Frank and I went to university together and ended up in San Diego. The years have flown by and even though he is still looking good with his fabulous hair and his comebacks as quick as ever, he could not ignore the physical failings overtaking him and so has moved to a care facility. We all have friends who for safety and security have done the same and as many of us will do in the future.
I visit him in his room or the lovely reception area. We also meet for lunch when his dear friend Sam takes him to a restaurant. We have a great time reliving the fun, the friends and the feuds. We both get so much out of our bantering and reminiscing. You will too when you visit.
The promised “later” or “soon” isn’t going to do it. Time does not wait at your convenience. Distance and age, plus being single and LGBT have reduced the number of our relatives and close friends who are able to drop by. We are also reluctant to see our friends in a diminished state or outside their familiar surroundings. Do not pre-judge; you may be pleasantly surprised by their condition and living arrangements.
Yes, a phone call is welcome; if that is the best you can do for a friend, but it is the visit, even for 15 minutes, that really frosts the cake. Let them know you are coming so they have a chance to gussy up. No one wants to be surprised without their teeth, makeup, hair or clean shirt. Seeing a familiar face and finding out the latest news (surely not gossip) will give them a huge lift.
You may be the visitor now, but next year the visitee. Honor your friendship. You have promised. They are waiting. Go!
A hot costume
Beauty, cleverness and naughtiness will be displayed, as usual, by the participants in the Normal Street activities. Despite stereotypical expectations, I never had much luck with my costumes especially on one memorable occasion.
I had just arrived in wicked New York City and was enjoying a new life when I was invited to a big Halloween soirée by a wealthy senior (at least 50) I’d met in the YMCA steam room, I mean spa. Rumors abounded of a very private after-the-party party for those deemed worthy by the host.
Unable to make anything, I decided to bedeck myself with jewels and wear only a borrowed pair of tights which proved too small; my nether region was clearly outlined to an alarming degree. I then remembered it was a gay party and decided to give them a sight to remember. I jammed my junk into a ring (L size), slathered on some Mentholatum deep-heating ointment and, swathed in a trench-coat, off I went.
My reception by several guys in the apartment foyer was a chorus of oohs, aahs and shrieks just as I had hoped. All went to hell, however, when I entered the main salon and found a large mixed crowd of men and women. Again, shrieks and screams; mainly from me.
Realizing the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, I pretended it was all planned and sauntered about posing for all and sundry. Alas, the ointment began heating up far too well and my embarrassment grew proportionally. The last straw was the several attempts by women (!) to ravish me in the butler’s pantry. I fled home, alone. I was consoled by reports I was constantly asked for at what was dubbed the breakfast bacchanal. It’s nice to be popular.
