Chapter One

I believe I chose my parents.

Both were gay or bisexual, alcoholic, psychic, artistic, intelligent and funny. It sounds wonderful, but being empathic as a baby and a child was extremely disturbing. For example, everyone could pick me up and handle me - except my father. I would push him away and start crying simultaneously. No one figured it out.

Years later, I pieced it together. He was not "out" about his sexual nature, having stuffed and closeted most of his sexual de-sires since childhood; it's called denial. Because he didn't understand those feelings, which must have been conflicting, a small baby can't absorb the energy, as there's no place to "put it". There is no frame of reference on which to hang that experience and label it, "confused male sexuality and desires for boy love". He was the boy who needed love, and this became transferred to the desire to love a boy, his own son. To me, it felt like an abysmal, dark chaos. That is the shadow.

Childhood was lonely and a bit frightening. I sensed everything emotional; moods, thoughts and portents. I developed a magical world of my own with in-visible friends. Around my father, I learned to keep my guard up and walk on eggshells, not knowing when he'd "fly off the handle". This is the nature of alcoholism; unpredictable destruction. I hope, as my own problems are revealed, that it helps others to gently encourage theirs to surface; with love, kindness and most of all forgiveness. Our parents, whether known or unknown, loved us, and they expressed it the best they could given their own "baggage".

The result of not cleaning out baggage is that you get to keep it, and those who save everything have great difficulty carrying it around as years pass. This is why many old people look so stiff and breakable: years collecting psychological "stuff', mistakenly believed to be fine china, crystal and precious jewels. Tread softly around these people, they may break at any moment.

My grandparents were different. In my eyes then and now, they were living angels. While my parents were partying in our dark, dank adobe house, I was shuffled off to my grandparent's ranch in Goleta. Pioneers, they had originally come out from Kansas to California in a covered wagon. Grandpa was an oil gauger in Bakersfield, where Mom was born. They bought a small store in Gaviota which sold bee equipment, farm and ranch goods. It was the only store between Goleta and Solvang. When cars were invented, gasoline became a necessity so they installed a couple of gasoline pumps. They owned and started the original Gaviota Store. Like the proverbial "parking lot", it was eventually torn down and replaced by a sprawling complex with restaurant and souvenir shoppe.

Not satisfied with stagnation, they both put themselves through chiropractic school, studying the Palmer methods. In order to begin practice, by then in their 50's, they traded the Gaviota Store for a walnut ranch in Goleta, just outside of Santa Barbara. Downtown, they rented a small house where they set up business. Eventually, they bought the house located one block from the Courthouse.

Good people attract good fortune. Both Southern Baptists, I remember going to church with them, yet never heard any religious dogma. They taught by example and stories. To this day, I've never met anyone with larger hearts, more wisdom or grace. Had it not been for them, I wouldn't be here now.

Weekends at the ranch were my favorite times. Imagine a beautifully maintained walnut ranch, towering eucalyptus trees, fields of corn and fresh vegetables that would fill a fruit stand, and a creek bordering the land. There were acres of wild pumpkins, fruit trees laden with sweet, juicy fruit, apricots, white peaches, persimmons, blackberries, raspberries, guavas, oranges, okra and fresh asparagus! Grandpa kept it impeccably tilled with the tractor.

When I was old enough, he let me ride in his lap, and drive the tractor myself! The small cottage, dropped in the center of the ranch, like Dorothy's, was covered with honeysuckle vines.

The Emerald City...

Dorothy and my grandparents came from Kansas, though a covered wagon is not as exotic as a flying house. Furnishings were simple: a potbellied stove, old Persian ts, a small kitchen where Grandma worked her daily magic, and the only concession to modernity - a television set. We watched travelogues at night; in the morning, grandma and I did Yoga as Richard Hittleman demonstrated various poses. For 75, she was way ahead of her time. My grandparents were both Masons, and the written works of Manly P. Hall intrigued me for hours on end.

