followed by many, many more—is what starts to the left and follows below.

Neither of us could have predicted that this hot gathering hookup and initial earnest letter would spark a deep and abiding partnership now nearly eight years in the making. It would lead to that faerie moving out to the enchanted forest to live together with the tranimal at the Meadow Collective, to a more powerful intimacy than either had ever experienced, and to all sorts of adventure, heartbreak, passion, frustration, negotiation, and growth. Today, despite our many struggles and despite our paths leading us away from the mountain that brought us together (for now—we always return), we remain committed to a loving queer bond that has anchored us through turbulent times and personal transformations. Who could have imagined that this handful of scrawled pages would help catalyze such a revolution in our hearts?

The beautifully eloquent call for this issue of RFD asked us to explore the places where “love returned to you as a fragment fixed in time.” This letter captures the searing intensity of the first moment of love and connection and its immediate aftermath, nearly eight years ago; but it also breaks free of time and stretches out into a future, a future that was unwritten but glowing with possibility and magic.

Neither of us could have predicted the winding path that this love has taken us down over these years.

But in our best moments, we can reconnect to that

initial sense of wonder and limitless potential as we dream new futures in to being. This letter is a talisman to help us do that.

For years after we first met on the knoll, we corresponded exclusively by handwritten letter. It was over three years into our relationship before we ever spoke on the phone or exchanged an email.

However old-fashioned and whimsical that may sound today, it really worked for us. Part of that had to do with the material circumstances of mountain life—Dami had no computer or phone—but partly we chose that because we valued the romance, focus, and intensity of the snail mail medium. Letters taught us patience, encouraged us to reflect carefully and dig more deeply into our feelings, gave a unique pace and quality to our communication that suited our slowly swelling love. When Nikita moved to Tennessee and joined Dami at the Meadow, the dynamic shifted; while we still exchanged letters when traveling or apart, their significance in our understanding of each other and our relationship declined. Now that we’re apart more often than not and we’ve both (to our chagrin) succumbed to the allure of the smartphone, our communication looks totally different, and it’s been a struggle to reconnect to that initial sense of slow burning intense focus that we sustained through the postal service for so long.

Nikita, the queer history nerd, reflects on how dramatically the meaning of queer love letters has shifted over time. One of the gestures of friendship that led to the blossoming of the doomed lover between Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas came when Wilde helped his young friend escape from the net of blackmailers who had, it was rumored, come into possession of a compromising letter of passion Douglas had sent to another young man. In Patricia Highsmith’s novel The Price of Salt (basis for the Hollywood movie Carol), Therese leaves a passionate letter tucked in the pages of a book in her beloved Carol’s house, where a hostile housekeeper finds it and turns it over to her divorced husband, who wields it to take sole custody of their child. It’s hard to imagine how queer lovers must have struggled to weigh the exhilarating urgency of passion against the catastrophic risks posed by creating such a damning document. In light of this agonized history, it’s such a pleasure to be able to RFD 181 Spring 2020 9

share this letter with our broader faerie community, publicly and without fear or embarrassment, declaring proudly the love and lust we felt from the first time we connected on the grassy knoll of Short Mountain.

Nearly eight years into our love together, we still send each other letters now and then, but today we want to send a letter to all of you. We are not the marrying kind, for countless personal and political reasons—we’d be more inclined to invite all of our friends to an orgy or a protest than a wedding. But we have grappled for a way to bring our broader community into the bond that we share. Our love

only fully comes into focus amidst the broad faerie and radical queer/trans communities in Tennessee and beyond through which we found each other and in which we’ve lived our lives together. So we offer this letter to all of you as an invitation, to witness the bond we’ve forged thanks to the space you’ve held for us, and to share in the delirious joy we’ve found through loving each other—to “celebrate the divine wonder of passion” in that unique way that perhaps only a handwritten letter can do.

(Continued from Page 8) Because I think it’s been lying dormant inside me for some time, indifferent to the string of hookups and pleasant but unremarkable lovers of my recent life. Whatever we’ve stumbled upon in each other, beneath creaming full moon light or soft candle glow or sleazy shEagle glare, it’s something way different than I ever expected when I strolled shyly up to you on the knoll, just a few days ago but what feels like a lifetime away from here now. It hurtled past defenses in me that are rarely ever breached, enlivening my body in fascinating and ecstatic ways, unlocking exquisite and unsettling currents of feeling. How did this happen? Where did you come from? What is this crazy tumult in me? What magic spell produced the inexplicable chemistry, the unparalleled intensity, the disarming trust that all simmer and flow between us?

And how am I supposed to pay attention to any of the trivia of my wretched life when all that’s best in me is singing with resonance remembering your touch? I’m stopped at a red light, driving a delivery somewhere, and I close my eyes and remember the way that we kiss with our eyes open and probing deep into each other, and a tingle runs from my scalp through the tip of my cock down to my toes, the hair on my arms bristling, my heart racing. What is this? What have we done?

legs around my waist.

I want us to find a double dildo and fuck each other in the ass at the same time.

I want to leave marks on you. I want to leave red welts on your thighs, purple bites on your chest, black bruises on your ass…

I want you to bind me and beat me until I weep, hold me gently but firmly while I sob and sob.

I want you to spank me and then drag fresh nettles across my ass and over my nipples.

I want to flog your chest until your nipples are too painful to touch, and then drip cold water on them and blow air across them.

I want you to hold my ankles while you fuck my ass as deeply as you can.

I want you to suck my cock until I cum in your mouth, spit the cum into the palm of your hand, and fall asleep spooning holding hands with you.

I want us to piss on each other’s chests, then wrestle and squeeze together our bellies, warm and wet and sticky.

I want you to lay me on my stomach in the barn facing out into the woods and fuck me in the ass with your fingers in my hair while I gaze out over the lush green.

I want to cum on each of your boots, polish them milky-shiny with my tongue, in full daylight while you watch me, critiquing me and jerking off.

I want you to gnaw on my fingers and moan while my fist is all the way inside you.

[written upside down:] You asked me to write you a dirty letter, and it seems I’m writing you a romantic one. My apologies – but don’t give up yet! The raunch is on the way…

And, better yet, what are we going to do? I can’t stop imagining the indescribable way our bodies fit together, and all of the directions that could lead…

I want to tie you to a tree and fuck you with your 10 RFD 181 Spring 2020

With love and gratitude.

and more and more and more but writing this is turning me on too much to write out any more of these without stopping to masturbate first… ah, thank you sweet fucking goddess

Now, where was I? Oh, yes…

we found together is rare and important and burning with some kind of fierce magic. And I’d like to explore it, if you feel that way, too.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------> I’ve been writing you letters in my head ever since I got into the car to head back here, pages and pages of them, ranging from thoughtful poignant ramblings to smitten schoolgirl fluff to utter abject filth. I suppose I’ll have to wrap this up so that I actually send you something. But then suddenly anxiety sets in, knowing that I could never find enough pages to encapsulate or trace the contours of the wild hours we spent together, or what they meant to me. But I suppose that really what I want to say to you is --- > thank you --- >

There are so many things I want to do with you, to you, on you, in you. I want to spend weeks in the woods with you, fucking and playing and only coming up for air when we absolutely have to.

And I also want to hear you tell stories, and tell you some of mine. I want you to show me spots you’ve found, plants you know, strange things that you love. I want to share meals and sing songs and explore woods and read books with you. I want to come to know you in a slow and deep way, both the insatiable forest fire and also the shortleaf pine sprouting in its wake.

I don’t often get what I want. I’m rather used to it at this point, having desires that don’t line up with mainstream society or countercultural society, family or friends or would-be lovers. So I’ve learned not to carry expectations about what will happen or what something means. If I never see you again, I’ll remain reverently grateful for the day and a half we spent intertwined on the mountain. If we do, but that insane frenetic electricity has dissipated, then I’ll still cherish its memory and try to cultivate something friendly in its aftermath. Or if you just want for us to fuck each other’s brains out the once or twice a year we cross paths and keep it at that, it would be an honor and a pervy delight. But I suppose I don’t have much to lose in telling you that I would definitely be excited about being friends & lovers in a significant way. Without any sense of what that would mean concretely or how it would play out, but I do know that this thing Photo courtesy authors

for trusting me, and letting me trust you.

for negotiating and communicating and listening, to my words and to my body. for inviting me into your life, your space, your body.

for being honest with me. for all the brutal and relentless and ridiculously hott sex we had, and that we’re going to have.

for holding me all night under the full moon. for the excitement and affirmation you expressed about my body.

for inexplicably fitting me like a lost jigsaw puzzle. for taking me up to and just past limits, and stopping when I needed you to. for staring at me with open eyes as we kissed,

and smiling at me with an open heart as we sat or lay together. thank you from the very depths of a fitful, somewhat guarded, but now totally scorching and bursting heart ---> and from my achingly hard, desperately wet, bruised and sore and feverishly longing body < -----I can’t wait to see you again.

Love and lust and whatever, Nikita (PS – I promise the next letter will be filthier.)

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12 RFD 181 Spring 2020

“Writing Eros” by Dragon (Arthur Durkee)

Afterglow (Love Poem to A Filipino Man) Sitting outside By an old abandoned train car On his back porch The porch-light Illuminating Palm fronds A table An empty laundry basket A lone cane toad A pillow A cardboard box A bar of soap A bag of Jasmine rice Cans of insecticides Old paint cans A broom A pair of shoes Representatives of His life That I pass by In silence After Glow. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;James Schwartz

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Made for Each Other, or Love Italian Style

by Dolores DeLuce

H

ad he not been a queer, Tommy Pace would have made the perfect Italian American husband my parents prayed for me to find. Tommy and I loved all things Italian including slang insults like Dego or WOP that labeled our Italian immigrant parents. Tommy insisted we earned the rights to free speech when our folks passed through Ellis Island and Lady Liberty blessed us. “Politically Incorrect lingo was the language of our love.

“Bitch you’re a faggot trapped in a woman’s body he’d say and I’m your dyke, pussy trapped in a Faggot’s body” Tommy whispered in my ear as we lay on his tiny bed in a cluttered basement of the small house on Wilmot Street near the Fillmore.

I met Tommy at Purple Heart Thrift Store on Mission Street where I noticed him in the mirror trying on a glitter halter over his clothes and flipping his long dark hair like a girl in the shampoo commercial. He was cute enough but I was so consumed by my own Diva status that I didn’t register the whole package. His gorgeous pouty lips, chiseled high cheekbones until months later when my show partner Amber brought him to one of our rehearsals. We were mounting Broken Dishes for a run at the Goodman Building.

She asked me if we could find a small part for Tommy.

It was a two woman show I reminded her and we already had four back up boys yet Amber convinced me to give him a walk-on with a funny line to escort her boozy Starlet character off stage. After the show one night without the whole cast in tow, Tommy and I grabbed a bite at Little Joe’s, a popular hole-in-the-wall off Columbus Avenue in North Beach. The restaurant had a few tables covered in red and white checkered tablecloth and a long counter where you could watch the pots and pans fly through the air as your nostrils filled with garlic and olive oil. As we waited for a table, Tommy asked me what I thought of him when we first met. I couldn’t remember but I said, “Oh I thought you were fat and spacey. He wasn’t at all fat but I knew he was vain and a good verbal slap was like foreplay to him. After that night Tommy followed me around like a puppy.

Tommy was a macho Guido trapped inside a flaming Queen and he played both roles to the hilt. With food and words we replayed our WOP version of The 14 RFD 181 Spring 2020

Honeymooners with Ralph and Alice over a steaming bowl of rigatoni. He’d shout, “pass the cheese you dumb Dago Bitch” and when I did he’d add, “Just you wait Alice, one of these days, one of these days I’m going to slip you the salami. I laughed, “You think you have the meatballs for that Mary”?

That night lying in bed after our heavy carb load and a Quaalude chaser Tommy did in fact, slip me the salami, and I allowed the man in me to fall deeply for the woman in him. Tommy’s humor made me weak in the knees and he could literally hypnotize me by lightly tickling my arms with his long sharp fingernails. Every time Tommy did this I’d flash back to being nine years old when I got my first period and my dad tickling my arms the same way to soothe my suffering. Tommy had my dad’s deep dark eyes but Daddy never had Tommy long sharp fingernails.

Over the years Tommy and I would fall in and out of love but never out of friendship and our most intimate moments always involve food. Like when he ordered ziti arrabbiata to cheer me up after I aborted an unplanned pregnancy caused not by him but by his friend and co-star John Sokoloff from the Gay Men’s Theater Collective. The last thing I needed was another child with an unavailable father and Tommy understood and let me know he’d support whatever I decided. He had been so sweet throughout the difficult day but as soon as we ordered our food, he turned on a dime. “Girl what were you thinking when you let that queer fuck you without a rubber?” “I don’t know; it happened after a Twilight matinee of Mr. Goodbar.

