“Once Upon A Time”

Once Upon A Time,

…I received a call from my partner Chris and it was a Friday evening. He wanted to know if I'd like to ride up to Bristol, Wisconsin to the Renaissance Fair and help him drop off the jams and jellies he'd be selling that weekend while the fair was in full swing. I told him sure. We wouldn't see each other much around Labor Day. I would be out of town and he would be busy in Bristol.

It was a nice drive up and by the time we arrived darkness had fallen. Driving into the fairgrounds, past the trailers backstage that held the offices and the actor's changing rooms, we went through a gate, the other side of which was like entering a movie set, phony on the backside, fantasy on the other.

We got to Chris' little tent, unloaded all his boxes and arranged things like he wanted. It only took about twenty minutes and go figure, the klutz in me only dropped one jar of jelly. No wonder my mother wouldn't let me play in the house.

Once finished, Chris needed to use the phone to call his assistant, so I walked out into the dark and sat on the village green. Some benches were there and the May Pole stood about thirty feet away. Just beyond was the outline of a three story building, its roof slanting at a seventy-five degree angle, brown shingles and shutters in an exaggerated Tudor style. It seemed like one of those inns in Cinderella or Robin Hood.

Looking up I saw the big Dipper, clearly visible that night. Usually the light pollution was pretty bad in Chicago but fifty miles north of the city you could see some of the stars. Not like in Wyoming or Montana, but still enough to make the night sky sparkle a bit. The full moon cast a warm glow on the surroundings.

The village encircled me on both sides. Although used for vendors catering to tourists during the day, the buildings were designed to look like actual renaissance stores and homes. With no people milling about and no women in tube tops yelling at their kids to shut up, it was peaceful sitting there by myself. Noticing a light in the lower window of a two story building to my left, I suddenly thought, "It's like a little fairy tale town and the cobbler hasn't gone to sleep yet."

We had just seen the film The Brothers Grimm two nights before, so that set-up flashed in my mind. Fairy tales…knights in shining armor, villainous lords plotting to overthrow kingdoms, a sword in a stone waiting to make whoever pulled it out rightfully "King of all England."

I could picture the morning sun rising, the shops slowly waking up in some fanciful combination of centuries, for here there would be no "time." You were somewhere in a mythical land that was a combination of England, France or Germany. A maiden would skip through singing a song or Prince John would ride by, looking like either Claude Rains or a skinny lion with the voice of Peter Ustinov, it didn't matter which.

A dragon perhaps lurked in a small rocky canyon five miles outside the village, deep within the forest, and if you continued through the tangled brush, ravenous wolves would stalk you in the darkness. Another ten miles distant, a dark and evil castle loomed, perched on a sheer island of stone hundreds of feet high. Every once and awhile thunder and lightning outlining the towers, you'd see the rocky plain surrounding it covered with dead vegetation. This would be a place nobody would dare go.

An evil queen lived there and if you ever wandered through the pathways of the woods, even the wolves and trolls would stop thirty feet short at the edge of the forest, themselves afraid to go any further. But you would continue.

As a child, I was always into adventurous fantasy literature. I couldn't put Ivanhoe down until I finished it the first time, I relished The Three Musketeers and I still feel there has never been a more perfect adventure than Treasure Island.

I had been to the real Treasure Island in the British Virgin Islands twice. The first time some friends and I rented three sailboats for the week, dropping anchor in the bay of this desolate rocky isle. It didn't look like much, the only things on it were cactus and goats, but still, it was Treasure Island.

Nobody else would swim to it, nobody but me was driven to obtain that quirky literary goal, so I swam by myself. Once on land I walked all over, taking in a place which never actually existed, but yet…here it was, the island Robert Louis Stevenson had based his book upon. There were no palm trees, no jungles, no pirate skeletons still in costume, rotting away from some long ago adventure.

It just didn't sound like much fun to put an eye patch on a goat and imagine he had a peg leg, so I took two little rocks, one for me, one for my dad and started the swim back. It was actually quite a ways, but as long as you had a snorkel and fins, an easy swim. If you got tired, you stopped and floated on the water. God knows there was enough to look at down there. It took me a good half hour since I had to explore the fascinating things I was flying high above. Plus, I had two rocks in my pocket.

As I began, a tiny little tropical fish, the type you'd find in an aquarium with shiny silver scales and a slight diamond shape swam directly to the right side of my goggles. When I made a move to the left he immediately moved with me, to the right, same thing. I knew I was giving him protection from the larger predators and that was why he was with me. But in a fantasy movie the little fish would have pupils and irises in his eyes, he'd have a name, speak English and sing a song about being my buddy.

I came upon a giant manta ray once I hit thirty feet, it looked like a bird down there. I followed him, but naturally I couldn't keep up for very long and when I stopped I was even further from the boat than before. A sea turtle was twenty feet away and once I made a move he turned around and went in the other direction. Thousands of fish down below, the closer you got to shore the brighter they became due to the reflected sunlight, in deeper water they'd disappear in the blue.

Coming closer to the boat I dived as far as I could without the pressure being too much and looked up at it floating there. If it was a pirate ship, it would be a huge wooden hulk of a monster and none of them would know I was below, slowly swimming out to recapture my prize.

Once on the boat I actually felt guilty about the little fish (yes, I'm weird). But, he had followed me out here, it wasn't my fault it was deep water and he was now in more danger than before. I hoped a beautiful mermaid would suddenly swim up from the Caribbean Sea floor, certain I was gone and lead the little guy back to the shallows.

Such was my ability to live out my dreams in my own head. Not like someone who had no life and lived what little they had through books and movies, someone who couldn't get a date to save their soul and lived with his parents until he was forty-two.