Between age 9 and 12, I would peruse the pictures of all the National Geographic Magazines, while gleaning mysterious teachings from magical pages, which become a lifelong pursuit.

There aren't too many books which you can describe as life-changing. Manly P. Hall's The Secret Teachings of All Ages was one of those books for me. When I first encountered an earlier edition of this old tome at age twelve, I had to deal with a huge book filled with occult imagery and complemented by a suitably thick layer of dust, unearthed in a dim recess of the local library. While certainly a nice prop in the movies, it certainly was an awkward thing to read at a small study desk. Many was certainly a "manly" man, and quite handsome to boot...

Manly P. Hall 1901 - 1990

In those days, relatives were called family. Every year distant cousins, aunts and uncles arrived from Bozeman, Montana and other "points east" to spend a week or more. The front lawn was large enough to sport a "croquet game", and many a fun hour was spent knocking the hard, wooden balls through wire hoops.

Simple, yes. Each day Grandma baked fresh bread, biscuits and cinnamon rolls. Enormous meals were served like clockwork, all fresh food from the front yard. I hardly remember them going to the store, but occasionally we had a craving for meat, milk and butter. The dirt road leading to the cottage was about half a mile long. A more picturesque drive is hard to imagine. Both sides over-flowed with wild flowers, trees and shrubs which seemed as if they magically planted themselves in the perfect spots.

Ranches surrounded the property, so as a child it seemed as if the world was nothing but one large fabulous light filled garden of eden. A babbling creek bordered one side, railroad tracks at the "end" of the property, a lemon grove next door, and in the distance was Hollister Avenue, barely visible like some distant memory.

Aunt Inez was one of my favorite Aunts. Holding hands and talking, we strolled to the mailbox, about half a mile away. She told stories, and we did a lot of laughing together, a couple of

children at play. View Large Image

During the "big visits" from relatives out of state, I do not recall one raised voice, an argument or a "dirty word". Where my parents would be drunk, arguing about philosophy, ghosts, the beyond, politics, UFOs and "things intellectual", the difference was dramatic.

It was necessary to learn how to promptly behave on many different levels, hence an early induction into multidimensional existence. I was naturally drawn to people with an innocent nature. They had no agendas, didn't manipulate or steal.

Love was everywhere, as tangible as the sun whose rays delicately kissed our faces. Similarly, there were no political discussions, or worries about the future. Talk centered around personal stories which in themselves were so precious, amusing and profound that it was like having a steak dinner rather than a cheap hamburger. Global warming, political scandals, secret operations, corruption or the "New World Order" were inconceivable.

Spirituality and life were one. There was no need to talk about religion, it was simply lived. Life was living Spirit made manifest. When we did go into the "big city" of Santa Barbara, I could hardly contain my excitement at being able to ride, all by myself, in the back of their elegant 1959 Cadillac. It was white with enormous fins under which were two bright red taillights. Inside, magical black material was interwoven with silver threads. Tres elegant!

My favorite act was to use push all the buttons, a thrill which remains to this day. As we glided on the freeway like a silent UFO, my grandmother would give me a "spelling bee" for fun. She'd ask, "How do you spell eucalyptus?", and so on, gleaning words from billboards, businesses and life as it passed by. I credit this little "game" for developing in me a love of words and a respect for their hidden magic, which is very real.

When the moon made her appearance, Grandpa would get out the "carom board". A carom board is a piece of wood two feet square, with net pockets in each of the four corners. On one side there is a checker/chess board. On the other side, a carom game. Carom consists of wooden rings, two colors, about the size of a large finger ring. They were lined up on marks, and one would use the forefinger to gently project them into the opponent's rings to bounce them out of play, and into one's own rings to project those into one of the four pockets. The one who got all the rings in first, won.