I got so anxious that John invited me to his place for drinks. You know what a lightweight I am. When I admired his upside-down crucifix over the wrought iron bed post, the next thing I know I had my heels over my head and he’s telling me how good I tasted.”

“You couldn’t stop there could you? NO! You just had to have the salami? What were you thinking? Then the waiter brought the bread and his mood switch again. “Never mind eat something; you need the iron.

Are you still cramping?

Pasta was the glue that held us together and over many a meal we downed starch blockers a diet wonder drug that promised freedom to eat without the side effect of weight gain. So we ate ourselves into oblivion

knowing that the starch blocker claims were too good to be true. After those meals Tommy would walk behind me cursing as he had to push me in my six inch platform shoes up the steep hill on Clayton Street to get me home. He’d pick up my daughter Viva from the baby sitter downstairs and carry her to bed for me too.

One night I overheard him as he tucked my little Viva into bed.

“Okay my queen,” he said, “now get your butt back to sleep. You know girl you need your beauty rest!”

Viva snapped back at him, “Mommy says you need to give your booty a rest because you an evil queen.

I’m just a princess.” Viva was only five but she already knew how to read a queen. Tommy and I became two old farts and eventually needed role-playing to spark our love life. His favorite turn on was me wearing an ugly flannel nightgown that he bought for me at the Hadassah thrift store. He said it made me look like the Polynesian princess in South Pacific. On nights when I felt too bloated for sex he made me put on the unflattering nightie and it was just enough to send him into a medley. He started singing Happy Talk and by the time he began hitting the falsetto notes of Bali Hai he had me. It’s amazing that we could have sex at all since I could never stop laughing. There were nights when Tommy made me laugh so hard I’d wake up the next day with pains in my abdomen as if I had done sit ups at the gym.

By the end of the 70s our relationship became long distance when I moved back to LA and Tommy stayed in San Francisco. And in the spring of 1988 while in the middle of previews for my one woman show, The Last Dance of the Couch Potatoes, in Venice I got a call from, Tommy’s caretakers warning me that it might be too late but if I hurried there was a chance I get to see him one last time to say goodbye.

It had been six months since we’ve been together

“Utopia” by Virgo Paraiso

but we talked almost daily as he began his intense decline.

After a dramatic flight not like unlike the one Bette Midler took in the movie Beaches, I rang the doorbell at his little home on Wilmot Street. The last thing I ever expected to see was Tommy rising up from his deathbed to answer the door while his caretakers were lapping up some rare San Francisco sunshine in the backyard but that’s exactly what happened.

Tommy came out of his coma just in time for my visit.

There he stood in the doorway no longer the handsome gent pursuing his lips and flipping his hair like a girl. My friend was covered in the armor of AIDSrelated infections. Only the flesh that remained unravaged was on his fine hands and feet. I sat at his feet and held them as he tried to get comfortable on the couch. He refused his morphine drip so that he could fully take in these last moments. We both knew this was the end for him but we never spoke of it. Instead we talked about the glorious days of shows, drag and juicy dish. With a raspy voice he said, “Remember girl I use to have enough pasta in my system that you could donate my body to the Golden Grain Company for recycling?” I wanted to cry but he could still make me laugh about our pasta binge days. Despite the fact that Tommy had the worst KS covering what was once his gorgeous face and body he was the only AIDS victim I ever knew who never lost an ounce of weight. From his deathbed when he could no longer eat a bite he planned menus and I ate enough for the two of us and when it was finally time for him to let go of his body all that pasta could not glue him to this planet or to me. On every birthday or holiday Tommy used to send me the biggest tacky Hallmark cards that read to my loving wife and those cards came right up until the day he left me in August 1988. Thirty two years has passed but the love has never died.

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16 RFD 181 Spring 2020

Uniti Dalle Stelle

(United By The Stars)

by Charles Mazzarella

T

wo young men, at opposite ends of the island of Sardinia, open invitations to the Astronomical Conference in Carloforte, that will be held on Isola di San Pietro. Both delivered on the same day, each man opens their invitation on separate days; for one was away from home, on assignment.

These are two young men that have similar attributes. Both are genuinely nice, sincere people who value their family and heritage. Both were instilled with strong values, have good judgement, and a responsible attitude. Each one wants more out of Life.

The younger is more shy and was born here. The older young man was born in Germany and moved to Sardinia when he was eleven. A shared interest in the profundity of life allows these two tender souls to cross paths. Their ordinary lives would not give them occasion to meet. Their love of stars, something extraordinary, brings them together.

The year is 2010. The economy of the world, still bruised, is rebounding and flourishing once again.

Heinrik loves his camera, while Silvio feels more attached to the land. Heinrik is twenty seven and Silvio is twenty four. Silvio was born into a family of dairy farmers; the only life he knows. Heinrik’s world, a bit more broad, includes his education in history and art. His grandfather was a curator of a museum in East Berlin. They have seen the world change so much in the entirety of their lives. Gone are the cold divisions of the Communist Era. Their world is now entwined in global trade; defined by new technology and an ease of communication, thanks to e-mails and instant messaging.

Thankfully for them, minds are more open and some hearts begin to thaw, as homosexuality is embraced more today than in years gone by. Two women who love each other can live openly in some countries; holding hands in small towns or big cities and fewer heads turn in disgust. Silvio and Heinrik are two modern young men, each with an attraction for those of their gender. They have seen this change too. What once was taboo and reviled has slowly become laissez-faire. Sure, strong opinions still are voiced opposing life styles such as these. But, reality remains and there is acknowledgment that life has always been this way. Those more traditional concede to the more contemporary. After all, sometimes you cannot help but to love who you love.

“Love Letter Cowboy” by Andres Catter

T

he heat of summer lingers still. There are three months until the astronomy convention in November. For some reason, the skies of autumn lend themselves to the best exhibition of the heavenly bodies. Though planning can begin, each man has much work to get through until that fleeting weekend arrives. Both pray the skies then will be clear.

Heinrik was lucky enough to see the stars as a boy through a magnificent telescope at an observatory in Potsdam. Silvio would gaze at the stars in a field near his home. But one time, when a cousin who was in the Army borrowed some night vision goggles, Silvio got to see how crowded the sky really is, with so many stars unseen by common means.

Videos online or pictures in a magazine cannot compare to being able to see the sky through the use of infrared technology. Silvio realized so many people go their whole lives not being able to see the wonder that hovers above us, day or night. He then swore to himself he would earn the money needed to buy those goggles and share what he had seen with anyone that was interested.

Both young men, then boys, carried in their minds those wondrous views of how numerous were the stars, and how little we on Earth are in comparison. They have respect for their insignificance in the universe while they, each in their own way, look for grand beauty in their everyday lives.

Heinrik’s grandmother once said to him, “Beauty surrounds us everywhere, my child. You just have to have wide enough eyes to search for it.” As a photographer, that is now Heinrik’s philosophy.

Both young men go about their lives, and days elapse towards that star themed meeting. Heinrik, a full time photojournalist for a magazine about the European Union, also sells some of his pictures to professional offices and hotels. His works are underappreciated in doctor’s offices and hotel rooms all throughout Europe and The Americas.

Silvio’s day starts much earlier. Up with the stars, on cold and humid days, he makes sure the cows get to their corral. He is also a maker of cheese; learning this trade from his father and his grandfather before him. Cheeses, soft and hard, are made at the Varetti dairy farm; thankfully still prosperous after 78 years. Though still young, Sil has new ideas and has been working on designing a website with his tech RFD 181 Spring 2020 17

savvy cousins. Social networking is also utilized. It just so happens, Heinrik has seen the Varetti cheese advertisement pop up now and then while he talked to people on Facebook; he thought nothing of it.

The animated talking cow did make him laugh a few times. So, in that way, it was barely memorable.

S

ardinia in mid-August can be oppressively hot.

Much of the land is treeless scrub brush; arid and full of boulders. Only scarce refuges exist; a grove here, a park with a lake there. On the periphery, life is different. The sea, the mountains to the north; breezes and leaves allow for reprieve from the blaze of the Italian sun.

Both men relax after work and individually enjoy supper, air conditioning, and the classical music from a station in Rome that lightens the air. Though busy and not burdened much by a feeling of discontent, each is aware that a hole in their heart exists.

Both long to share experiences with another nice man to whom they are attracted. Both have little luck or experience with love. A tinge of that lonesomeness creeps back in to their minds on occasion.

Neither fully expects to find love while they learn why Pluto may no longer be a planet or what is new on the ISS. Both dream of a future where man perhaps lives on the Moon. Both hope they live long enough to see that day. Yet, two months remain until that weekend full of potential and passionate discussion. Both will be pleasantly surprised.

Heinrik will be busy travelling far from home to Scandinavia and Iceland. Silvio will remain at home tending to sweet but dumb animals while working on a new flavor of cheese for the Fall; a smoked Maple Gouda. It should be ready by the end of October. Silvio will also take a class at the local community college; learning how to pair wines with cheeses, and how to talk to restaurants looking for new autumnal dishes centered on dairy, seafood, and pasta. He is so excited about what he will learn, and plans to create new dishes in his humble family kitchen. Heinrik will take hundreds of photographs of mountains and buildings in a land he has never seen. Silvio, only starting to like photography, will capture the kind faces of cows and take images of the entrees he will soon create for a blog that will advertise Varetti Dairy and Rustic cheeses.

O

ctober arrives and Silvio, while on break from a class about the history of vintages in Europe, flips through the latest EU Scenes magazine and sees a spread about farms in Finland; photographs by a Heinrik von Flysse. Heinrik, while researching 18 RFD 181 Spring 2020

farms in Europe, sees a food blog about Alsatian wines and a Maple smoked Gouda used in a Farfalle pasta dish with spinach, anchovies, and raisins. His mouth waters a bit at the idea of tasting that dish; photo by Silvio Varetti. Heinrik tries to remember how he knows that last name.

Tired from traveling, Rik returns to his coastal apartment outside Monserrat. Only three weeks remain until he travels to the town of Carloforte, on the micro island of Isola di San Pietro. Thoughhaving lived in Sardinia most of his life, he has also never been there. The University of Rome chose to place an observatory there because it is away from the mainland and can offer a better view of the sky.

After a less than successful day making a new variety of soft cheese, and having a cow die that afternoon, Silvio returns to his family home to enjoy a hearty supper. A chill wafts through the air. This shall be the first night in months the century-old fireplace is lit. Alone towards midnight, a record on in the background, Sil re-reads the Carloforte Astronomy Conference pamphlet. He too has never been that far south, having no reason to have left his province. He wants some day to attend university, but must save many Euro, and reapply in perhaps a few years. Even now, he does not have a clear idea of what he would take up. He knows some motivation from somewhere would help. He may soon find that too.

T

he morning of the twelfth of November has finally arrived. This Friday was eagerly awaited on by about two hundred astronomy enthusiasts that paid three hundred Euros to attend the conference this weekend. Silvio, only having flown once before, arrives early to the Siligo Regional Airport to await the flight to Carloforte. Heinrik, a seasoned traveler, knows he can arrive an hour before the flight and still be seated in the uncomfortable coach seats, out of Cagliari International.

To Silvio, the three hundred Euro were more precious. His thoughtful grandmother gave him half the ticket price as an early Christmas present.

He has just enough for meals, a few drinks, and some souvenirs. Heinrik is well paid for his art and by the magazine. He can afford to buy a supper, now and then, for someone else and that second glass of wine for himself. He intends to do just that, if he meets a nice guy who also likes a buttery Chablis, and comets.

Heinrik arrives in Carloforte first and settles into a third floor room of the hotel. Silvio arrives two hours later after a delay and one layover. He too is

on the top floor of the hotel; only four doors down from a new friend he has yet to meet. The opening dinner is at eight pm; enough time to enjoy the view from the balcony with complimentary wine and to explore the elegant surroundings of this ancient town.

T

wenty tastefully decorated tables seating ten await the participants in the King Emmanuel ballroom of The Prince Hotel. Framed posters of nebulae and constellations dot the room for the attendees to enjoy. Silvio, in his best suit, wonders how the photographs were taken. Heinrik, his blond hair slicked for the occasion, knows that the pictures were taken by the Hubble telescope. He is amazed nonetheless.

A dinner of autumn squash soup, chicken parmigiana, chive potatoes, and Spumoni are served with a cheese plate and fruit to finish. Whole grain bread with garlic butter is on the table to sop up the Cabernet based sauce. Silvio is seated with nine other well-dressed men and women; the latter of which wearing their best inexpensive jewelry. Heinrik is seated only two tables away. The two young men meet briefly at the bar as each orders a dirty martini and a Peroni; as the drinks at this supper are free.