But someone who would never really let their childhood go.

I had several recurring dreams as a child. One of them involved a tiger and I was trying to get away, usually by climbing a tree. He would reach out his claws trying to catch my feet but he never succeeded. Who the hell knows the symbolism of that within my psyche?

Books on the interpretation of dreams seemed too hokey for me. A tiger might mean death to one person, a departed spouse to another. I'm sure it must have meant something but who knew, perhaps the tiger in my dreams just meant I had gas.

The other dream I had on a regular basis always involved several things. Number one, I could fly. Number two, I was only an inch tall. And number three (You're going to roll your eyes on this one), I could step into my favorite ride at Disneyland.

I went to Disneyland often as a child. It was always the beach, Movieland Wax Museum and Disneyland, like clockwork on every California vacation. Oh…and lots of gift shops in between for Mom and plenty of historical plaques far off the highway in deserted areas for Dad. With Mom looking pissed off for having been drug that far and to a place with no gift shop.

One early childhood memory is of me wearing a Pinocchio hat and meeting some little boy on the motor car ride in Tomorrowland. We hit it off immediately, we must have been maybe five or six years old, I can't quite remember, but I was very young. I have no idea why this was permitted by either my parents or his, but we went by ourselves to a few of the rides. I look back and try to imagine why it happened, things weren't that safe back then, but I distinctly remember it was dark out, the park was crowded and we ran together without any adult chaperone to the Peter Pan ride, the Alice in Wonderland ride and the Storybook Boat ride. The little boy had dark hair while mine was pure blonde and I tried to switch hats with him because he looked more like Pinocchio than I did and besides, I wanted his baseball cap.

On Peter Pan, we rode a flying pirate ship high over miniatures of London and Never-Never Land. Just models, but to a child, it isn't hard to blur the lines of reality and fantasy. We were just itching to jump out into the fantasy but we weren't stupid, of course. We knew we'd probably break the fiberglass and get in trouble. At that young age I didn't even know Walt Disney was dead and thought he would actually come out and tell my parents I had broken his ride. Of course, being the kindly old uncle he was to children, he would then pat me on the head and take me to the real Never-Never Land since he knew where it was.

Just beyond the Alice ride was Storybook land. Passengers in a little boat headed down a canal directly into the giant jaws of Monstro, the whale from Pinocchio.

Earlier that day I would not get on the Storybook ride. My parents tried and my brother called me a baby, but I wasn't stupid. I saw those boats go straight into Monstro's mouth with all those huge teeth hanging down. I kicked and screamed, but logic told me human beings should not sail directly into the jaws of a monster. What if we didn't get out?! What if the whale didn't open its mouth when we built the fire? Of course, I didn't notice the whale never moved. He didn't even blink.

My mom took my brother somewhere, probably to the Frontierland shooting gallery, but Dad walked me to the beginning of the ride. He said I didn't have to go on it but he made me watch some people get into the boat and he pointed out a little girl, probably wearing something distinctive so I'd remember her. They sailed into the whale and eventually came back out again around a little miniature mountain five minutes later. Dad made me wait the entire time to see that the girl survived. A little more relieved, I still wasn't quite sure. Maybe the whale was asleep and she was just lucky. Nope, I wasn't going to chance it.

Dad gave up at that point and we moved on to something else, but later that evening, when I was with the little boy, we headed towards Monstro. He had suggested it and I wasn't about to look like a sissy if he was so secure about being swallowed by a whale. Besides, I had the Pinocchio hat, he would be the one to turn into a jackass if things didn't work out. I made up my mind that since Pinocchio lived and was washed up onshore in the movie, I could probably make it because I knew how to swim.

We got in the boat and as we floated towards the beast, I was terrified. Those giant teeth passed right over my head, and holding onto sheer internal panic I just knew the jaws would snap shut and bam…we were going to be fish food. Once we were totally in the whale and I opened my eyes, I saw a hole in his backside we soon floated out of. At the time, I'm sure I didn't catch the irony of that little anatomical symbolism, I was just relieved we were safe.

But, once you were out of the whale…man, you saw a little miniature world. The trees were tiny, Pinocchio's village was tiny, miniature alps loomed behind the village. I could see the tree with the rabbit hole Alice had gone down and Ratty's little house was next to the riverbank, just like in the Mr. Toad movie. Cinderella's castle towered on our right. The cottage of the seven dwarves stood in a little forest, a foot high, probably not even that. So detailed, the artistry so well done on these miniatures, it was like I had floated into an animated feature.

I loved the ride after that. When we got back to our parents, who were having soft drinks near the castle, I bid the little boy goodbye and made my dad ride the boats with me.

"What the hell happened to the damn whale complex he had?" my father said. "I can't get through to him, but a five year old he met on a speed car can?"

Well, a parent is much different than a buddy. A buddy doesn't force you to do something, he dares you to do it. There's a little peer pressure involved and you've got an image to maintain.

From then on, whenever we went to Disneyland, which was often, I raced to the Storybook ride. And because of that moment when I faced my fear of Monstro, I began to have a recurring dream that lasted off and on until I was a teenager.

In the dream Monstro was real, but somehow nothing to be scared of anymore. He had a magical power within him and rather than just come out the other end into a miniature world, I would come out a miniature myself, as would the boat and I'd pull up on the nearest shore.

Once in that land I could suddenly fly, sometimes just going for it, like Peter Pan. At others it would be on a broomstick like Angela Lansbury. But in these dreams the flying didn't simply happen, I had to work at it. When free-flying I'd use my body to pull myself through the air, like a fish in the water or a bird working its muscles. If it happened to be the broomstick dream I didn't get on it and go. Just like in the movie, I had to say magical words first.