Grandpa seemed to be able to play for hours with-out getting bored, and many times he let me "take a play" that I hadn't seen in time, and through that I learned to build my own skills. He also taught me leather tooling and bee keeping. Life consisted of baking bread, harvesting honey and doing winter canning, keeping us happily busy. Hot steaming meals tasted all the better on a cold, winter day off the Blue Willow China.

When the walnuts jumped off the branches, they were manually picked up; some green, some with skins drying. From there, they went into slatted drying trays the size of a ping pong table, to dry. After the husks were removed, they had to be cracked open using a hammer, the meat picked out, and 5 pound boxes filled for sending to relatives. Honey was served on the comb. That was the best part - chewing the wax for hours, like chewing gum. What a delicate flavor.

I wish I could convey one millionth of the loving energies from these wonderful souls. To say something is missing today is a gross understatement. How do we know what we're missing if we never experienced it in the first place? Perhaps that was the last generation of loving angels that lived and walked the planet openly. My parents "skipped that beat", rebelled against the goodness and light, let the shadow side up, as was their task. Now is time for us to release that side and return to our childlike essence, beginning with our thoughts. My grandparents never died. They live today, in my heart. Over time, I have gradually dropped what is not "loving" to embrace only that which nurtures me.

This is one of the secrets of my longevity.

On my father's side, we have a "mirror world" representing the opposite. Dad's father was a Pentecostal "Holy Roller". His mother was a "woman of the world" who smoked cigarettes, slept around, and enjoyed psychic phenomenon such as table raising and speaking with the dead. I remember her long red finger-nails painted "Jungle Red", a line made famous by Joan Crawford in "The Women".

One of her best moments is when the heroine raises her nails and growls "I've had two years to grow claws, Mother, and they're Jungle Red!"

Dad's mother had a great sense of humor and loved to laugh; that is a trait both sides of the family shared. Today, laughter is not always "fashionable", especially in business, Don't get caught laughing with the other employees on "company time". This has created a cottage industry of secret internet clubs, which tease and taunt the browbeaten and pussy whipped employees of the world to sneak peeks at material which is far from related to "business as usual". I encourage this, as a kind of pleasant erosion of a dying era.

Why not help bring down the establishment that's been screwing all of us since birth by doing as little as possible? Either way, it's coming down whether we like it or not. Best to have a safety net, like the tightrope walkers, "just in case".

Childhood was like a cheap remake of "Auntie Marne". Instead of Rosalind Russell I had Louise and Kay Boe. Louise was part American Indian with long black hair and stunning eyes. Looking a bit like Cher, she was an "original hippy", who smoked introduced my hip parents to pot. This was during the 1950's, long before the flower children blossomed. She was a magical empress who floated in on a cloud of mystery and delight, astrological charts in one hand, ouija board in the other. I was loved, guided and supported by the magic of feminine energy at it's best.

Women are intuitive masters here on planet earth, the wise ones. It's sad that religion has rewritten the Divine Feminine out of it's histories, but they were there, are here now and are assuming their rightful positions. Another "wicked woman" friend of my parents was Kay Boe.

Also from Hollywood, Kay Boe looked like Phyllis Diller's sister. Like Diller, she had bleach-blonde hair, bright pink lips, raucous laugh, and enough funny Hollywood stories to fill an encyclopedia.

Notes on DILLER:

Phyllis Diller (born Phyllis Ada Driver on July 17, 1917) is an American comedian who is considered one of the pioneers of female stand-up comedy. The stage character she created was a wild-haired, oddly dressed housewife who was ugly but didn't realize it, and who made jokes about a husband named "Fang" while smoking from a long cigarette holder. She is also known for her distinctive, cackling laugh, one of the best-recognized in comedy. Diller is generally thought to have opened the stand-up field to women such as Totie Fields, Joan Rivers, Lily Tomlin, Sandra Bernhard, Rosie O'Donnell and Roseanne Barr. Picture of Phyllis Diller, possible "twin" for dear, sweet KAY BOE!