They chat about the room and tomorrow night’s three hour star gazing seminar. Each is excited to see what the new telescope at the observatory will unveil to them. An immediate attraction begins; Heinrik with a well-groomed mustache, Silvio with

a trimmed goatee.

After supper, a presentation and speeches ensue.

The quartet that played before supper again plays as patrons depart. Tired from the flights and eager to start their day tomorrow, each young man returns to their plush bed and sleeps. Before closing his eyes, Silvio thinks about the tall blond guy he met briefly at the bar. A hardening in his pajamas follows to his surprise. Heinrik settles into the luxurious chase, pours a small glass of wine, and reads a chapter or two by his favorite author, Dan Brown. Distracted by a passing train whistle, he finds himself too, thinking about the dark- haired younger guy with the trimmed goatee and struggles to remember his name: Julio?

Santori?...Silvio! He writes the name down in his pocket notebook and makes a mental note to look for him at the seminar breakfast. Though the topic will be a bit dull, Astronomy throughout Time and Present Day, he believes if he can sit near the young man, the meal will be more memorable.

More casually dressed, the almost two hundred attendees settle in for a light breakfast of fruit, typical beverages, eggs to order, and various baked goods. Seminars will be held all day. Buses will then transport everyone to the Observatory di Roma located about an hour outside the town. The roads on the island are less than ideal. They will search the skies for various stars, Hale-Bopp, Halley’s Comet, and nebulas. All will be viewable on large HD screens so not a moment of science-

“Boy Heart Stars, Ecstasy for Everyone!” by Mr. Voice Love (Vojislav Radovanović)

RFD 181 Spring 2020 19

in-action is missed. The night will finish with a cocktail hour and close-up views of the planets of the Milky Way. Everyone will be given the opportunity to gaze through the great telescope. A return trip is planned on Sunday for those who miss the views tonight.

Silvio finds Heinrik. They sit together at the breakfast seminar, spend the day together at lectures, and sit side by side in the back of the bus to the Observatory. Rik’s hand touches Silvio’s on the armrest and the two hold hands for most of the hour long journey over the poorly paved roads.

It is evident that both are attracted to each other as they talk the entire trip about themselves, where they are from, what they do, and how awesome it will be to see the stars this close. Many details, small and large are shared; how Sil saw Rik’s pictures in EU Scenes and how Rik saw Silvio’s ads and photo of that amazing pasta dish. They intentionally plan to return tomorrow. Tonight, they will view the sights from the large screens as they stand very close to one another and talk.

T

he views are like none anyone present has seen before. Heinrik daydreams of being naked and intimate with Silvio after midnight in his room while barely hearing the esteemed astronomer drone on about the planned rover mission to Mars.

After witnessing wonderful heavenly bodies and enjoying conversation with the men and women excited by what they have seen, Sil asks Rik if he would like to meet after they get back to the hotel; Heinrik happily agrees.

As is natural sometimes while driving on roads bumpy or smooth, each man, now coupled with another nice man they are getting to know, comments on how hard their penis is getting as they are driven across the pitted thoroughfares of San Pietro.

In the darkness of the back of the bus that autumn evening, Heinrik the elder and more confident of the two, rests his right hand on the inner thigh of the excited and youthful looking Silvio. Silvio feels his bulge push up against his grey dress slacks as he too feels Heinrik lightly graze his erect penis. Being uncharacteristically brave, Silvio returns the intimate gesture and feels Heinrik’s bulge pulsate under the brown corduroy pants.

The bus arrives back to The Prince Hotel at almost two in the morning. Each returns to their rooms to drop off their coats, collected belongs, and change for the night. Several moments later Silvio, at the invite of Heinrik, strolls down the hall and lightly knocks on the door of room 314.

20 RFD 181 Spring 2020

Heinrik, his blond hair a bit tussled, wearing silk pajamas and a blue robe, answers the door with a big grin and takes Silvio by the hand to let him in.

The two enjoy a brief drink on the sofa that faces the window and foreplay begins.

S

ilvio is of a tanned complexion and slightly muscular build. He has a bit of chest hair but is mostly smooth. He too is in comfortable cotton pajamas, a robe, and slippers. The robe and slippers come off after the first drink. Heinrik is taller, more slender, of pale complexion; with blue eyes and dark blond hair. Lighter pubic hair is soon to be revealed. Sil’s hair is short while Rik’s is longer; something for Sil to run his hands through as the two begin to disrobe. Each man is wearing boxers and a tee shirt. Silvio, a bit nervous, rubs Rik’s chest and face and offers his own for several long, passionate kisses. Rik, more experienced, slides his hand down Sil’s thighs and caresses the sides of Sil’s torso before kissing him on the neck. At Heinrik’s suggestion, the two young men ease onto the king-sized bed and toss the decorative and superfluous pillows on the floor. Hands explore everywhere now. Kisses exchanged, only socks remain, as each helps the other off with the now unnecessary tee-shirt and underwear. In amazement, Silvio stares at Heinrik’s naked body and lays on top of his almost hairless chest.

Further kisses ensue. Heinrik goes to a drawer and returns with two condoms and an oil based lubricant. Silvio gently whispers into Rik’s ear, “Hold me. I am nervous. I have only been with two other men, and they were not as attractive or attentive as you.” Heinrik replies, “There is no pressure, Silvio. We can do tonight whatever you like. Explore me for yourself. I just wanted to show you I am willing and like to be safe.” Silvio kisses Heinrik with intensity and then swallows Rik’s hardened penis as far into his throat as he can; being mindful not to nick this blond wonder with his teeth and ruin the moment. Sil sucks on Rik’s manhood for several minutes. Rik suggests the two suck each other at the same time; in the more familiar 69 position. Silvio agrees. Fifteen pleasant minutes go by as the two pleasure each other orally. Heinrik lifts his butt into the air and asks Silvio to lick the clean hole. Rik reciprocates and Sil is thrilled at the sensation as he never felt that before.

Aware that a morning seminar awaits them both at eleven AM, the two, with some remorse,

decide to finish their intimacy soon. However, the best is yet to happen. Now laying side by side on the comfortable bed, each exchange pleasantries about how happy they are to have met the other.

Sil tells an awkward joke about how he liked seeing Heinrik’s hiney. Having not heard that joke before, Rik laughs and pulls Sil in for a vice-like hug and intense kiss. Rik reaches for the oil and generously lathers it on the firm and awaiting penis of his new lover. Silvio in return pours some oil in his hand and applies it to Rik’s erect penis and smooth testicles. Each apply more glistening liquid to the chest and tummy of the other. Each start out caressing each other. As climax approaches, their hands return to themselves. Each help the other to heighten the experience. Kissing makes the experience more intense. Heinrik lovingly holds Silvio’s slippery testicles and curls the long black pubic hair with his index finger as Silvio ejaculates on the bed in front of him.

Allowing Sil to rest briefly, Heinrik strokes his erect penis, after reapplying some oil. While the rested Silvio aides Rik by lightly touching Rik’s larger scrotum, Sil licks and kisses the head of Rik’s penis seconds before Rik lets out a muted groan and himself sprays semen on the maroon duvet at his feet. The two having climaxed, rest and cuddle; their warm bodies as close to each other as they could be. The two, now weary, kiss each other good night before sleep overtakes them. A pleasant ring from an antique alarm awakens them both. The sun shines through the window in an azure sky. The town of Carloforte presents itself for the blissful new couple as showers are taken before each departs to dress for the day. Heinrik knocks on Silvio’s door at 10:45AM. Silvio opens the door and almost yanks Rik in the room. The two embrace and kiss as they stride toward the door and down the hall to the elevator that will take then to the second day of seminars.

Another day of learning and two meals pass and the amateur astronomers board a bus to re-

“Eye” by Dmitry Bitjukov

turn to the observatory. Rik and Sil, hand in hand, await their turn to view the stars. The two see glorious sights and pay the ten Euro for memento photographs they themselves took from the digital camera attached to the telescope. With a slight sense of melancholy and a bit inebriated, the two once again return to The Prince Hotel. Sil and Rik dine at the hotel restaurant and skip dessert for some of their own; this time in Rm 310 where Silvio rested his head two nights before.

Silvio opens the door to a smiling Heinrik who is holding a small bouquet of flowers. The two men enter the room. Sil hugs Rik and gets the ice bucket and water for the thoughtful gift. The two young men, smitten with each other, again enjoy making love. The two, naked but relaxed, talk about how they can see each other in the coming weeks and months. They agree to talk often on the phone and online. Heinrik lives alone and Silvio’s family knows he is gay. They agree to travel as often as possible; Rik to Siligo to see the village of Monte Santo; Silvio to Cagliari and the city of Montserrat; which just happens to have a university. Each will go places the other has never been.

Seeking inspiration and motivation, they each found it within someone else. Rik can learn to enjoy the mountains while Silvio finally will experience the beauty of the sea.

M

onday morning brings a wrap up meeting, breakfast, and a taxi to the airport. They both fly to Siligo as Heinrik decides that morning to stay there a few days so the two can learn more about each other. Months of anticipation about a conference where people can learn about and see celestial bodies. Each young man came away with more than they ever thought they could; the unintended surprise of a splendid weekend. These two young men, once alone, are now more content with life, as each one has found another lonely soul that cares for the other; uniti dalle stelle, vereint durch die sterne, united by the stars.

RFD 181 Spring 2020 21

Marcel Proust Wrote “Always Try To Keep A Patch Of Sky Above Your Life”

By Steven Finch

Jon L and Me Between my junior and senior year of high school, I went to France. A group of students my age met at O’Hare Airport and flew off to that country of my dreams.

Everything was going fine and then one of the others named Jon started getting to be a buddy. He had his girl friend and found me one. He claimed to whomever wanted to hear it that, before he left, he’d has sex with a girl and didn’t know whether she was pregnant or not. The group spent one night in Saint Malo. For some reason, Jon asked me to share his bed with him. Just that. That heavily foggy night appeared to keep away all details after that.

I don’t remember if I contacted him or he contacted me. Anyway, It was during an Easter vacation as a freshman at college that I was Winnebago-ing down to New Orleans with a bunch of others from the college. I went with them and was dropped off at the Greyhound station, from where I was to make my way to Jon’s place in Beaumont, Texas. Dates had been fixed beforehand but this was the 1970s and no smartphones. I don’t remember why it took me such a long time to get to Beaumont. It was at night and I’d been dropped off at a trucking joint. I checked out the situation.

I found some public phones that naturally didn’t work. Then I made out a taxi. I told the diver what I needed and he said to get in and he’d do his best to help me find the address. It wasn’t easy—it was the middle of the night and the area was full of campers. Well, somehow we found the place. I knocked on the door and some guy I didn’t know said that, yes, Jon had been waiting but had to go to work and he invited me in. What happened with the taxi-driver, I don’t remember. I’ve had some experiences with taxi-drivers who were fantastic persons and that one was one. I was given the couch to sleep on and is that exactly what I did out of pure exhaustion and relief.

In the morning, someone quietly called my name and, when I finally got my eyes open, it was Jon. Jon had become a nurse. What exactly happened after that is unclear but, when he was in one of the single beds pressed together. I asked him about his camper mate and was told he’d left to be with his 22 RFD 181 Spring 2020

girl friend. OK. I got in the empty bed and was then asked why I didn’t take off my white cotton briefs and get in bed with him. To make a longish story short, we had an incredible sex-fest. After that, he once dry-blowed my washed hair at his parents’ place while listening to the original Rolling Stones’ Sticky Fingers album with a fully working zipper on the cover.

But there was no more “intimacy” between us.

I was baffled. Time went by politely but slowly.

Finally I got back on a Greyhound and back to New Orleans with a very heavy Texan accent I’d picked up. When I phoned from the Greyhound station for someone to pick up up, no one wanted to believe it was me. But they came. It took me a month to lose the accent. And that was all I heard from Jon for a long time.

One day when living in Switzerland, I got a letter from Jon that my mother in Chicago had forward (without opening). In it, Jon explained how he’d recently picked up a guy and, in detail, had a sex-fest that reminded him of ours. Why don’t you come down to study in Texas? Spanish is just across the border in Mexico? He said he missed me and that, every time he heard the theme song from Taxi Driver, he thought of me. I wrote back to explain that I was living, studying, and working in Switzerland and had a Spanish boy friend. Tried to say “no” as politely as possible. I never heard from him again.

Recently, YouTube offers an easy-listening alto saxophone version of the Taxi Driver theme, that I find better than the original. But what kind of a life did Jon really have?

My Spaniard, Miguel, and I have been together for over forty years now. We spend six months a year in Switzerland and the other six in Spain. He’s never written me a poem—we used to write letters—but I still try to write one each year for our anniversary, another for Valentine’s Day, and one for his birthday. We communicate in French.