The broom would fight me, like a new horse you were riding for the first time that was testing you. Once the broom knew I was the boss, off I'd sail, not smoothly, but with the laws of gravity moving me up and down slightly until I got the hang of it. These dreams were so vivid I could feel the movement along with the wind in my face.

On the broomstick I didn't have to work as hard, but I also didn't have the ability to dive quickly and dodge through a forest amongst the trees. I was controlling a vehicle that didn't have the reflexes I had.

Once airborne I could go anywhere I wanted. Pleasure Island with its Carnival rides, I could drop down to the little village and look in through Gepetto's candlelit window. I'd fly into the world of Brer Rabbit and zoom over the briar patch, or if I wanted, stop by the circus and glide alongside Dumbo. As the sky darkened I'd head down the canal to a bayou where a moss covered old riverboat lay abandoned on a sandbar, a little girl held hostage inside until she found the Devil's eye diamond, which was in a sinkhole nearby I could sail right into.

Flying towards a nearby forest, I'd see a road winding towards the covered bridge of Ichabod Crane, only I didn't dare fly through. The exit was always blocked by the Headless Horseman.

No, I always flew over the bridge and eventually Bald Mountain would loom in the sky, the ghosts and skeletons of the dead flying up on their way to visit the devil, but I turned around and headed the other way once I caught a quick glimpse of the horned monster, hundreds of feet high, towering above everything else.

Later, the countryside would lie quiet and visible in the moonlight, here and there a castle or two, perhaps the windmill from The Aristocats. Over the hills and farms dogs could be heard barking to one another across the distance until the barking stopped at an old barn just a little ways away from a large eerie mansion where ninety-nine Dalmatian puppies were hidden and a long Dusenberg could be seen careening down the road towards them.

Closer to London, I couldn't get too high on a broom. Only by free flying could I climb high enough to observe the twinkling city far below. Through the clouds, past the second star to the right, finally…there was Never-Never land, Skull Rock plainly visible with the tide coming in. A pirate ship in the bay shot a cannonball up toward me, but of course, I was always fast enough to dodge it. I couldn't do that on the broom and back in the English countryside it was harder to avoid the Nazi shells as the floating suits of armor marched under me, waiting for my command.

I could rest on a cloud like Mary Poppins or freefall straight down into the water and discover the ballroom where all the little fish danced. Swimming up to the Island of Naboomboo, I'd find a raft rigged up on shore and sail it over to Duckburg, Uncle Scrooge's giant vault perched high on a hill. Spotting the Beagle boys nearby, plotting to break in, I'd steer clear of them, but once I met up with Donald and his nephews, I'd have adventures anywhere…the jungles, Mount Vesuvius, an old west ghost town, the Arctic, the Seven Cities of Cibola, anywhere.

I had that dream many times during my childhood. Never much of a participant in the stories, I could simply observe the goings-on. In the dream I could visit any fantasy world, it didn't have to be Disney. Oz, Camelot, Skull Island, Mount Olympus, it could be anyplace I wanted. It just had to be mythical, wonderful and unobtainable. But for me, it was obtainable because I had conquered Monstro and knew the way.

Only me, I was the only one who could observe these places and adventures. It was my special little place that really never disappeared inside, not even after all these years.

When I was twenty-three, I went back to visit New York a few years after I graduated from college and went on a date with an NYU student who was going to be a screen writer. We saw Into the Woods, a brilliant musical by Sondheim that showed how fairy tales and life don't
always have happy endings. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. It was all about personal and emotional choices and living with the consequences.

So intrigued by the plot, the next day my date gave me a book called The Uses of Enchantment, written by Bruno Bettleheim, the child psychologist. It studied the importance of fairy tales in a child's life and education. It especially concentrated on the Grimm's fairy tales, which had been modified over the years when handed down verbally. Created to give children the education they needed to get through life, the tales prepared them for violence, death, pain and joy. That's why the tales tended to be so dark, things were rough back then and life was short.

It was fascinating stuff, putting a new perspective on those stories, but it was definitely not like my little fairy tale world from the past. Everything was good there and everything was fun, even the villains were exhilarating to be scared of.

As I sat in the moonlight at that deserted Renaissance Fair I could picture a giant boat slowly drifting by beyond the village buildings, so big it towered over everything. Behind me, on the other side, I could see those snow covered Alps and Gepetto was still leaving his candle lit in the building directly in front of me. With a little imagination and for just a minute or two... I had walked into my childhood dream.

It was time to go. Just before I got into the mini-van with Chris, I turned around and took one last look.

And a little five year old boy said "Thank you" to Monstro.

... And he lived happily ever after.

“Dancing With Tina” Synopsis By Terry Oldes

“Dancing With Tina” by Terry Oldes

“Dancing With Tina” is a brutally honest tale about Crystal Meth use in the gay community. Filled with humor, tragedy and crucial information about the drug and its effects, it’s meant to touch, entertain, and educate.

Author Terry Oldes, a thirty –six year old HIV positive man and former Mister Gay Iowa now living in Chicago, writes of having broke up with the latest in a series of co-dependent relationships, only to find himself falling for another one right away. After the relationship reaches a confusing and melodramatic close, Terry realizes the man was addicted to the number-one problem drug in the gay community: Crystal Meth, or as it’s known on the street, “TINA.”

