An 82-year-old friend spoke openly of his need for intimacy. He hungers to be kissed and held. He wants sex. 

“My life’s goal is to be on ‘Oprah!’” my friend told me when Ms. Winfrey still had her daytime talk show.

Everyone has a story that helps explain, not excuse, why they think the way they do. Taking the time to listen to another’s tale is a gift to them. Having them take the time to tell us the what and wherefore of their lives is a gift to us. If we take the time to listen, we will never be the same. If they take the time to tell us, nor will they be. 

Some people, and some groups, seem to beg you to hate them.

If we imagine that all long-term relationships are easy, romantic pairings of soulmates who find no difficulty in forgiving daily, who live completely for the happiness of the other, and who can’t entertain the friendship ever ending, we would be wrong.

This feels like the Universe’s big exam before many of us graduate to the next level of awareness.  

There is a Buddhist meditation that says, “Just like everyone else, all that is mine, beloved and pleasing, will change, will become otherwise, will become separated from me.” The mantra is intended to help prepare us for loss, and for our death.  

“Are you going out with that spot on your shorts?” I asked myself.

At Stork’s, my favorite coffee meeting place in Wilton Manors, two friends talked about cataract surgery.

A Canadian gay man my age wrote to ask if I felt we had lost something special because of the progress we’ve made in our movement. 

My legendary friend, Elaine Noble, the first openly gay person elected to a State House (1974), was quoted this morning in a coffee discussion with two friends on the challenges facing some older gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people today.

A friend asked me recently what I plan to say to God upon my death.

The secret to a happy marriage, said Ruth Bader Ginsburg, is sometimes being a little deaf.

Perhaps more than any other generation, we gay Baby Boomers in the U.S., and elsewhere, have been confronted with seismic challenges, as well as extraordinary opportunities, in our lives, most especially in the images we, and others, have of being gay.

Paul runs a club for men who gather, upward to a hundred at a time, to be physically intimate with one another. Before they’re allowed to participate the first time, the gay, bisexual, and possibly straight (circle-jerk) men go through a 10-minute introduction that outlines the expectations of good behavior.  

As Lincoln and I took our evening walk tonight, two guys holding hands passed us.

Our nephew, and his fiancée, judge the kindness and character of a person, based upon whether they return their empty grocery cart to the store/assigned area, or leave it sitting in the middle of the parking lot.

You’re 7 years old, attending at school a big birthday party with all of your new friends, and their parents.

Gray is just a color. We give it meaning. The meaning can change as we change our perspective.

Back in the ‘80s and ‘90s, there was a charismatic educator/author named John Bradshaw on Public Television.

The memory is indelible. A handful of gay Pride marchers in 1982 yelled out to me that I was a “Tom” for standing with police Lieutenant Don Devine on the street corner as they walked past.

Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do. Yesterday, as I waited for the light on 15th Ave. to turn green, I spotted a pigeon on the road.

“You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone,” I said to Ray while we held hands before dinner.

It was a bit of a lonely, scary and needy time for me after The Michigan Catholic dropped my weekly column because I came out publicly in 1974.

Go ahead, walk through our home, spot a picture of me when I was young, and say, “You used to be cute.”

The distance from my side of the bed to Ray’s felt huge. I had so many questions before I started scooting.

The beloved, wood-handled hairbrush that I use daily will get dropped into a black plastic garbage bag after my death, unless I die before Ray.

Having seen me in pain, a visiting friend shared an article about the connection between emotional issues and sciatica.

When the Universe manifests itself in us as unexplainable and seemingly unwarranted sanctification, we are said to be living in a state of grace.

If we dare to love, we will grieve. It’s been a week since grief took hold of us.