I never saw Kay without a martini or cocktail "in hand", nor was any spilt. Unlike some, she was_,funnier and raunchier with booze. Also from Hollywood, my parent's "men friends" include Don Allen, a very gay hair-dresser "to the stars", often clad in brightly colored tights; for shame! I remember hearing famous names such as Lucille Ball (Lucy) dropped like pennies into a wishing well. He was their personal hairdresser, and a funnier man would be difficult to find. Next, there was my Godfather, O.B. Barclay. O.B. and his lover Max worked in the studios and owned a fabulous home nestled in the "canyon" in fashionable Hollywood Hills. Dad drove us there a couple of times, and the most memorable aspect was the climb to get to the house. As one reached the top levels, a living zoo filled with exotic birds and animals took one's breath away.

O.B. was the wit of the entourage. When asked what O.B. "stood for", his snappy re-ply was "Old Bitch!". All of these wonderful characters were in love with me, and I with them. They provided comic relief from the "walking on eggshell" existence I lived. Alice in Wonderland, move over!

Last, there was a local character from Goleta, California who looked like a cranky old OWL: Neil McKay. His home in Santa Barbara overlooked the city and included as part of it's furnishings an enormous working loom, which he not only knew how to operate, but utilized making rugs and tapestries. He had been a ballet teacher and had mastered many trades of an intellectual persuasion. His favorite line, after a few beers, was "I've got news for you!" That line, delivered with great drama and flair, would fall out of his mouth like a rock after my father placed at least one foot, if not two, in his own mouth.

Dad and he got into the worst arguments of all the crowd, as Neil was probably a genius, Dad thought he was, and with a few drinks the sparks flew! Neil, however, never spoke his own truth unless he had personal experience, and even as a kid I could sense that my Dad was "out of his league". Still, much of it was all in good fun, "intellectual debate", and just plain humor.

Now, imagine all these colorful folks together in your home, cocktails in hand, and you have a picture of a "day in the life" of my childhood. I could hilight the difficult moments of living with a pair of alcoholics, but the "golden moments" made up for all of that; and besides - I had my own little magical dream world, replete with invisible friends, in which I reveled.

At 12 I was shipped off to my Dad's brother's house to live, while the divorce was "in process". I'm glad I missed the fireworks. Two intertwined events stand out in my memory. On August 04, 1962 Marilyn Monroe mysteriously died.

Later in life I shared her addictions to alcohol, lovers, "downers" and pain killers, a torch carried to her death. I carried the same torch many years, beginning in Hollywood where she left off. I remember her breathless final performance on May 19th of that year, when she sang "Happy Birthday, Mister President" months before her death.

The second event was announced over the grade school loudspeakers on November 22nd, 1963: "President John F. Kennedy has been shot. We re-peat: "President John F. Kennedy has been shot. President Kennedy is dead."

Overwhelming feelings washed over the school, piercing the nation. Girls fainted, many sobbed. Everyone was horrorstruck, and life stopped dead in it's tracks. The world has not recovered from this heinous crime, which has never been satisfactorily explained. We have been "led to believe" this horrific event was done by a lone gunman. Poppycock.

At 14, I was "awarded" to my father in Orange County. Dad bought a 3 bedroom tract home in Huntington Beach for $14,500.00, which included the land. Outlandish! My happy little world was not destined to last long. We had a few bonding moments, like going to the drive-in theater for the debut of the James Bond movie, "Goldfmger".

Sadly, Dad's drinking progressed, as addictions do, even when checked. Those who imagine they are controlling their addictions are living in an imaginary world of denial and fear. Prior to my 17th birthday, he physically assaulted me during a blackout for the 3rd time. I guess that was the charm, so I locked him in the garage when he went out there to get another glass of wine.