He starts dabbling in the drug himself and meets hundreds of fellow users. At first he thinks he’s merely having fun; his drug-influenced sexual revelry lifts him out of his intense codependency, a byproduct of having been adopted into a dysfunctional, rural Iowa family where child abuse was common. The drug eventually takes hold, causing his life to spiral out of control. He holds an overdosing man in his arms, another man he encounters murders a cab driver in a nationally reported incident. Paranoia consumes his life and makes him occasionally suicidal. Terry is befriended by Eric, a married man going through a divorce and from Eric he learns much more about the dark side of Meth, for Eric is one of its most notorious users in Chicago’s drug community. Eric turns out to be the best friend of Terry’s Meth-addicted former lover.

After a nervous breakdown in Palm Springs involving paranoia, Terry realizes he has to walk away from Crystal Meth. Slowly he weans himself off the drug, while continuing to study the behavior of other users. He proceeds to become a lecturer on Meth abuse, actively helping others understand the drug’s dangers and why they need to stay away from it. Having survived his own ride through Hell, Terry settles down with a new partner, finally overcoming the codependency issues that have plagued him all his life. Eric eventually conquers his own addiction, helping hundreds of others through twelve-step support programs while still paying the price for his past.

Extreme as it may seem to many readers, Terry’s story is all too common in the gay community. His non-judgmental tale will enlighten others as to what may lie ahead of them if they try Crystal Meth; it is also sure to give current users hope that they too can conquer addiction.  

Don’t Tell Mama I met Ethel Mertz’s Husband’s Lover

Don't Tell Mama. What a fantastic name for a bar. The only one funnier I can think of would be, Your Father's In the Backroom.

DTM is a cabaret/piano bar in the theater district of Manhattan and I can't really say it's a gay bar, since I've seen many heterosexuals there, but it certainly is a place where all are welcome.

It isn't a drag bar either, although every time I've visited it was to see a female impersonator named Tommy Femia and although to some it might be semantics, there is no way I would think of him as just Judy Garland "drag".

Some die hard Judy fans didn't care for him, but as with any entertainer who inspired a cult-like following, a few people get absolutely rabid if you even suggest the person passed gas. Lighten up. If someone is in the public eye, everyone is going to have an opinion about their behavior, so you may as well have a sense of humor.

I've never heard Bess Truman fans getting worked up over such things.

Contrary to the bar's name, if she was still alive I would have told Mama. I would even have brought Mama, since for some reason she loved female impersonators. Where that all came from I have no idea, it's not as if in rural Iowa we had Farmer Jones running down the street in a Bob Mackie original every day.

Tommy sang live and while he didn't sound much like Judy, his patter on the mike and his obvious love for the subject I found entertaining since I had been to DTM about five times over the years. He was always nice and friendly after the show, even going so far as to introduce me to his Mama, a little blonde lady who squeezed your hand so hard you wouldn't be embarrassed to tell her anything.

"How wonderful to see you again," she'd say, even though I'm sure she didn't remember me from Adam.

Each time I stopped in there would always be something memorable. One time it involved Tommy sitting on Scottie's lap, playing with his bald head and mentioning how much he liked billiards.

Another time a long line of people waiting to get in the club had to part to let us through, since we had reservations. Scott and I made our way past the crowd, the two of us wearing sunglasses (at night, how full of ourselves as role playing hayseeds were we?) Everyone thought we actually were somebody famous.

"They must be important, they got right in," one guy whispered.

Scott turned around and ruined it, "Oh, we're the Lufts!" thinking they might get the "in" joke and actually know the name of Judy Garland's third husband.

All I heard was some blonde girl in her twenties ask, "Who the hell are the Lufts?"

After taking off his makeup, Tommy and I chatted in the back bar and it always felt like old home week at DTM, with anyone welcome to just sit down and introduce themselves. Perhaps it was his Mama who gave it that feeling, but I always felt I was going to walk out with a casserole or something like back in Iowa.

Tommy introduced me to one of the bartenders, who was also a singer. I recognized him from the Off-Broadway show Whoop-Dee-Doo which he had been in with Tommy.

As we sat and had a beer, he told me about a piano bar he used to work at in the village and how Diane Schurr came in once after-hours. All the employees were actors/singers, so they did an impromptu set for Ms. Schurr and for some God-awful reason, he sang a song called, "If You Play With Yourself You'll Go Blind."

It wasn't until he finished the first chorus he realized his mistake. (In case you didn't know, Diane Schurr is blind). He told me he wanted to crawl under the table.

"Talk about stopping the show! Every employee in that place had their jaw on the floor and my song went over like a lead balloon. Luckily, she was a good sport about it.

"After apologizing, she laughingly said, 'Don't worry about it, and in case you're wondering, I didn't get this way by playing with myself.'"

Another time I was seated at a table with a gay couple and afterwards we joked and talked, getting to know each other. As we cackled, somehow the subject of Vivian Vance came up, the actress who played Ethel Mertz on I Love Lucy. I'm sure I brought it up, gotta slip those little passions of life in every conversation I possibly can.

The younger man looked at his partner and nudged his elbow. "Go ahead. Tell him."

The older one asked, "Do you know who John Dodds was?"

I can honestly say I've never been asked that in a bar, and yes I am a freak, because I knew who he was talking about.

I replied, "Yeah, he was Vivian Vance's last husband. He was supposedly gay, but their relationship worked out anyway in spite of that."

The man continued, "After Vivian died, John came out of the closet and he was my first lover. We were together until he passed away. I still have a few of Vivian's things he left me, including a small piece of furniture given to her by Tallulah Bankhead when she was on the show as a guest star."

Wow, I never would have expected to hear this in a bar. Of course, I asked tons of questions since I'm a classic movie/TV geek, but I didn't pry about gossipy stuff. I knew about the gay issue already, and apparently so did Vivian Vance, from what I'd read in biographies.

The story this man told me was very touching and he seemed to have honestly been in love with John Dodds. He spoke of how wonderful their relationship had been, yet how much Dodds really cared about Vivian also. Their marriage had worked, even though Dodds was gay.