Stefan B and Me Just two or three weeks before leaving Switzerland after my sophomore-year-abroad, I fell head over heels in love with a Swiss. It was mutual. He was an art and German history student whose thesis was about The Holy Grail. I could think

of nobody but Stefan for the eighteen months to come. I finished my junior year in The States and had to find a way to get back to Switzerland. As I had to do something to improve my Spanish, I asked about possibilities and was given the choice between a semester in Mexico or in Spain. It was of course Madrid and, from there, could go back to graduate in Switzerland. My father noticed when a letter from Stefan arrived and would simply say “Oh, a letter from Stefan?” and I would go upstairs to my room to read it and write back.

They were letters full of puppy-love like language, though were both obviously beyond that. Before I left, he’d say: “Look how you’ve changed me!”

Whatever happened to those letters and photos is beyond me today.

Spain was coming back to life after the deathlike dictatorship of Francisco Franco. And, in three months’ time, learned more Spanish and much more about such a life. I flew from Bajaras to Zürich one winter day and Stefan was at Zürich Airport to greet me. But that was all. He had been “experimenting” (I had been doing the same) but I was no

longer in his heart. He was currently with someone named Olivier. And two days later I was introduced to a Spaniard that Stefan was trying to get rid of— Miguel, who came from the land of olive trees.

Well, Miguel and I hit it off well right away.

Those freezing winter nights that I’d go to meet him after his afternoon high school classes were full of magic. Even when I was able to move out from the Stefan’s place. When separated for a while, he was not a great letter-writer. I wrote the occasional poem for him. We spoke French together. I helped him to prepared for exams. I remember how I’d play on the record-player Liza Minnelli’s “Maybe This Time” and Diana Ross’s “Love Hangover.”

Miguel and I have been together for over forty years. Now that we’re free from obligations, we live six months a year in Switzerland and the other six in Spain. When we celebrated our fortieth anniversary, I was going to send a word of thanks to Stefan but then decided not to. Why bother? He has his life and we ours and, from the information that I found on the internet, his has nothing to do with ours. But he did bring us together.

“Growing Old” — after “An Echo of Wang Wei’s Reply to Vice Magistrate Chang” by Stephen Levine from Inquiring Mind (Fall 2010) and reblogged as “Growing Old”; with gratitude to Franklin Abbott Growing old, I love the quiet that I always needed when young.

I also have distance on my life— a grade school teacher once told my mother I would go far.

Growing old, I have finally found a home that has nothing to do with the one that I had when growing up— this “home” has two houses: one is surrounded by mountains and the other by ocean and both have been given “a new life” (one is more than 300 years and new flower gardens for birds and bees.

I’m growing old with someone who’s been growing old with me for 40+ years now.

When we grow sleepy, we go to bed when the day’s ending; we still wake to another day that’s beginning.

old)

RFD 181 Spring 2020 23

24 RFD 181 Spring 2020

“Lovers in Hell” by Eric Lanuit

Edward, Be Loved

by M. Wellbeloved

V

irginia Woolf said, more or less, that one of the cruelest tricks the universe plays is giving a poet the face of a butcher. Lacking the outward appearance of a poet: a dreamy-eyed gaze, smooth cheeks, and pouty lips; a willowy frame swathed in velvet; their very being consumed with passion— lacking those traits, no matter how talented, such an unfortunate soul will never be taken seriously.

Edward Stanton was such a man. He was, as his parents often lamented, homely. His eyes were not large, soulful pools of lavender or emerald nor were they brimming with the languid waters of rhyme, but were beady and unremarkable with irises of an indistinguishable color. His face was without form and void— his cheekbones where low and unable to bear the wild palpitations that the finely chiseled cheekbones of a composer of prose must bear. His nose, who can say? No one ever looked close enough to notice its shape. Though, if his nose were to be made of the same stuff as the rest of his face, and it surely was, it was a short nose, upturned with asymmetrical nostrils that whistled and wheezed in times of excitement or duress. His chin was weak where it should have been brawny and stout where it should have been fine.

Within Edward, however, there was a glimmering soul. His brain whirred and his heart thumped to rhythms and beats the average person would be unable to express. Edward could. He was a weaver of words and a sculptor of sentences. The language he had been taught by dullards came alive in the crucible of his mind. Through the alchemy of his intellect, even the most mundane words in the lexicon took on the brilliance of polished gems. Words, luminous and potent, dripped from his pen onto page after page of cream-colored paper; odes were born with the splattering of ink, elegies were etched with quill upon parchment (OK he used a ballpoint pen and a legal pad, but inelegance has no place here); profound truths were, by his labor, delicately uncovered . The harrowing, naked cruelness of reality was subdued with the ornament of his genius.

Reality’s harshness was diminished, bejeweled, and made impotent by his mastery. The boy could write, and how!

His family was dismissive where the fruits of Edward’s labor were concerned. What little he shared

was met with criticism. “Frivolous,” one of his relatives had remarked, “if you spent more time working instead of dreaming, you would have made something of yourself by now.” After such a rebuke (if you do not see that remark as a rebuke, but as sound advice, then with a heavy heart, I must tell you that you do not have the soul of poet), thereafter, Edward dared not share his writings, as copious as they were, with friends, coworkers, or strangers.

Month after month, he scribbled. Notebooks of all shapes and sizes filled the shelves in his bedroom.

They huddled in the darkness of his dresser drawers, and lay, piled with reverence, in the floor of his closet. They were his friends, his children, his confidants, his confessors. They were in essence all that he was. Their slack spines tingled with life and their dust-coated covers ached to be opened. The pages, yellowed with time, pined and groaned to feel the palpable gaze of hungry eyes absorbing all the sustenance they had to offer. But, as fate would have it, no one, not even Edward, would assuage the acute pain manuscripts feel when abandoned and unread.

Those around Edward would not have understood the profundity of the books’ contents, should they have taken the time to look. The people who could appreciate them were far away, languishing in intellectual privation, hungry for prose, gasping for truth, desperate for the beauty of language, unloosed and free of convention. So, we must (though it pains me to encourage leniency) forgive those people who did not read Edward’s volumes either by apathy or ignorance of their existence. What of Edward? Should we rake scorn upon him for neglecting his children? Some may, but I shall not. Those with the heart of a poet understand that the books, he lovingly dedicated himself to producing, were emotional landmines.

His books were tangible reminders of the passage of time. Not merely passing years, but of opportunities and dreams that had slipped away, quickly, like the tepid coolness of a summer morning, ephemeral, unable to be grasped, contained, or halted in its retreat. That is often the nature of the fruits of our labors. Children bring forth furrows and lines on the supple brows of youth. Grandchildren with coos and laughter bleed the color from chestnut and raven and strawberry hair; leaving wilted tresses of RFD 181 Spring 2020 25

silver and grey, and in turn, the burdensome weight of silver hair bends the neck, stoops shoulders, once proud, and robs the limbs of all vigor. So, too, Edward’s words had drained all but a scant amount of his vitality.

For Edward it was much easier to blame others for the scrawny nature of his life experience rather than cast any culpability upon his own person. After all, had he not suffered enough? He had been gifted a magnificent mastery of language yoked neck-andneck with the burdensome compulsion to surrender to that gift at the expense of everything else. He had been given a broken body that he never quite learned to use and a face that kept the curious from delving too deeply into the soul trapped within. All his good traits were inward, invisible to people he knew. Edward had learned to carry himself through life expecting nothing good to happen, and, due to fear of rejection, he was unable to accept kindness from anyone, no matter how sincerely it was offered.

Such anxiety and deprivation had made Edward a strange creature.

Sadly, as with all façades created by human ingenuity or human artifice, Edward’s tenuous sense of self fell apart. It slid away unexpectedly like an avalanche; uncovering things he wished to keep hidden and buried, deeper, things he longed to expose.

What was this bolt from the blue? As it happened Edward was awakened one night, mildly confused, by a voice calling his name. He switched on his lamp and sat up on the edge of his bed. Straining, he heard nothing. Just a dream, certainly, it was only a dream.

Drowsy-eyed he noticed that his current journal was lying precariously close to the opposite edge of the nightstand. Strange that it was out of reach.

He leaned forward, forward, forward, reaching for the book. Just as his finger tips touched its cover, he felt that he might fall onto the floor. As his body tensed a vision formed in his mind: He saw himself as an elderly man, still alone, withered and decrepit, leaning out of a sterilized hospital bed beneath the bone-cold glare of a florescent light. As his crooked fingers touched the grey, rubber handle of his walker he fell from his sick bed. His body, ravaged by age and still unresponsive to his wishes, crashed onto the bleak tiles of the floor causing Edward to snap from that sobering vision.

His eyes did not close and sleep did not come to him during that night, nor the next few nights that followed. The terrible sensations that plagued his thoughts crippled his creativity. Losing the ability to write, meant he was unable to dispel the clouds 26 RFD 181 Spring 2020

of doubt which had, his whole life, loomed perpetually on the peripheral of his consciousness. He was dumbstruck and all but debilitated.

Despite his diminished faculties, Edward, while taking an aimless stroll through a familiar park, noticed an elderly man gazing at him. The gazes of strangers were not unusual. Anytime he dared wander through public spaces, Edward was met by endless cringes, grimaces, derisive laughter, and very rarely, a smile tinged with pity and condolence (on what, the onlookers assume, must be a living death).

This time, however, the gaze was coupled with a warm, joyous smile. A shimmering visage beckoned Edward to approach. Despite a lifetime of timidity and avoidance, he walked directly to the old man.

“You’re troubled aren’t you?” The old man’s mahogany skin, radiant and youthful, was harmoniously juxtaposed to the air of aged wisdom that his steely beard and white hair evoked.

“Yes,” Edward said tersely.

“Sit down here,” the old man patted the wooden slats of the bench. “Tell me all about it.”

Edward sat down without hesitation and began to unload the heavy burdens he had borne as long as he could remember. His confessions poured forth slowly at first, a trickling stream, but quickly became a torrent. Raging currents of emotion converged with waves of regret; tides of resentment issued forth, as did tears. Edward was unable to halter his tongue.

After everything was said—things that Edward had never dared utter to another soul or even to himself—the old man smiled and put his hand on Edward’s shoulder.

“All you’ve got to do is live, true to yourself, and all these regrets will vanish. Love and be loved, radically and without hesitation, and all your insecurities will be laid to rest.”

“How can I be loved? How can I love myself?”

Edward wanted a veil to pull over his face, or even better, a shroud to roll his entire being in, and from there, be cast into a deep tomb.

His companion sat there and thought for a minute. “For a flower to bloom it needs fertile soil, water, and sunlight. The sun has appeared in your life, I can see it in your eyes, but you need water and you need something to dig your roots in.”

The sky was cluttered with clouds, but Edward could feel the sun. It wasn’t waves of light streaming through space falling through atmosphere limning his body. It was a blazing starburst radiating from within. It shone not on his face, but emanated from it. “I want to grow, but I don’t know where to start.”

“Years ago I read about a beautiful faggot that loved ugly faggots until they were beautiful, too, more beautiful than those that were born beautiful.

You need that kind of love.” The old man pulled a small pad of paper and a pencil from his pocket. He scribbled a few words. “Go to this address. There is a being there, a faerie, named Summerwane. Tell her that Rascal sent you. That’s all you’ll have to say. She will know what you need and she will give it to you.”

Edward took the paper. He started to speak, but Rascal hushed him.

“Go on, kid. Life is short and too much of it has already passed you by. Don’t fret about it, though.

Once you bloom you’ll forget about all the sadness.

So, what are you waiting on?”

Edward hugged Rascal and left.

The address on the piece of paper led Edward deep into the city, down unfamiliar streets past buildings in various states of decline.

At last, between two red brick buildings, he found himself standing in front of a faded, white two-story with purple trim and a lush, verdant yard ornamented with all manner of statues and chimes and whirligigs. The path from the cracked sidewalk to the porch was spanned by brightly painted tiles.

Once on the porch, that creaked beneath his feet, he tapped lightly on the lavender door.

“Hold on,” a muffled voice came from the other side.

The door swung open revealing a young man draped in a diaphanous, green garment that flowed and fluttered around him, making his slim, pale form seem all the more lithe. His hair and his beard were both composed of tousled, strawberry-blonde tresses.

“I’m, I’m, um, I’m,” Edward felt he may collapse.

“I’m looking for Sumerwane. Rascal sent me.”

“I see,” the young man smiled, “I’m Summerwane.”

“Rascal said ‘she,’ I thought…”

“I’m she. I am he, they, them, in between, before and after, beginning and end. I am everything, but for now I’m also me.”

Edward put out his hand, “I am…”

“Your old name is meaningless, I will, in time, give you a new name. For now, though, I will call you, Beautiful.”