Making my escape, I grabbed a jacket and coin box and flew out the window. In my heart I knew I couldn't go back or I'd end up another statistic. Not knowing where to go, I kept walking - away from the house. It was about mid-night and a car pulled over in front of me. Frightened, it was two guys; they offered me a ride. I accepted. Several miles passed, and one of them said, as if psychic, "It looks like you might be in some kind of trouble. I don't know if we can help, but you're welcome to ride home with us and stay the night, if you need a place to stay". They didn't seem like "muggers" or "bad guys", and besides - I had little choice.

I agreed. "Home" turned out to be about 15 miles away, which relieved me somewhat. As the hour was late, they said that I could sleep on the couch. They both had to work the next day, and retired to the ONE bedroom in the small apartment. My mind raced. What if they were a couple of "homoSEXuals"? at if they tried to molest me in the night? At 16 1/2, I knew nothing about this subject, except it must be a fate worse than death. After all, my father used to storm into my bedroom in the wee hours, turn on the overhead light, snatch my covers off and spew out, "Are you a homoSEXual?" I never knew what to say in response, having no "formal training" to speak of.

So, I tucked my wallet in my underwear in order to know if anything happened during the night. When I think back on it, that was not very bright. If they WERE going to molest me, they would have gotten not only my "crown jewels" but my wallet to boot!

Angels must have been watching over me, as nothing happened.

In fact, to their credit they were polite and loving men. The next day, a note was on the table with a $5.00 bill saying I could stay with them indefinitely until back on my feet. We could all go bowling the next day on their day off. In retrospect, it was very sweet. I often wonder what might have happened had I taken these handsome twentyish boys up on their offer; it would have been quite an education.

Alas, I felt a "calling" to go back to my home in Santa Barbara ASAP to see my Mom and grandmother, which I did. I left them a note with the $5.00 and said goodbye. I bless them for their kindness, and hope they had a happy life together. I spent my last few dollars on a bus ticket headed for Santa Barbara, never to re-turn. My only baggage consisted of one black eye.

Mom didn't want me living with her, so back I went to Grandma's ranch. Grandpa had passed, and it was just the two of us with me needing to finish High School and a very angry alcoholic father demanding the "hostage" be returned. It was frightening to get phone calls at all hours, replete with expletives directed at my grandmother, but she handled it like a trooper. She stood by me, no matter what. That is love. No threats, no four letter words could convince her that I'd be better off with him.

I registered in High School and it was arranged that I'd finish there with my transcripts sent to Huntington Beach where I'd be issued my diploma. Thank goodness for human kindness. Everything went beautifully, for the most part. Grandma was nothing short of a Guardian Angel, a saint in human guise. I loved being back in Santa Barbara, and the school was brand new, having just opened. Talk about a fresh start. Still, my eternal shyness kept me from making friends. Until one day...

All the "old families" were Baptist ranchers who knew each other. One of the Italian families owned an avocado ranch and were hosting a "church picnic". I don't know why my grandmother accepted, but she did and a ride was arranged.

It was a beautiful, sunny summer day and everything sparkled. We walked up the short hill to seating areas and watched the preparations. I used to love church potlucks, held in the church basement with wonderful people and homemade food. The food had not been arranged, so Colonel Sander's chicken was substituted at the last minute. For some reason, the young blonde-haired boy that was setting up chairs caught my eye. I watched as he went back and forth, carrying, unfolding and placing the metal chairs. There was something about him that was different, and my mind had no convenient "pigeonhole".

Two incidents which should never have happened changed my life forever.ow refer to these events as SETUPS. Though I hadn't said more than a few words to the blonde, whose nickname was Buzzy, he invited several of us over to his Mom's house to swim. I asked my grandmother who surprised me with a "yes". After the picnic, I got into the back seat, there being six of us in the car. As I sat next to him our legs touched. A strange, tingling sensation flowed into my body, and for the first time ever with someone else - I had an erection. My mind was incapable of imagining sex with anyone, let alone someone of the same sex!