Stories such as these opened my eyes that I shouldn't be too judgmental about anyone's choices, be it a Judy Garland female impersonator or an unconventional marriage. To each his own, although I am still thankful I never had to give my closet door much more than a slight push at twenty-one for everything to fall out. Nothing wrong with showing a little humor with these tales, but still, it's all good.

Rather than Don't Tell Mama, perhaps it should have been called, Don't Tell Ethel…

Part Two-Gays 'N Gators

Spot was a gator. 

Chris, a spectator.

Spot jumped from the deep,

And Chris took a leap,

Cuz Spot thought Chris was a potater.

Chris did fly down to Florida a few days later and we headed for a place I knew he would enjoy, the Everglades. As a child, I would have been bored with a swamp, but now that I was older and had read Marjory Stoneman Douglas’ book, “The River of Grass”, I was just as excited about seeing it as Chris. Not everything in a national park has to be epic and huge, and anyone who thinks the Everglades is simply a swamp is grossly misinformed because it really is a river, just one that moves at one meter per hour.

Chris’ big passion was global warming and the entire region was one big, delicate science experiment, slowly disappearing due to the encroachment of man. Although I was used to giant mountains and rock formations, here we were forced to notice the little things struggling for life.

You would think I’d get a little tired seeing alligators on this trip, but I never did and the excitement I felt at my first sighting continued with about two hundred more of them as the trip went on. At several points, I even made Chris stop the car so I could pick out the large, motionless lumps lying there in the stagnant water like logs and I was happy to have a partner who not only consented to pull over but actually suggested it too. 

Because the Everglades were in the dry season, one of the only areas that actually looked like a swamp were the old canals dug at the turn of the century. Since the wildlife didn’t care, who was I to pass up a good viewing spot? Walking down a boardwalk and marveling at the largest bees I’d ever seen, I noticed grasshoppers with colors like the rainbow and sizes that made you wonder if they could carry off a small kitten.

As I continued, suddenly something hissed underneath me. The water line was three feet below and as I leaned out over the edge, I could make out something scaly and black underneath. It hissed again, just like a cat, and as I stood right over the alligator and peered through the cracks in the floorboards, it let out a huge roar worthy of a lion, the wooden boards vibrating. Wide eyed and thrilled, I ran to get Chris and hauled him over for a repeat performance, but all we got were more hisses.

 After a long day of hiking every mahogany grove we could find and a boat tour around the coastal waters, Chris was worn out, so we headed back to the hotel outside the park. He relaxed, but I was just too excited to sit there and read or watch TV. Hell, the wildlife in the Everglades was twice as interesting as the wildlife up in St. Petersburg. I could see drag queens and exposed behinds anywhere, how often did I have the opportunity to get close to an alligator?

So, I drove back into the park around sunset, taking a left turn into the Royal Palm area, where I had heard the reptilian bullhorn early that day. Because the sun was setting, the colors were glorious with clouds a fluffy pink and white cotton candy against more blue than you’d think any sky could be.

I only passed two people on the entire boardwalk and by the time I reached the furthest ends of it, the sky had grown dark, everywhere around me was nothing but silence. I heard a light splashing underneath and as I walked over, noticed an 8 foot alligator slowly swimming away from the boardwalk. So calm and creepy, it moved just a little bit faster than the ones this morning. Once forty feet away, it turned around and quietly submerged, staying down for about thirty seconds.

Coming back up again, ten feet closer, just as I was about to continue walking, a second massive alligator rose up next to the first one. As the two swam towards me, I could see this was a huge bull, about eleven feet long. I knew what I was witnessing, I’d read about it in books while preparing for my trip. They were going through the mating ritual.

The bull nudged the female with his nose, patting the top of her snout, like he was playing, and soon she climbed onto him and rode around for awhile, piggy back. He rolled over, the female twirling with him several times. Then they submerged for a minute, came back up and continued the courtship. It was almost like watching a ballet, with subtleties and nuances I never imagined an alligator could show.

Twice more they repeated the pattern before the female swam in the opposite direction and the male got the hint she was done, disappearing himself into the water to look for another member of his harem.

One of the most vivid, beautiful images I’ve ever witnessed, it was totally unexpected, with the darkness descending, like walking into a wildlife documentary.

Chris was jealous once I got back to the hotel, but what was I supposed to do? Tell the gators, “Hold on! Let me run and get Chris so he can watch you mate too! Here, let me put a little Barry White on the turntable to keep you in the mood…”

 Besides the Alligator porn I witnessed, the other unexpected highlight of Florida was on the Seminole Indian Reservation. We were staying overnight in a tourist attraction called, “Billie Swamp Safari”, about eighty miles north of the park. Although the surrounding area was farmland, canals and small wetlands still helped move the water to the Everglades watershed and the Seminoles had built this large tourist destination of swamp buggies, air boats and animal shows.

All the buildings were thatched, with fenced-in pits containing crocodiles, alligators, turtles, even a brown bear and a rare Florida panther. Taking an air boat tour, we raced through the canals and swamps at top speed, skimming over the water like a dragonfly.

As we reached a really deep section, the operator pulled the boat slowly into shore and idled in one spot as a group of Arkansas Razorbacks raced down to the edge of the water, since they knew what was going to happen. About fifteen huge alligators knew also, because they slowly swarmed next to the boat, causing many of the passengers to lean back in horror at their proximity.

One alligator stuck both his head and the tip of his tail out of the water, staring directly at a terrified woman, his mouth wide open like he was expecting her for supper.