“Me?” Edward’s brain told him that he was being toyed with, the butt of some terrible joke, but his heart, which had never spoken up to that point, told him to not question the circumstances. “You’re beautiful, but I am…”

“The beauty you see in me is merely a reflec

tion of your own beauty. The energy that is surging through you is also in me. Feel it.” Summerwane took Beautiful’s hand and placed it against the soft, green fabric that covered her chest.

Beautiful could feel Summerwane’s heartbeat.

Warmth and vibrancy spread from the supple, hairsmattered skin beneath the cloth to his fingers, his hands, arms, and quickly through his whole body.

He was alive. He knew, by reason, he had been alive his whole life, but now he felt alive. Life buzzed and tingled in every fiber and every cell. His atoms vibrated. His heart beat wildly.

For the next several days Summerwane healed Beautiful. Teas were consumed, sweet, herbal teas, wholesome foods were prepared and eaten, but more than all that, love was plied to all of Beautiful’s wounds and broken parts. Tears flowed and screams arose, until at last, laughter came. Sighs, soft melodious sighs came. Songs came. Sprouts arose. Buds appeared and blossoms burst forth. A profusion of petals opened their arms and embraced Beautiful.

He accepted his body little by little, and soon loved it, fell in love with it. After a lifetime of stubborn resistance, it had yielded; to Summerwane’s touch at first and then to Beautiful—it accepted pleasure and responded with pleasure. He no longer felt like a collection of faulty parts, but like a single entity, a being of both flesh and, perhaps not spirit, but something greater than that. He was an eternal being in a temporal world, not a cold world, but a world of warmth, beauty, and passion. He reveled in his realm of sensation and the universe was no longer what contained him, but was him. His flesh and bones and skin and blood formed a flawlessly designed avatar that existed to please and be pleased, to love and be loved, to heal and be healed, to grow and nurture its self and others.

When Beautiful reached this point Summerwane took him to an upper room that had, until that point, been kept secret. The room contained only one item: an ornate mirror. Beautiful had grasped pleasure, but was still hesitant to look into the smooth surface of the mirror, lest the image within summon the terrible ghosts that had just been banished.

“You can do this,” Summerwane placed a kiss on Beautiful’s lips. The tender touch of her supple lips gave him courage.

Beautiful turned his eyes to the expanse of silvered glass within the rococo frame. “Who is that?”

Beautiful pointed to the figure of a radiant, gorgeous man who pointed back at him.

“He is Beautiful. You are Beautiful.”

RFD 181 Spring 2020 27

Beautiful looked intently at the man in the mirror. He beheld a man nearing middle age, but still with the faint glow of youth. The stranger seemed suspended in an endless sea of glass. His body, with all of its curves and swirls of body hair shimmered.

Long strands of beads lay around his neck, cascaded over his shoulders, and rolled down his torso. Soft,

well. He accepted their kindness, but knew it was based on outward things that meant nothing. Still he treated them kindly, and never mentioned the past.

What was the point? Their opinions meant nothing.

That’s why he didn’t tell them his new name. It was magic. It’d be utterly futile to share it with those that had no understanding of magic (and neither shall I

sheer garments enveloped him. “He is me. I’m him.

I. Am. Beautiful.”

“Now that you understand you are Beautiful, I will give you a new name: Be Loved.”

“I am Be Loved.”

Be Loved, though he wanted to stay, left Summerwane the next day. He returned to his family and job a different being. His family and coworkers could tell there had been a transformation, but couldn’t put their finger on exactly what it was.

Their attitude toward him drastically changed, as

use his special name haphazardly, lest the crassness of my writing sully its power).

Edward continued to write, more than before.

He wrote things that he was not afraid to read. He wrote books that he wanted to share, unabashedly.

All he written previously seemed unimportant.

More than writing though, he lived and loved and wept and laughed, with vigor and vim; sometimes out loud and sometimes in secret, because some things, the most beautiful things, are small and fleeting and best appreciated in quietude. He knew that

28 RFD 181 Spring 2020

“Pagan Kiss” by Tino Rodriguez

the most precious things experienced should never be analyzed or pondered, only enjoyed. In moments of ecstasy Edward did not rely on words, because, compared to the richness of experience, words had no real meaning. Compared to the firmament of realized emotions, words were to him clouds, amorphous vapors—beautiful but ultimately containing little substance.

All the days that he had existed, but not lived, were in the past and rarely came to his mind. He was alive in the moment and never fretted about the future, because the future is just a myth created by mortals; it’s an imaginary place where people, thwarted and deluded, pin their hopes and dreams; it is a grave where the unappreciated present-moment is interred again and again, alive, yet perpetually mourned; it is a steamer trunk full of love letters with a busted lock.

At this point, dear reader, I have a feeling you may take this to be a fairytale. I would, too, if I did not know the entirety of Edward’s biography. To accept this as the ending would leave us in the realm of fantasy, of Hollywood, of stories composed by people who worship life, but have not truly known it. As wild and free as his spirit had grown to be, he still walked amongst the teaming mortal-hordes who were alive, but not alive; eyes open, but not seeing, ears aware, but not hearing, endlessly chasing sensation and satiation, but finding neither. In that world, in our reality, even beings that have been awakened to the beauty that blooms in everything, eternally, even those beings must endure the ire and apathy and hate that flows, floods, and engulfs the delicate flowers of joy which are sometimes washed away in cruel torrents almost as soon as they open.

Edward had known despair and rejection, as well as, love and acceptance, which is not so rare, but having known magic and having been awakened, he was able to bear the weight of earthly existence.

He accepted the masks he had to wear and the roles that he had to play in order to keep body and soul together. He was Be Loved in his heart even when coworkers or relatives called him Edward.

Day piled upon day and year gave way to year.

Edward touched many people and was in turn touched. He suffered and was comforted and in turned nursed those in discomfort, and there were many that needed to be nursed in those days of tribulation. As is usually the case when it comes to human society, those in places of power and influence, those exalted and at ease, proclaimed their holiness, their endless troves of divine love, and their bountiful storehouses of mercy. Yet, they showed only

contempt for the people, the weakest amongst them, that suffered the most. The mighty having turned their backs, it was left to Edward and his ilk to take up the mantle of mercy and go out singing hymns of love in lonely streets and darkened alleys, and to practice compassion, not holiness, because what is holiness anyway? Edward, as well as his lovers and comrades, in myriad small acts, practiced a faith beyond that which can be taught or even expressed with words—though Whitman came close to defining it, and others, too, glimpsed its truths.

By virtue of the forefags and ansissies, Edward survived until his whiskers turned white and his shoulders drooped with age. He had made it a priority to live fully because many had not. He thought not only of those, his faerie comrades and magical lovers, carried away by apathy and disease, but those of the mundane world that were thwarted and inhibited by the onerous chains that religion and society forged; and continue to forge, that they accepted and continue to accept. He was a prophet in his later years and a chain breaker and conjurer of visions.

He sat, as Rascal had, and comforted those in need and shared with them his wisdom, but mostly he listened and offered them validation, wordless embraces and hearty, assuring handclasps.

Despite having touched many, sparse were his companions when Death, as Whitman described her as vast and unveiled, glided near him on soft feet.

Those at his bedside beheld a withered body, serene of face, eyes not yet dimmed, but dimming. When he whispered, sputtering and raspy, they hushed him with warm caresses and affirmations, suppressing their tears. What emanated from his lips sounded to those that nursed him like the nonsensical mutterings of the dying, but Death, dark, eternal mother, she heard a glad serenade—a song that preceded not only from Be Loved’s soul, but came, soft and sweet, from a chorus of shimmering specters and glittery shades, lovers and comrades that had gathered near, illuminating the shadowy corners of the hospice room, dancing in the shafts of sunlight falling through the windows, enticing Be Loved to join them.

Edward, the body, was laid to rest, but Be Loved lives on in the perfume of grass heated by summer sun, in the buzzing of bees busily harvesting the nectar of cloying, drooping lilacs, in the laughter of companions, in the soft kisses of lovers, in the embrace of bodies of comrades and dearest friends, in the awakening of souls to greater truths, in the scratch, scratch, scratch of pen tip on paper, in the endless flow of time—time, whatever that is.

RFD 181 Spring 2020 29

Spiral

by Silver

‘Where to start?’

‘What to write?’ I ask ‘You know how to start a fire.’ Comes the answer.

‘Start a fire.’

S

amuel stood up from the bed, stretched out his long form, and looked at his hair in the mirror.

He did this whenever he awoke, whatever the time of day, to check mostly on progress, but also on shape and texture. He had been growing his hair for more than six months, and the curls were beautiful, clearly defined and profoundly anxiety-inducing. The inbetween stage was going on inexorably, as he knew it always does, for a tighter curly-haired boy like himself. Knowing didn’t help. It was unbearable to not be sure if anything was happening from one day to the next, towards the long-term goal, one-day, of shoulder-length, shaggy, shiny curls.

His bed-mate, Amit, watched Samuel’s morning routine with a smile. He was amused by the obsessive assessment of the night’s progress, and the quick stabbing attempts to bring life and a rounder shape to the whole ensemble. Part of his enjoyment of this ritual, besides the simple comedy of how fast Samuel could go from sleep to laser-sharp evaluation, was the conclusive proof that Samuel was clearly more self-obsessed than Amit himself. This was a relief.

A secret out-breath of reassurance. For although he knew he had a tendency for self-absorption himself, including about his image, with Amit it started a good while after he woke up, after his shower at least, and involved no more than ten minutes, after which however he found his state he accepted it with a shrug. Luckily for Amit, he looked pretty good when he shrugged, whatever he was wearing, and whatever was happening with his hair.

Samuel caught Amit’s smile in the mirror and thought about objecting to the teasing element of it.

He settled instead for a greeting.

‘Alright’ he half grunted with a smile. ‘Sleep OK?’ ‘I did’ Amit smiled back, ‘nice being next to you.’

‘I should hope so,’ Samuel flashed back. ‘People have paid good money…’ He trailed off. Then, coming back to meet Amit’s eyes, he said dreamily, “Yeah it was sweet, I liked it too.’

He flopped back on to the bed and let the back of his neck find the nook of Amit’s shoulder. Feeling 30 RFD 181 Spring 2020

the warm skin contact, he closed his eyes and let his body mould into Amit’s, as he in turn uncoiled to meet Samuel.

T

hey had been seeing each other for most of the six-months of Samuel’s hair experiment. What had begun on Grindr, as an invitation for a cuddle had grown into a relaxed and somewhat unlikely bond, between Amit, thirty six, an equally fulfilled and frustrated journalist, and Samuel, twenty seven, a freelance make-up artist, who veered between feeling lost and found many times a day.

Amit felt a gentle arousal as he turned into Samuel’s body, his face in the pampered curls, his chest against Samuel’s left-hand side, and his own left hand reaching over Samuel’s midriff to find his hip.

Pressing against Samuel’s thigh, his penis started to swell. For a moment he considered pulling away, scared of Samuel doing the same and the jab of pain that might ensue. But he stayed - just stayed - in the warm mush of the moment, breathing in Samuel’s curls and the funky smell he often woke up with, letting the blood pump through his system, his cock, his heart. Softening the part of him that had tensed at the thought of rejection, and remembering the part of him that loved this tender, mysterious man in his arms.

As Samuel sank into Amit’s embrace, he was thinking about his hair, and wondering how long it would be before it felt like he was at a different stage of the project. A new stage would still be far from the final destination, but it would be proof of progress, and perhaps that would help with the precarious nature of his self-esteem on this journey. Somewhere in the midst of this thought he felt Amit against his thigh, and the familiar surprise that even after all this time Amit still wanted him. He felt a mild rush of panic and a flurry of thoughts – Hadn’t they had sex just last night? What would happen if he pulled away?

Did he like this feeling? What was he feeling?

He let his breath fill his belly - even though Amit would probably feel the gentle ballooning of his stomach - and let the thoughts and the feelings calm down.

Amit stayed in the warm connection of their bodies, and felt Samuel relax into the bed and against his body. Without thinking his pelvis pressed again, softly against Samuel’s thigh, an invitation of sorts,

or the expression of an aspiration. Within a moment, Samuel responded with an equal and opposite force.

They found a slow rhythm, building intensity in tiny increments. Samuel turned his head looking for Amit’s mouth and kissed him, anxious for a moment about his breath and morning dehydration, and then assured by the memory that Amit rarely said no to a kiss from Samuel, whatever the state of his mouth.

Moving face-to-face, front body to front body, they kissed each other with tenderness and depth.