The words "gay" and "homosexual" were not in my vocabulary, though most of us are "old hands" at sex by the time we reach 13. In fact, I just read a report which claims that most kids know their sexual preference prior to age 10. I now believe all that is part of the script we write. We're born of sex, created IN sex, and sex flows through our little bodies, believe it or not. Parents may choose to remain in denial that procreation is somehow directly involved with having kids, but kids are going to find out in spite of our repression and guilt.

Buzzy stood around with a couple of girls on the same spot at school each day. A week passed; one of the girls stopped me to say hello. Soon, I joined their clique, happy to finally have a friend or two. One of the girls had a crush on me and asked Buzzy if he'd "pick me up" on the way to school. This put us together on the way to school and during. Before long, I was also riding home with them. They were really sweet, both of them, but I didn't feel any attraction for her.

What was worse, I began to experience a strange attraction - for him! This took the form of boyish fantasies, which now can be viewed as my first real crush. After about a month of being a threesome, for some reason she couldn't continue riding with us. Buzzy and I met daily for our private ride to school. The sweet smell of his mother's car formed a cloud of excitement around his boyish charm and physical attraction, stirring my raging hormones to new heights.

The feelings were mutual. We must have both been "ready to pop", as he pulled over before dropping me off one day, saying he had to tell me something. "I thought I should tell you I've been having dreams about you", he shyly admitted. As he spoke, my heart leaped into my throat as I confessed that I, too, had the same dreams. We asked each other, "What can we DO about it?" The answer was simple and spontaneous: That night, at midnight, he would drive up to the guest cottage by the tractor shed where we'd meet in the darkness. That was the longest day of my life. Finally, midnight approached. I slept in the living room on the couch grandma in the bedroom. I heard the car approach, and gently opened the squeaky screen door to catch the lights of his car shutting off prior to parking.

It was a brilliant full Moon as I walked to the room where he waited for me. I entered. It was pitch black, but I stretched my arms out in front of me to prevent falling until they meshed with his. I felt the warmth of his body, his moist breath near my lips. We embraced and kissed passionately as if we'd been raised in France. Two hours or more may have passed in passionate release. It was the beginning of many long nights intertwined.

Surprisingly, my grandmother encouraged us spending the night together. She gave up her bed and went outside to the guest room, returning about 5:00 a.m. to fix breakfast, first rapping on the door with her cane. Many nights we hadn't a wink of sleep. How naive I was. Medusa soon paid a visit in the form of Jealousy.

At church functions, I "saw" how he and another boy looked at each other. The "shrew" was born, and once out of Pandora's box, the lid would never go back on quite right. We attempted living together in one of the 3 houses rented on the property. It didn't go well. We parted ways. A few months later, he showed up at the ranch, and for a brief moment my heart fluttered. I was still in love with him. He was there to tell me he was moving back to Southern California with his divorced mother, and was entering the priesthood. I never saw him again.

Buzzy left me with at least one gift: he taught me how to love, but more importantly he taught me how to drive! I got a job at Mobil Gas Station in the days when "full service" meant washing all the windows, putting air in the tires, checking the oil, and selling sandwiches. I enjoyed working hard. The owner's father, a mechanic there, sold me his 1957 Chevrolet as my first car. Cars are an amazing American pastime. I loved my `57 Chevy. Jimi Hendrix belted "Purple Haze" from an 8 track stereo. Wafting from the small electric radio by my grandmother's bed, which hummed and sang on it's own, came a new sound that stirred my soul: The Beatles.

The year was 1968. I was 18. On April 04, 1968, Martin Luther King Jr., who had spent 13 years of his life dedicated to nonviolent protest, was shot by a sniper^-while standing on the balcony of his hotel room at the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tn.

On June 05, 1968, Robert Kennedy was celebrating having won the California primary. He never made it out of the festivities. He was shot at close range. Though Sirhan Sirhan remains incarcerated for the shooting, many are not satisfied that he was "the lone assassin". Neither visionary was permitted to express their vision of freedom, hope and truth. I mourn their loss from a perspective 38 years later, from a vantage point of seeing first hand the results of their deaths.