The driver said, “Hell, ain’t nothin’ to be scared of, just keep your arms and legs in the boat and don’t try to pet ‘em,” and he took out a bag of dog food, throwing several handfuls into the water and on the shore.

The pigs raced to get the food, and the alligators snatched at the pellets in the water, but I couldn’t believe a pig would stand just two feet away from an alligator, happily munching down dog food. Although I was expecting a real blood bath, each animal left the other alone, and I had to laugh at one tiny little piglet, about twenty feet away, high on the bank, nervous and shivering. There was no way he was going to get that close.

In a national park, you’d never catch a ranger throwing dog food to them, but here on the reservation it seemed anything goes. Use common sense, respect them and they’ll respect you, if you want to wear your life jacket go ahead, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.

Such laid back rules and friendliness made it feel like we were floating around Grandpa’s farm, only Grandpa had ten foot alligators rather than complacent cows and horses.

 Since we were staying overnight, we decided to check in and drop off our luggage at the thatch chickee hut on poles we’d be sleeping in, a traditional residence for the original Seminoles. At first, they put us deep within a forest, secluded on both sides by vegetation, but that wasn’t good enough for me. Going back into the main building, we told the clerk we wanted a hut overlooking the water.

“Sure, if you’d like, we just thought you might want a little privacy. Besides, most folks are scared to be near the gators, last week we had to move one family since there was one hangin’ out underneath the stairs.”

Like a five year old, I enthusiastically replied, “No, we want to be near the alligators!” so they found us a hut that had a “resident” alligator who hung around near the back deck.

Mosquito netting over the beds, spider webs in the ceiling and rickety doors that only locked with a padlock, as I walked around back, sure enough, there was the alligator just lying there in the water, probably used to being fed by visiting tourists.

Yes, I’m weird, but I named him Spot, since he looked up at me just like a dog, a slight reptilian smile on his face. Stupidly holding my camera directly above this six foot alligator, I caught a good shot of him, my image clearly reflected in the water.

 During our daytime swamp buggy tour through the cypress hammocks we learned more about medicinal plants than we ever wanted to know, since the place was so dry wildlife seldom congregated back there. The tour guide, a really gregarious Native-American, made what could have been a really boring ride through vegetation into a trip through the world of a Seminole medicine woman.

We then attended an informative show on poisonous snakes hosted by a gatorman named Glenn, whose long blond hair and gruff no nonsense enthusiasm reminded you of an old west cowboy, only he broke gators, not horses.

Glenn ended up being our host for the rest of the night, sitting us down after the snake show in another hut to tell Seminole stories in front of a large crackling campfire. After an hour of laughter and stories Mark Twain would have been hard pressed to come up with, Glenn took us on our last tour. A nighttime swamp buggy ride through the same territory we’d traveled during the day, but this time, it was different.

Chris and I were the only people on this tour, and once Glenn found out our sincere interest in wildlife and ecology, he let down that tour guide persona and turned into a good ole boy showing his friends the Florida back country.

The moon completely full, it lit up the surrounding area and you could see everywhere, even with the headlights off, which he extinguished every once and awhile. At one point, he stopped the swamp buggy cold, the engine completely dead, and we sat there in the moonlight, whispering, since he had told us about a panther sighting a few days previous and if we were lucky, maybe we’d see it.

The only thing missing was a six pack of beer while he told us stories of gator wrestling and his past. We never did find a panther, but we passed ostriches, bison, gazelle and all kinds of other exotic creatures. Although they weren’t native to Florida, the Seminoles figured the more wildlife the better.

As he started the engine Glenn didn’t tell me to sit down like the earlier tour of twenty people had been instructed to do. He just said, “It’s okay if you stand up, you’ll get a better view that way, just yell if you see something and we’ll head over in that direction!”

He even gave Chris the mobile floodlight, helping him look for specks of reflected light in the distance that may be eyes, and just perhaps, a panther.

While he was only supposed to give us an hour tour, we stayed out there for two, and he even took us to an area the tours weren’t supposed to go while we spent ten minutes looking through a swamp for a giant alligator named “One Eye”, so named for the obvious reason. By now, I was holding the light and I suddenly caught a glimpse of something scaly and huge, lying there in the water. Moving the light over, there he was, the biggest, most menacing gator I’d ever seen in the wild, probably about twelve feet long.

Heading back to the compound, the light hit twenty pairs of red eyes and once closer, we realized it was a herd of water buffalo lazing about in water up to their necks, while beyond, the sinister eyes of hidden reptiles shown like silver dollars.

The night felt like a naturalist’s treasure hunt, and you could tell Glenn was enthused he got a couple of nuts from the north just as interested in all this as he was. I’m sure he usually got a bunch of rowdy families who wanted the wildlife to come to them, not the other way around.

I couldn’t help myself, and when he shook my hand I gave him a twenty dollar tip, saying, “I can’t thank you enough, that was the best damn thing I’ve done all vacation!” smiling from ear to ear as he gave us a huge smile back.

 Walking towards our hut, I dropped Chris off and continued on to use the restroom. There were only three other people staying at the place that evening, a married couple and the night watchman. It was thrilling to actually walk through these compounds by myself and when I shone the flashlight into a pen, have a giant captive crocodile open its mouth threateningly.

I was a little nervous the lurking panther in the neighborhood might show up in front of me, but Glenn had said, in his no nonsense way, “Don’t be scared of ‘em and don’t run, then you just look like a big mouse to ‘em. Try to make yourself look tough and large, in the end it ain’t nothin’ but a big cat anyway…” This from the guide who told us that a couple of days before one of the other guides had to be rescued when she came face to face with the feline in the dark, looking like it was gonna pounce.

Heading to the toilet never felt quite so adventurous as that night.