Samuel’s tongue penetrating Amit’s soft mouth, entering and taking over the space normally belonging to Amit. Samuel surprised himself how far he could go and how strongly he kissed Amit this morning. It was as if he was saying something with his tongue, that he would not say with words. He felt a rush of love, of security and of appreciation for this man in his arms whose weight pressed down onto Samuel’s light frame. A frame so light, it seemed to Samuel, that sometimes he found it hard to stay on the ground, ever floating up to the dizzy heights on the combined gasses of anxiety and fear that seemed to spiral perpetually around him. But here he was pinned by the weight of this beautiful man, kissing him, holding him, pulsing with his hips into Samuel’s mid-section. Samuel manoeuvred his legs

“Ann Arbor” by Dragon (Arthur Durkee)

from under his lover and brought one and then the other up and around Amit’s waist. Amit’s cock now touched the edge of Samuel’s hole and a new level of excitement entered the fray. Wet with the juice of Amit’s cock, Samuel’s hole started to open, and pulsing millimetre by millimetre Amit found his way inside.

Samuel let out a small gasp as Amit entered fully beyond his sphincter and deeper inside. Amit paused, still breathing with Samuel but now with all his attention on his lover’s face, giving time for Samuel’s body to habituate to this new development. He knew to take his time at this moment; he’d learned that everyone involved had a better experience if he could give a little more time at this juncture than seemed entirely necessary. Sure enough as the seconds passed he felt a growl start to summon in Samuel’s belly, a soft animal noise that said to his body ‘Yes, now!’ And like the trombone section of an orchestra, Amit moved in exact time with Samuel’s hungry conducting. And then he let go, merging with his lover into one pulsating body, not knowing who was fucking who, who was giving, who was receiving, who was inside and who was outside.

Samuel meanwhile was lost in sensation. And yet he was found.

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RFD 181 PhotoSpring

by Chang 2020 33 Martin

August Morning Sprawled out in bed on an August morning, I woke up with alarm in my blood that was as red as the mosquito bites on my arms, Had my army of ticking time bombs failed me?

Humidity during a New England summer was air wicked with sadism.

Deadlines buzzed in from my left lobe to my right as I crinkled my forehead in compliance, I looked to my right: His blonde hair trickled into my eyes as the sun spilled in, the copper stalks on his chin began to gleam His lips still perpetually puckered I still think he will be as handsome as ever Did I lock the back door last night?

(Yes, I let Charlie back in and fed him) Alright I remember turning off the stove as well Did James finish the laundry yesterday Ok, ok I gotta get up I gotta get up right now.

But first thingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first.

(What do I do first?) â&#x20AC;&#x201D; J. Nguyen

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Body, Speech, Mind -Body Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not my body Vultures circle Samsara Their insides turned gold - Speech True love cannot speak In the same way we cannot Use words to find it - Mind Magnetize madness Without thinking: thoughtless bliss Gratifies senses

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Blackbird

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Photograph and shawl by Richard Vyse

Bobby Bish Bobby Bish Bobby Bish Bobby Bish I dreamed about you, Bobby Bish.

I fantasised of you, Bobby Bish.

You were my lover, Bobby Bish.

You were my man-whore, Bobby Bish.

So many angsty adolescent masturbations, Bobby Bish.

So many duct-popping dry tears of frustration, Bobby Bish.

So many grey school shorts erections, Bobby Bish.

You showed your bum to our third-form lunch-time hang-out group, Bobby Bish.

Was it for me, Bobby Bish?

It instigated so many masturbations, Bobby Bish.

You have no idea, Bobby Bish, How I longed for you, Bobby Bish, Your floppy hair, Bobby Bish, Your soft, smiling face, Bobby Bish, Your bum, Bobby Bish, you showed us again, lunch-time, in classroom, slapping in punctuation.

Oh, how I stared, Bobby Bish.

How I reached out to touch in my mind, Bobby Bish.

I wanted all of you, Bobby Bish.

My pubescent 13-year-old body, Bobby Bish.

Would I know how to touch you?

Would we shower together, Bobby Bish, Entangle our hair, Bobby Bish?

Form two you singled me out for playful teasing, Bobby Bish.

I did not mind one bit, Bobby Bish.

Next year shared form class, and Bobby Bish and I friends, suddenly.

Smoking first cigarette with you, Bobby Bish, beneath Wanganui city bridge.

Were we ever alone, Bobby Bish?

Whence came your insinuations, Bobby Bish?

“Chris and I go out and fuck women together. And when there’s no women, we fuck each other.”

Oh yes, Bobby Bish, if only it were true.

Still makes me hard, Bobby Bish.

Still makes me wonder, Bobby Bish, If 13 was not our median friendship age, What then, Bobby Bish?

In Wanganui, aged 22, twice, I say, ashamed, I saw you, Bobby Bish, from a distance.

Bobby Bish, your girlfriend?

I ran away, Bobby Bish, terrified.

Bobby Bish, it never went away.

Ten years, Bobby Bish.

Bobby Bish, shaved his gish, beautiful blonde soft.

Bobby Bish, my adolescent bliss.

When will it shift, Bobby Bish?

When will you pay out on promise to show me your dick, Bobby Bish?

—Quinoa / Chris Kirk

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“Lovers” by Jan Ziegler

What This Poem Wants for Paul What this poem wants is to wait on you after a long day with a glass of red wine, a biography on Bette Davis, a blanket for snuggling, and your favorite chair all clear, just for you.

This poem wants to light candles in the bedroom while you shower, have Dancer in the Dark ready to play on the TV, and a bowl of popcorn waiting for after you dry.

This poem wants to be in your pocket as you walk the streets of Chicago, watch a dance performance in New York, backpack across Europe.

This poem—the love poem you’ve always wanted— is sorry for being late.

—Dustin Brookshire

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Dread in November Fall seems like a strange time to start a romance. since Winter soon will come with death and introspection.

But I enjoyed my first call with Daniel.

He was surprised how easy the conversation flowed and finds my honesty blunt and refreshing.

He struggles talking to other gay men and disentangling erotic attraction from friendship.

I understand.

My gay male friends are all parking sign ciphers in the city with their asymmetric terms and prohibitions: This side but not that -- on Tuesday mornings.

Pay per hour at the kiosk across the street.

Zone 4 permits.

Tops only, no femmes or Poz men.

I am confounded.

But I was towed in Richmond last January and I endured ambush dates, non-consensual touch and gifts of cash on barbs, so I read a sign three times, compulsively, before leaving my car.

15 days have elapsed but my phone cannot commit to another connection.

I know what I want to say: “I am worthy of a kind and loving husband.”

Repeat three times in the mirror and my Christmas wish comes true.

I spent my twenties repelling men and discouraging their unwanted attention.

Now, I have no idea how to nurture love.

That is what I want to tell Daniel: I have a history of sabotaging relationships and I am weak in the face of uncertainty.

—Spriggan Radfae

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“Driving Through the Rainbow” by Chris Moody

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True and Valiant

by Al Cole

You can tell Macalester’s a small liberal arts college by their campus traditions. They have a clapper-less bell atop a gazebo on central campus.

It is too tall to be rung alone because you’re only supposed to ring it when you loose your virginity (something most people require assistance to do).

Nebraska’s much more genteel—a series of columns that stand near the football stadium will reportedly crumble if an unfortunate student graduates without ever being kissed. My husband suspects he knows some introverted engineers that may have graduated anyway, but you can never tell…

Most campuses have a bell tower, but Iowa State has a campanile, that loudly chimed the quarter hour all day and all night long. They said the way to become a “True Iowa Stater” was to kiss under that musical clock tower at midnight. I never did kiss under the clock, but I did kiss near it, both at midnight and at noon.

Same sex couples claimed the noon version, called “reverse campaniling”. I’ll admit that I kissed a girl—I don’t know if I liked it, but if it pissed off a couple of conservative farm kids, it was worth doing.

I should mention that the space under the tower is well lit, so the fortunate (or unfortunate) couple is on view for the entire central campus—which is perhaps why my dates preferred to make out in a dark corner in the vicinity.

After the time I first went campaniling, I thought I was on top of the world.

Love’s a funny thing—when making out in the bushes at midnight makes you feel invincible.

There is one more tradition at Iowa State: near the campanile is a small lake, perhaps two blocks by one block. It’s home to a pair of gay swans, named Lancelot and Elane, and a variety of local waterfowl,

42 RFD 181 Spring 2020

depending on the season. It was said that if lovers could circumnavigate the lake three times without saying a word, they would be together forever. This is definitely false for introverts. (Perhaps the original perpetrators of the rumor were extroverted.) I easily circumnavigated the lake three times with my introverted lover, even as I ignored the warning signs of a dissolving relationship.

Out here in the real world, there’s none of these weird public displays of relationship status –save for one thing: the ring on my left hand.

It marks me as “taken”—if you consider me property.

It marks him as “beaten”—if you consider bachelorhood the peak life experience.

I could bore you with how it represents our love because it is round, or because it has bevels, or because it is shiny, or because it is heavy, or because it’s tungsten carbide—but what is more interesting to me is how I react to it.

Under the ring—my skin is smooth—it has taken on a completely different texture then the surrounding flesh.

My skin is pale, because it is hidden from the sun.

My skin is grooved, where the ring nestles.

To me, this means: I am changed and I am changing.

The wrinkles on my skin, my imperfections are smoothed under the weight of the ring. Part of me is hidden—and pale: the secrets that only two can share. Finally, there is a groove that wasn’t there before. Now it’s just a little groove, but I know it will get deeper with time.

So to the world, the ring announces me as married, but to me it says: I am changed and I am changing.

“Woodland Faeries” by Philip Hare (Sweet Marie)

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44 RFD 181 Spring 2020

Stills from the film Ode to Ted by Mark Golamco

Feathers Every night in my bedroom, a trapdoor opens a spotlight beam of radiance, then the shadow of you descending the magnificent angel that you are, your powerful wings beating wind faster than a hummingbird’s, your hands caressing my beard, your eyes alight and kisses aglow.

I wake up with feathers haloed around me.

—Raymond Luczak

Texas Blue Is there anything else I’d rather do?

I am a land of wells that ache for you as the water from my heart percolates hard from under.

Your eyes pry me apart as I await asunder.

The sun is brittle.

You make me little.

My wishing well is a dry hell.

My dear man, don’t leave me blue.

My parched lips ache to drill you.

—Raymond Luczak

RFD 181 Spring 2020 45

Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another?

For Billy You wrote your disease a letter, thanked it for giving you character, kindness and God. New Age chicanery, I scoffed. It aged you older than god and made you shit your pants.

I wonder what I would have said to your illness: Thank you, Sir, may I have another? Another day guessing at breakfast if you were still breathing or if there would be another stroke before dinner.

Please, Sir, another, another. A death, or a service, at least an announcement of someone crossing the line between being positive and becoming full-blown.

Another unknown, though expected, unpronounceable opportunistic infection, another trip to St. Mary’s, wait, let’s call it St. Martyr’s, another two-week IV drip.

Another nurse’s name to remember, another day in the life.

If AIDS gave you a soul, made you nicer, allowed you to touch others so deeply, growing old would have made you more so.

You’d be here wiser with me.

And I would not have so much to explain.

—D. Scott Humphries

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“Russian Cadets” by Dmitry Bitjukov

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Cakes In General Are Fine

by David Cummer (Martha)

I

t was just another day. Morning sunlight pouring from the east, over the trees, houses and our garage below, gold light splashed on the forest green wall Kevin painted in our bedroom, and there was a slight breeze …

“Hey, ya gotta get up!”

What th’ hell?

“Ya gotta get up, Davey!” Keith and I’d been a couple for five years by then, and he’s only person I’ve ever, even unto today, let call me “Davey” (too much “Daveeeeey, DAAAA-vey Crocket, King of the Wild Frontier” when I was growing up).

Hal, one of our three cats was just as determined as I was to ignore Keith as he bounced about the place, out of the bedroom, into the kitchen, then to his studio, seeming just a bit frantic.

“I work 3 to 11 today. Lemme sleep.”

“Oh, you can’t sleep,” again with the bouncing.

“Get up, get a shower, get shaved …”

“I have a beard …” Grumbling out of our bed, I wondered just what specific type of feral member of the Seelie Court I was dealing with this time.

Passing across the hallway to get to the bathroom, I noticed a two-layer cake with white frosting on the kitchen table. “What is that, and why does it have cinnamon rolls on it?”

48 RFD 181 Spring 2020

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

“Well, yeah, cakes in general are fine in and of …”

“Shower. And here’s your pants.”

Thirty minutes later, I walked, still slightly damp (but wearing pants), into the living room, catching Keith as he quickly hung up the phone.

He seemed … oddly glum. “What’s going on?”

Keith sighed. “You said that you wanted a surprise party for your birthday, so …”

“My birthday’s not until the 18th, and that’s …”

He looked up at me, slightly exasperated. “That was all part of my quote evil plan unquote. I figured I’d pop it on ya early, you know, throw you off the scent.”

“Oh, that is sooo sweet, Keith.”

“Yeah, such great plans … I called all your work friends and the folks from your belly dance class, and now …”

“They called and bombed out?”