We were immersed in the VietNam war, and the same Dr. Benjamin Spock who was so popular at my birth, was indicted for conspiracy to aid and abet draft evasion. He and "beat poet" Allan Ginsberg had been arrested in an at-tempt to shut down the draft induction center in New York City. Nearly 700 people were arrested when 50,000 peace demonstrators stormed the Pentagon. A pro-war parade in New York to show support for the troops in Viet Nam drew 70,000. These events flew "over my head". I was young, and life was just beginning,

At a local gas station a teenager named Lindy always filled my tank, Not quite trailer trash but on the road to being "low life", he was very nice to me and I liked him. After months of buying gas there, he invited me to go with his "boss", who was 35, on one of their mountain trips. Always exploring, I agreed. Free

beer was included and that's all I needed to know. The next few months, I got closer to them and learned they were living together. Lindy invited me over to their apartment and I realized something odd right away: there was only one bed-room. Not one to "jump to conclusions", I silently dismissed the thought by glancing at the couch thinking, "Lindy must sleep on the couch". Before I left there, Lindy showed me a ring that Gary had given him, which looked like a school ring with a red stone in the center. Not "getting" the implication, he had to spell it out for me: they were lovers. I left, to ponder the significance of his confession.

Lindy turned out to be a WILD ONE. Neither gay nor straight, he left no stone unturned in his pursuit of wild and crazy times. He invited me to visit some friends of his, further South towards Los Angeles. The first stop was at a nice home of two "elderly gentlemen", in their 40's, who showed a preference for red velvet and Dionne Warwick with their cocktails.

Image of Dionne

This was long before she had discovered her latent psychic abilities. Apparently, Lindy knew quite a few men like this. Not one to judge or ridicule, I was wide open. This was a whole new world for me, which was becoming my education. Peering into other 's lives has taught me much. It remains a valuable tool for understanding my fellow human beings, from all walks of life.

Over that month, he got bolder with our forays into "the other world". He asked me if I wanted to go to an "orgy". Not knowing what that meant, I said "yes". It was an old tract home somewhere in California with about 7 men. More came and went through the night. One guy in particular came onto me and pretty much cornered me into a bedroom. He was very well endowed, and I was raped. After the second time the pain went away. An odd pleasure bubbled to the surface. I don't remember how many times he impaled me, but prior to this encounter I was a virgin Queen. The next day, he offered to let me play the top. Anger surged to the surface and I pounded him as hard as I could. Now I realize he probably loved my getting even. It should all be that much fun.

Lindy and I became closer. He ended up renting one of the small houses, the same one Buzzy and I had inhabited. That was when he taught me that two guys could "do it" anally. The entire time I was "in love" with Buzzy, there was no anal penetration. It never occurred to either of us that was possible, let alone desirable. It gives naivete a whole new meaning. Lindy was a good "fuck buddy". Patient, he simply told me what to do and how to do it. He was the bottom, and he trained me as his personal top. I didn't complain, being good at following directions. After all, my entire life had been one of doing what pleased others.

My father had trained me well. It's called co-dependence.

Lindy's life became more tumultuous; he told me he was getting married. I still had no clue about what it meant to be gay. All I knew was that I was having fun, there were always "parties", and it was easy to be liked and desired, some-thing my ego desperately needed. Like any teenager, I was exploring the limits of life's offering. It was inevitable that I'd leave the nest someday, and that day arrived sooner than I thought.

Another family friend, who owned property nearby, had a daughter five years older than I, who had just returned from Europe. We'd "met" before, but it was at this time that we became close friends. We both felt "stifled". A plan was afoot. We'd "run off' to Los Angeles together, and so it was. One day, I packed the 57 Chevy, picked her up with her belongings and off we went on our new adventure. Life was about to spin out of control...

End of Chapter One