Unfortunately, the only thing loose I encountered walking back were mosquitoes, all the other dangers safely locked behind wire and mesh. Half anticipating that around every corner, behind every bush, would be a large crouching panther.

I was a bit disappointed once I reached the hut empty handed. Crawling under the mosquito netting in my bed, I laid there for ten minutes, listening to the splash of an occasional gator, the hum of insects and the far off call of birds. I fell asleep as happy and content as I’ve ever been.

 The next morning I checked on Spot, who was fine, and Chris and I went to breakfast. An hour later when we returned, Chris headed to the back deck holding a water bottle. Soon I heard him say, “Terry come look at this…” then suddenly “Oh, shit!!” and the sudden splash of water.

Running back to the deck, there was Chris, arms spread wide and jeans covered with water. His face pale as a ghost, he had a look of surprise, yet he was halfway smiling.

The water below was still sending out ripples from where Spot had apparently been begging for the water bottle like a dog would, when he suddenly jumped four feet up to snatch it out of Chris’ hands. Luckily, Chris’ reflexes were better than Spot’s and he backed away just in time.

“Shit!” Chris exclaimed, “That was pretty stupid of me, but man, that was cool! He was just hovering there for a minute, then bam! He came up after that water bottle!”

“You weren’t teasing him with it were you? It’s just a water bottle, it’s not food.”

“No, I was just holding the bottle by my side, I’m not stupid! He must have thought it was a treat, because it almost cost me an arm and a leg!”

 All I could think of was I had held a digital camera four feet above Spot’s head naively thinking, “Wow, what a great shot.”

An idiot, I am completely and undeniably...an idiot.

Part One - Gays N' Gators

Florida.Sunshine, beaches, fairy tale castles, killer whales, big bugs, alligators, panthers, drag queens, muscle studs with more ripples than the Gulf of Mexico and then there’s…me.

Florida was never, ever on my family’s list of destinations. They believed there wasn’t a damn thing east of the Mississippi worth seeing. Like the Beverly Hillbillies, they always thought “Californy is the place to be…”

I first explored the state on my own as an adult, when I was twenty-nine and like the suave sophisticate I am, I remember standing on the beach behind the Parliament House, a cruisy popular gay resort in Orlando, talking to some handsome guy.

Did I say, “How’s it going?”

Did I ask, “So, are you from here or just visiting?”

How about, “Can I buy you a drink at the courtyard bar?”

No, I said, “Do you think there are any alligators in this lake?”

The guy gave me a weird look, said, “I don’t know, maybe…” and walked away, looking for a trick who obviously wasn’t into the “Discovery Channel”.

 I went there twice more, both times with my ex, Peter and his fun family, who gave Mickey and the gang a run for their money when it came to cartoonish behavior. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Goofy and Donald came up to them and asked for theirautographs.

 Now, in the spring of 2007, it was Chris and I heading to the land of citrus and swamps. Because of his hip problems, Chris had no desire to be thrown around by huge metal monsters while I screamed in sheer joyful terror, so I flew down first for a few days by myself to take on take some of the amusement parks. Chris would fly in and we’d do a few other things that didn’t entail smiling mice and roller coasters.

I swam with an energetic forty year old Dolphin, dived amongst the sting rays at Discovery Cove and since it was owned by Anheiser Busch, all the free beer I could sample. Now, that makes a lot of sense, do they want you to swim with the wildlife while cocktailed? I wasn’t drunk, but that weird little question came up in my mind anyway.

At Busch Gardens Tampa, same thing, and as I walked through the park, two young straight guys in their twenties, three sheets to the wind, yelled out, “Hey Man! Free Beer in the tent behind the roller coaster! Partyyyyy!!” Again, did Anheiser Busch want you to puke your guts up when you rode their rides?

While the straight guys shouting “Hey Dude!” were a rarity, I must have been visiting Busch Gardens during a leather bear weekend, because everywhere I looked were large gay men in groups, some in leather, many in t-shirts saying “Los Angeles Bear Patrol”, “Washington D.C. Bears Club” and so on. Although I would never be considered a bear, I have been a little honey pot a few times in various “Eagle” leather clubs, so I felt comfortable walking among such brethren.

 Getting on one of the roller coasters, the thing just sat there for five minutes, never moving. Turns out there was a malfunction and we were all told to exit. Directly behind me, one of the visiting bears got a look of red faced embarrassment as his boyfriend tried to pull him out of the cramped seat. He was stuck and it took a good twenty seconds of pulling and straining, but once he finally popped out like Winnie the Pooh from Rabbit’s House, he looked at me and smiled, confirming why I’ve always loved the leather community.

He said, “Honey, looks like Daddy needs to go on a diet!” and laughed. If you can make fun of yourself like that, you’re alright with me.

Although there was no “Drinking with the dolphins” here, I did get to stand on a flatbed truck and ride on the Serengeti Plain to pet giraffes. At the zoos they always made it sound like giraffes were something to be scared of, but you know how politically correct places have to be, what with insurance policies and stupid tourists who insist on sticking their son on top of a rhino for a photo.

I thought it was dangerous to be anywhere near a giraffe, but the tour guide handed me some lettuce and one of those huge animals you’d swear God must have been on acid to create, walked right up to me and ate it. Its tongue would have made Gene Simmons jealous as it curled around my offering and I gave the big animal a hug.

My particular giraffe had a cold or something because the slobber dripping out of her mouth and onto the other passengers made even the tour guide say, “I’ve never seen her like this! Gracie! Get away, you slob!” as a huge clump of spit dropped right on a little girl’s head, who stood there in disbelief. A scream was obviously trying to make its way to her vocal chords but she was too shocked to get to that point, giant tears quickly forming in her eyes while a disgusted mother pulled her out from under Gracie and wiped the goo off with paper napkins.