“Uh-huh.”

I could not think of a time I’d loved Keith more.

That he went to all this effort for me, even though it didn’t work out as well he’d hung his hopes on, was above anything anyone else had ever done for me.

The thing is, that was the decoy party.

Photographs by Chang Martin

RFD 181 Spring 2020 49

Love Doesn’t Conquer love doesn’t conquer all, it doesn’t conquer anything love lays down. it takes a long nap and is too tired goes underground, underwater, lets go, drowns sinks, gives up the grip and the ghost and that thing you can’t remember so well now anyway it’s like snapping out the tangled washed sheet it’s like wet sheets on the clothes line, being smoothed by the sun —Bobby Martinez

Words Unwritten Those months weren’t conversational.

We didn’t trade in words. But in our sprees of loving your body, bold with burning, wrote itself on every inch of me. Together, for the hours of gentleness, your breath murmured in other languages. Infused the ventricles of my heart, as the channel of a river changes in the telling. Wide, lifted up, eyes might follow a river’s coiling, discern by degrees shapes cohere, words drawn across earth itself.

In sleep’s blue canyon, I am a bird, a condor, gifted wings of liquid gold, tracing again the glyphs you laid down. Reading them, always, as if for the first time – When you next meet my heart and know it like the heat of an old scar perhaps then you will feel your own heart more solid and be ready to trust it again.

—Qweaver

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“Dorian of Maryland” by Richard Vyse

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Photograph courtesy of the author

Beltaine At Sms: The Power And Purpose

by Mountaine

S

ince 1981, the Beltaine ritual, held on the first of May, has been the high point of the year at Short Mountain Sanctuary. I’ve attended gatherings since 1992, and have been part of the ritual planning team for most of these spectacular events.

The What Beltaine is one of the four major festivals on the Pagan (and Wiccan) calendars, halfway between spring equinox and summer solstice. Some people consider it their New Year’s Day, and/or the beginning of summer. It’s a time for enjoyment, for celebration, and for renewal of passions of all kinds.

Bonfires are traditionally a major part of the festival.

Engaging in sacred sexuality is a strong tradition for this wonderful holiday. And the core community activity is a structured ritual.

The How Hey, it’s faerie, so it changes. But here’s what usually happens. On Beltaine eve, April 30th, after the prior year’s maypole is chopped down in mid-afternoon, ritual planning begins. This is usually a time to brainstorm the unique focus for the ritual – what specific intent makes it different from other years.

Anyone interested is invited to participate. In most years, Daz’l facilitates this work, and he does it very beautifully. The meeting is run by consensus. An effort is made to hear from all voices present, and to include diversity of gender, race, sexuality, etc.

Usually this runs for one to two hours, and a general shape for the ritual emerges. And sometimes this pre-planning circle doesn’t happen, so it’s all left for the next day.

About 10:30 on Beltaine morning, there is an organizing circle on the knoll (facilitated for many years by Gabby with focus and flair) where we hear the shape of the day, and self-organize into three groups—what Gabby calls Guilds. The Maypole Guild (usually led by Weeder and/or Flash) finds, chops down, and transports the new maypole to the knoll. The Ribbon Guild (formerly led by Gabby, and now by Eden) prepares the ribbons to be attached to the pole. The Ritual Guild meets again (usually led

by Daz’l), for about two hours, to complete its plan.

Again, decision-making is by consensus, which is why the Ritual Guild meeting takes some time. But if someone arrives toward the end with a whopping

grand idea, they are told it’s too late for that! And sometimes people come with great enthusiasm for a ritual plan that would be excellent for twenty people but wouldn’t work at all for 400+. For example, a spiral dance gets really chaotic with those numbers.

So those of us who have been involved for awhile often have to weigh in with the voice of experience, to make sure the ritual will be practical for such a big gathering.

We have also learned over the years that “less is more,” particularly with words. Not everyone who attends is particularly into ritual. The goal is to make it as theatrical as possible, so it’s entertaining and fun, without losing the powerful essence that makes ritual meaningful. It’s a fine line, but worth giving attention to.

Occasionally people have come to ritual planning with very specific belief systems about how things should be done. One time, a guy I’d never seen before arrived at the circle well after it had begun, and let it be known that he was a serious student of Wicca. Before he arrived, there was talk of doing something different that year – rather than calling the directions in a sunwise (clockwise) direction, going the opposite way. There were good reasons stated for shaking up the status quo by doing this.

But the new arrival went into a state of shock.

“Don’t you people know that’s widdershins? It’s dangerous. You can’t do ritual that way.” He was told as politely as possible that we weren’t into following any particular religion in designing the ritual, but were open to finding our own faerie way. He left the circle, and I never saw him again. (And yes, the ritual was unique, and superb.)

In the old days, when gatherings were smaller, we used to make one huge circle around the center of the knoll. But as the numbers increased, people were stretched out too far, and couldn’t hear what was spoken from the center. We now encourage participants to come in close, and sit. Even with a big crowd, it feels intimate and cozy.

The structure of each ritual is loosely based on Pagan practices, but various other influences have been incorporated in the design from year to year. It typically includes (1) Welcome, (2) Grounding, (3) Calling of Directions, (4) Introducing some specific magickal work, (5) Raising energy to envision that work being done. Then the grand raising of RFD 181 Spring 2020 53

the maypole is the “icing on the cake”. (For physical safety, this part must be done in silence.) Once the maypole is securely in the ground, drumming starts, and things get marvelously crazy, so it’s impossible to get people to focus on more guided ritual. Each of us are empowered to continue the ritual in our own intentions, weaving ribbons to the pole with dance and play and hoopla. It gets pretty wild, so it is important to have a sense of a completion to the ritual before the maypole is raised.

Members of the ritual team seek each other out at sunset around the maypole, to close the ritual formally, and send back the directions, elements and entities that were called in.

The Why These gatherings have changed many lives.

More specifically, these rituals have changed many lives. The combination of sporting gorgeous colorful playful faerie drag, on the beautiful land, being our authentic selves in public, and doing our spirit work with others as witnesses and

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co-participants, has a power that is unlike any other. For many of us, it’s in these gatherings and in these rituals that we have discovered a deeper knowledge of self-worth and self-empowerment.

But these gatherings are getting very big!

Personally, I am in favor of discouraging people from coming who are only interested in the party.

There are great parties elsewhere. On the other hand, I absolutely encourage people to come who want to create community together, through taking part in the ritual and practical work that needs to be done to have a safe container for meaningful transformation. There are many who feel the importance of keeping this focus. The potential of these gatherings and the rituals within them is too precious, and too important in these times, to take them lightly. So if you’re coming, come with intention intention intention! And please help keep this amazing faerie culture going strong by sharing the value of intentionality with others who express an interest in attending SMS gatherings.

Embroidery by Rick Paxson

An Interview with Murray Edelman, Faerie Elder Or Given the election coming up, what’s a sensitive politically active Faerie to do?

by Hammer I met Murray Edelman at my first Naraya about twenty years ago at Wolf Creek, OR, although I doubt if he remembers me from that experience. I had heard about Murray from others before I met him.

He was well regarded as an activist and elder even then. Indeed, Murray has been at the forefront of many LGBT defining struggles over his 75+ years. He was a founding member of Gay Liberation Chicago, the financial backer of Arthur Evans’ seminal book, Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture, and in 1975 a founding member of The Faerie Circle inspired by Evan’s research. Murray was inspired by a spontaneous Faerie ritual at a SF bathhouse and then found a way to re-create it which led to Harry Hay personally inviting him to the first Spiritual Gathering of Radical Faeries in Arizona in 1979. There he led an erotic ritual on the final evening at the swimming pool.

He also helped organize the Dance For All People/ Naraya in 1991 and has been an elder at the Wolf Creek Dance For All People/Naraya that started in 1999.

But this interview is not intended to catalogue all of Murray’s contributions and history. We met to discuss the upcoming National elections. More significant to this interview, Murray has been employed by CBS News regarding US elections

Photograph courtesy Murray Edelman

analysis for over fifty years, since 1967! His doctorate is in Human Development but one of his working expertise is in survey research and statistics. He has been president of the American Association of Public Opinion Research, an organization of over 2000 survey research professionals. Out of all this combination of gay activism, Faerie magic, survey research and political punditry he has developed a concept called Circle Voting.

This issue of RFD is about Love, how does your vision of Circle Voting fit into that theme?

Let me start by telling you how the vision came to me. A while back, at a Wolf Creek Naraya, I was asking for guidance for my life’s work, a repeat of my intentions from dances of the last couple of years.

My full-time job with CBS had ended, and I had the time and resources to follow my calling. On the Sunday night after the dance we have a Faerie fire at the fire pit. And as you know these Faerie fires go where they go. This one got into a lot of complaining about the country and imperialism, sexism and racism; there is no shortage of content in this direction. At one point I shouted there is something we can do and they started a chant, “what can we do,

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Murray.” And with some trepidation, I said “Vote.”

Chaos ensued. People were shouting at each other, and at me. Some were taking my side, and others were against. This kept going for a couple of hours.

Through this, I saw how little people really understood regarding the nature and power of voting.

And I saw how much I knew and could contribute through my knowledge of politics and experience as an early gay activist and as a Faerie. Over weeks, I received a flow of creative and intense writing and seeing. I saw that “we the people” do potentially have control of the country, but we are not using it.

The name “circle voting” came to me. It means our individual power is in our influence within our own social circles. And our own circles can profoundly impact larger community circles, and then outwards in concentric rings until we touch the circle of life and Mother Earth, (the largest circle.)

Truly my vision came out of love and the open heartedness we feel after being at the Naraya for four days and during a Faerie fire. The path to getting the government to actually serve us and not the special interests is through our love for ourselves and each other. Voting is an act of community love.

We are voting out of love with and for our community, like we have experienced at gatherings and through our community. In my vision we are motivated with love for Mother Earth and all the people on her so much that we do the hard work of looking inside ourselves to understand how we enable the current structure. And then making the commitment and taking the personal responsibility and risks to make change. This vision is about love.

Voting is about love. Not voting is a surrender to the current structure.

And let’s be honest with our readers, this RFD issue comes at a critical time before the 2020 election.

Ok Murray, so that is the general vision, maybe a bit lofty or airy-Faerie. What about specifics for Faerie readers of RFD? Let me start by claiming I suspect less than half of the Faeries voted in 2016. There is no reputable survey of Faeries, so I’ll first draw on other sources and then tell you my own research which supports my assertion. In 2016 for example, only 60% of eligible citizens voted. By age, in 18-29-year-olds it was 45%.And lower income people turnout at lower rates as well. Another big determiner is that if people move in last few years – they will vote less oftendue to having to re-register. I think it is safe to say many Faeries tend to be younger, of lower income, 56 RFD 181 Spring 2020

and more migratory than the general population.

Many people are surprised when I say less than half of the Faeries voted. There is a social norm that voting is the right thing to do, so in fact people don’t visibly broadcast that they don’t vote. We know from public surveys that at least 10% or more of folks will say they voted but have not in fact done so. At least 10% of people who say they will vote or have voted do not. Within close groups it is even more challenging to admit “I don’t vote.”

I had this long drive with a young Faerie going from Wolf Creek to Portland and after we got very comfortable with each other, he admitted he didn’t really understand how voting worked. Meaning he didn’t understand registering to vote, Electoral College issues, etc. and in general how the whole system works. People seem often not to understand how their votes and lack of votes drive the system.

Civics is no longer a required or honored course for students in schools at any level. Republicans cut education and then make appeals to ignorance.

So therefore, we need to communicate about voting in a new way. We need to be more sensitive about this and have a deeper understanding psychologically of what keeps people from voting.

When I’ve offered workshops on voting at gatherings, I would get a few people and they were confirmed voters and often expressed annoyance that others didn’t vote rather than realizing there are lots of good reasons why people are turned off to politics. Those of us who are motivated voters have an opportunity here in our own immediate circles to make significant change by motivating the 50% who aren’t even voting. This is likely a better strategy and use of energy than contesting with the other side trying to change a few voters’ minds.

My conversations indicate that in not voting, people don’t understand how it actually plays out politically. One of the reasons that negative campaigning is so effective is that it turns off voters by making it so ugly. So, Republican’s negative ugly campaigning works on two levels, good people get turned off and turned away and the Republicans’ own base gets fired up. Not voting is in effect a vote for whomever wins. Not voting is a big part of a Republican campaign strategy. Getting you to NOT vote is their goal. You forfeit your power before the contest even begins!

Yes, I have heard the higher the vote turnout, in general, the better Democrats fare. Are you proposing a Get Out the Vote drive among the Faeries?

I’m proposing something much more than that.

Getting out the vote is traditionally strangers talking to strangers. In voter registration campaigns, we shout out to people to get registered. Campaigns do cold calling. Tons of money is spent on media campaigns with simplistic and often false points. In this country we treat voting as a private act. It can be awkward to bring up the subject of voting because it is supposed to be “private” and people can get defensive because they are “supposed” to vote.

With Circle Voting I’m talking about a different kind of engagement all together.

Instead, we are reaching out to our friends and acquaintances. We teach ourselves how to have these sensitive and perhaps challenging conversations about voting. And especially with those who don’t usually talk about politics, or who feel deeply wounded or disenfranchised in this area. We don’t shame them.

As an example, perhaps, we treat them like someone still in the closet. We make them comfortable talking about voting, we help them see connections between voting and their lives and their dreams, and where appropriate, we can offer help towards taking the first steps, like registering or requesting an absentee ballot. And if we are talking to regular voters, we can encourage them to be more proactive in their own circles by our discussions and especially by our example.

What role in particular, do you see for Faerie collectives in Circle Voting?

A good example is the movement around environmental issues, which have evolved over the years and led many people to change their behaviors in dramatic ways. Many Faeries have been in the leadership of these changes. People pay more attention to ecological issues in part due to education, community pressure, community norms and standards.

Photograph courtesy Murray Edelman

Circle voting could evolve in a similar way.

Why not? It really does matter! The behaviors I’ve described around participation and non-participation, the difficulty of bringing up the subject, the alienation from the power of our vote, are all deeply ingrained attitudes and behaviors. It will take a major effort over time. But what we do as Faeries, as agents of cultural change, could radiate far beyond just the Faeries. In addition to our powerful Faerie networks, we each have connections in other communities. We could unleash our creativity and develop some of these ideas collectively and then as trendsetters we could make a significantly disproportionate impact on the greater society.

Can you suggest even more specific actions Faeries could take in regards to Circle Voting that would transition our current US government away from these oppressive and life killing policies?

Yes, of course!

1. Talk about voting to both faeries and other friends from a circle or community perspective, versus just individual perspectives. One hundred votes from our community are way more powerful than forty five votes from just the most motivated. We need deeper community (circle) voting educations, awareness and participation. Focus in on those who don’t seem interested in voting and approach them in the supportive ways I’ve suggested. We are talking about engaging non-voters or poorly motivated voters with whom you probably share values, goals and social change desires, to register and follow through and vote. And talk about these ideas with your political friends too; maybe you can motivate or inspire them to reach out in their social circles through your words and your example. Try an experiment to see if your ten closest friends all vote?

2. Realize we already know the key states for RFD 181 Spring 2020 57

2020. The Republicans are already pouring money into them. We have to pour Faerie resources and magick into them as well. The presidency will likely depend on the results in: Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Arizona, and maybe Florida and North Carolina. Control of the Senate will hinge on these states: Alabama, Arizona, Michigan, Colorado, Maine, and North Carolina. Democrats have to win five out these six. Other states may be added depending on the candidates, but I guarantee you will be hearing a lot about these states in October.

If you live in these states there will be no shortage of potential conversations, but even if you are on the very blue coasts, you probably know lots of Faeries and other people in these states. Here are some suggestions on how to find them. (Remember—we are encouraging people to register and vote—not trying to change the minds of die-hard Trump supporters. When you find Trumpists— move on and find unregistered potential voters and encourage them to vote, thus cancelling out the die-hard right-wing voters.)

Do a Facebook Search on “my friends who live in Pennsylvania.” The result will show all your friends there, remember to click on the top right where it says “see all.”

Cruising sites: Do searches for these states.

Look over your contacts and chats there. Begin conversations with people there. Think about visiting one of these states for a registration drive, as your own romp through the state.

When you meet people through traveling, gatherings and other social activities find out where they live. When they tell me they live in a key state, I respond “I’m so envious, your vote really matters a lot in this upcoming election.”

Don’t forget your address book or whatever you use now. In general, find out where people are from, they may still have family and friends there.

Other ideas? Other social media? Let me know so I can put it on my website.

3. Develop your connections with Faerie circles in these swing states. Let the motivated voters know you appreciate their work. Offer to help or even visit and help with registration. The early Fall is a great time to travel. Or help them plan early vote parties or voting day parties. And for the infrequent voters you may have discovered, you may be able to help with absentee ballots or just reminders to vote. Don’t under-value your influence with others.

4. We could also engage artists in voter reg58 RFD 181 Spring 2020

istration in ways we have not done. In the AIDS epidemic, artists of all kinds were vitally important in transmitting key messages otherwise hard for people to hear. Artists make deeper impacts in regards to symbolism and branding and in powerful emotional appeals. Also in regards to topics folks may be embarrassed to talk about. We could utilize writers, painters, musicians, graphic artists, designers, actors, directors and more. I’m waiting to see the RFD issue dedicated to effective resistance to this regime!

5. We can develop talking points and materials for our low-motivated-to-vote friends and contacts in our circles. And then practice having these conversations. There are certain pat issues that come up with non-voters repeatedly. Such as, “my vote doesn’t count”, “I’ll have to do jury duty”, “the whole system is rotten anyway”, or “I am waiting for a candidate I really believe in,” etc. We can change the cultural around understanding, encouraging and expanding voting in Faerie culture, and then other adjacent cultures.

6. Let’s use our Faerie magick to transform voting. We keep saying, “Self-care is sexy.”

“Voting is community care and thus ecstasy!”

Getting people registered to vote is a challenge but powerfully effective. Voter registration efforts are often too serious. We Faeries could bring some fun, style and flamboyance. We could also have registration parties and make it fun and cool.

Let’s make voting something to celebrate. Have some events the weekend before or open houses after voting or making the night a celebration after voting. Even if our candidates lose, we need to honor the process of those who voted for what we want.

Thank you, Murray. Final words?

We need to keep remembering that Trump won by 88,000 votes in three key states. While Circle Voting is a big vision, we really don’t have to bring out that many votes to make the difference. And Hammer, I really appreciate your help it getting this out of my mind and onto paper. It has reminded me again how much more powerful we are when we work collectively- and that is circle voting. I would really like people to contact me with feedback at: murray@circlevoting.com. Here is my circle voting website: Circlevoting.com.

“Valentines Day Card” by Gordon Binder

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Maqui March 24, 1958 – January 27, 2020

by Cara Coven

M

aqui, beloved faerie friend to many, passed away January 27th, 2020, surrounded by a close circle of friends as well as his sister, Jen. He had been living with cancer for two years, mostly responding well to the treatments offered, until at the end of 2020, the disease became active again, resulting in constant pain and weakness.

He grew up in East Detroit and was number six of nine children born to Betty and James. From an

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early age had a diverse love of music. A Janis Joplin fan from the start, he also learned the French horn.

When he left home for Ft. Lauderdale, FL, in the ‘80s he joined the “Flamingo Freedom Band”— founded by Mountaine—where he met his lover Tommie Tom. In 1992 Maqui and Tommi Tom moved to Short Mountain Sanctuary, in 1993 Tommi Tom passed away and by the end of the year Maqui had become

Photographs courtesy the author

a part of the founding circle of the IDA community—a co-community with Short Mountain. Here he began to explore his love of ceramics, creating his gnome house lanterns. These developed into his larger, intricate and unique lanterns which became much sought-after pieces of Fae Art. In 1996 he left for the desert, excited by the new community of Zuni Mountain Sanctuary in New Mexico and their intention to make pottery part of their cottage industry. Always one to push a boundary, he announced that he would be a resident of both IDA and ZMS by traveling between communities. In the end he settled at ZMS and created hundreds of beautifully glazed mugs, lanterns and sculptural pieces all the while introducing many visitors and residents alike to the joys of turning, forming, glazing and firing clay.

He lived at the Sanctuary, helping hold down the community with his dreams and schemes and bringing people together until around 2002 when he moved to his own land in an area called Candy Kitchen about twenty miles from the Sanctuary where several other Faes had already begun forming a “Faeborhood”. He called his land “Ithithawoo Pottawy Wanch.” In 2004 he built an Abor agama Wood-Fired Ceramics Kiln and continued to fire this, sharing the space with other local ceramicists for several years. A couple years later he moved to the Ancient Way Cafe and El Morro RV Park which was a default community center for the many individuals and households that are scattered

through this vast desert region. The cafe was failing and Maqui, always one for Feeding the People, began to do Friday night special dinners which became so popular that, long story short, he began running the place, solidifying the Ancient Way as the hearth of the region. He was given a cabin for a pottery studio and continued to make lanterns and mugs right up until weeks before his death.

He loved to play guitar—Janis and other rock-folk faves were his jams.

His love of drag could open up a deep Janis channel. He also played Brother Boy in the local production of “Sordid Lives” by Del Shores. Towards the end of his life he began to learn the cello.

His enthusiasm for all he did, his sense of inclusivity and his kind, joyful spirit inspired others and before long, empty buildings near the cafe became an art gallery, a feed store, a healing center, a farmer’s market and an annual craft fair. Maqui became known as “The Mayor of El Morro.”

When asked what he wanted to be surrounded by when dying he said, very clearly: “Food, Peace, Love and Harmony.” This could have been his life’s mantra. His smile and twinkling eye had a way of confronting people’s expectations and worries such that they gently dissolved. His last act of living free and sharing love came as he was visited by a stream of loving friends—folks whose lives he had changed, so much, for the better. His care formed a circle of loving friends to tend to him in his last days.

RFD 181 Spring 2020 61

Back Issue Sale!

20% off for Five or More

www.rfdmag.org

Come Celebrate With US! 40th Blue Heron Faerie Gathering

Welcoming all queer people.

Come out Come Out Where ever you are.

August 31 to September 7, 2020 Information: thompsbs@tds.net

RFD 181 Spring 2020 63

Announcing a New Book from White Crane Books:

The Evans Symposium The long awaited sequel to Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture.

In 1975 Arthur Evans presented a series of lectures based on his research into LGBT history and cultural roots in European societies of the medieval era. The ground-breaking work was subsequently collected into the 1978 publication of his book Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture.Working with Arthur at the end of his life, White Crane Books convinced Evans to gather the remaining materials—that had been edited from the original book or simply hadn’t made the cut—into a sequel of sorts to that book. Arthur did so and called it Moon Lady Rising. We present the entirety of Arthur Evans work for his symposium material here.

“White Crane Books, once again, reminds us of the important works of our time by renewing the essential writing of our elders. Arthur Evans’ original work in Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture is a seminal piece of lost LGBT history; and the added, new material of Moon Lady Rising stakes a further claim to our shared, birthright history. We will not be erased.” —Mark Thompson, author, activist, Radical Faerie “No book was of greater importance than Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture as the modern gay liberation movement was forging our identity as a people.” —Robert Croonquist, activist, first generation Radical Faerie and Founder of Youth Arts New York/Hibakusha Stories, a member organization of ICAN (the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons), 2017 Nobel Peace Laureate.

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Available at www.whitecraneinstitute.org/books Hardcover $29.95 • Cloth cover $19.95 Or mail a check payable to “White Crane Institute” to: Bo Young White Crane Institute 22 County Route 27 Granville, NY 12832

Issue 183 / Fall 2020

POLITICS

Submission Deadline: July 21, 2020 www.rfdmag.org/upload

Politics are where you live, the word comes from the Greek word which spoke of the polis, the city.

We here at RFD are impressed by our readers and we want to nudge all of us to think of ways of being more in polity with each other, with as large a circle of like-minded folk as possible.

We are entering into an ugly election year here in the United States (with likely ripples of other places also) reacting to the constant drum beat of false narratives to make us all give up on politics or to merely look to our immediate polis, our immediate surroundings and friends.

Yet we might begin to look at creating ways of networking, building and utilizing the power of the people to shape our futures. In its most simple form, it happens when we elect any government, any system that will govern both for us and over us, we have to make choices.

One of the choices we need to seriously reconsider is being “non-political” or apolitical, in essence we are asking you to reclaim your voices with the larger world polity. Within our current system, every vote counts, as long as it is being counted. Democracy demands an alert citizenry, participating in the very mechanism that creates the governmental structures in which we dwell—like it or not! How can we use our effective means of co-creating our own spaces (polis’) to help shape the larger polis around us.

As we face oligarchical and tyrannical ideologues playing up the fears of the poor, the religious by using anything to distract from what actually happening—our planet is suffering, we mistreat one another, and we’re being more isolated while “globalism” in the form of corporate capitalism continues to tap our labor and our environment of resources, we ask you to consider sharing with our readers ideas, strategies to undo isolation, to re-unite people with shared ideas rather than shared fears.

Please consider sharing your ideas about how to reach people, create alliances and shape things regardless of the election results. What future can we co-create within and beyond the governmental structures around us and with which we must interface?

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a reader created gay quarterly celebrating queer diversity

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