I thought, “I paid for this?”

Even though the gallons of drool were a bit much, I was still happy to have done it, but petting a giraffe felt like you were just rubbing a large deformed cow.

 Since I had a couple more days until Chris came in, I stayed at a gay resort in St. Petersburg. According to the Damron guide it was one of the largest in the country. My past boyfriends would have had a fit if I’d even mentioned I was going to stay at such a place, but Chris didn’t care and it was just that type of attitude which kept me in line. I was on vacation, I was gay, I enjoy meeting new people and I like being around gays and lesbians, what’s wrong with that?

If a place was laid back and friendly, that was great. If it was seedy and cruisy, that’s fine too. It doesn’t mean you still can’t enjoy yourself. There are always so many facets to gay life it didn’t mean everything had to be about clandestine sex.

After checking into the resort, I hauled my luggage up to the second floor and yes, I quickly deduced the place was very cruisy and in many ways, simply just another hook up joint. I have yet to stay at a resort that didn’t have some type of seductive appeal to them, whether they were well maintained or not.

One of the most interesting things about gay resorts is the mixture of people in them. Well off couples on vacation behaving themselves, young tweakers looking to do drugs, drag queens living there, attorneys, waiters, whatever. Because of our “common thread” and years of oppression, we are forced to congregate in our own little worlds, many times together, and that isn’t always a bad thing. If nothing else, it sometimes gave me a lot of laughs and it did this time.

 Within thirty seconds of shutting the door and putting my suitcase on the bed, the phone rang. “Who the hell could that be?” I wondered.

Picking up the receiver and saying hello, I heard, “Hey, Josh, it’s Steve!”

“What?”

“It’s Steve.”

“I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong room.”

“Oh, Josh isn’t there? Is this Room 233?”

“Yes, it is, but there’s no Josh here, you’ve got the wrong room.”

“Oh, sorry. What’s your name?”

“Er…um…Terry…”

“Hi Terry, I’m Steve. You like military guys?”

“Um…er…um…”

“Are you cute? How tall are you?”

“Er…um…well…er…”

“You a top or a bottom? Me, I like either. I’m 6’ 1”, buzz haircut, 170, you here for the military ball?”

“Um…no, I’m..er…just on vacation…”

“I’m downstairs, you want me to come up?”

“Er…no…um…I haven’t unpacked…er…I…er…”

“Well, you gonna be out later?”

“Er…um…”

“I’ll keep a look out for you, maybe see you around. Hope I get to run into you tonight…Bye.” Click.

I slowly put the phone down, wide eyed. I can handle myself when it comes to pushy cruising, but this took the cake and I couldn’t believe, with my past, I was actually blushing.

 I unpacked my things and fifteen minutes later decided to head to the pool. Opening my door slowly, I peered out to see if anybody who looked like a Steve might be cruising by, but the coast was clear. I did everything but tiptoe out of my room.

As I walked by the room next door, I noticed the curtains were open. There, on the bed, on all fours, was a nude muscle man with his behind up in the air, the old red eye staring right at me, God and everyone who might walk by. His door was slightly open and he was probably hoping some passerby might join him.

My God, I thought, no wonder none of my ex’s wanted me to go out by myself, and I scurried past the window half laughing, half intrigued but mostly nervous, hoping I wouldn’t pass some orgy room full of Italian body builders and get pulled in. So helpless I couldn’t defend myself, I would just have to make the best of the situation.

No, it was best I hurry on down to the pool and call Chris from the little Tiki Bar after dropping off a Florida postcard to Scottie in the mail with the note, “Weather is here, wish you were beautiful.”

Over the phone Chris chuckled at my story and when he heard the resort had an Eagle in it, said, “Well, why didn’t you pack your harness if they’re having some big military leather thing down there?”

I answered, “Now you tell me, when I’m safe and vanilla in a white polo with socks and tennis shoes! How was I supposed to know there was an Eagle here and besides, is it really in good taste to ask your boyfriend, ‘Oh, do you mind if I take my leather down to the Eagle? They have a back room there!’”

“I didn’t say run to a back room, I just said it wouldn’t matter if you had taken your harness,” he replied. This from the man who won’t even look at leather.

So, now I was stuck near an Eagle looking like a Harvard prep boy and just to prove I could do it, walked into the bar anyway. Although surprised they let me in, it wasn’t crowded, being late afternoon, and I joked with two leather guys on vacation, and yes, they confirmed there was a bear convention going on that week.

The resort complex had three different bars in it, and everyone I met at each one was friendly and talkative. I also saw one of the best drag shows I’ve ever seen that night. Just two old broads yakking it up on a couch like  some TV talk show. Both in their fifties or sixties, they’d obviously put their money where their hips were because they looked good, faces pulled back, hair piled high, the wit flying out of them like hookers in a police raid.

They both had titles, although I don’t remember what hoo-ha they said they were, “Miss Continental Fundamentalist Hot Dog of 2005” or something like that. I’ve never quite understood why titles were so important, especially since some of the names of the contests seemed a little off base, like “Miss Trailer Park Trash 2001” “Imperial Queen Countess Dowager of Charlie’s and her royal court”. All in fun I guess, and I have seen some flawless drag queens, but still, I didn’t get worked up about being Mr. Gay Iowa…

Anyway, these two on the couch basically just talked to each other in front of an audience and had me laughing so hard one of them looked over and said, “It’s okay honey, keep laughin’…Gary, the bartender over there will mop the pee off the floor…” which made me laugh so hard there was a real possibility of it happening.

....to be continued....