I think, gays are more sensitive and artistic people because we spent so much of our young life pondering why we are different. “Normal” wasn’t our reality and thus required a deeper understanding.

Whenever conservative’s say “it’s a choice” I always respond (to their surprise) that they are right. It IS a choice. …whether or not to be honest with yourself. That is the main challenge for a gay person. If-and-when we will be honest with ourselves about our ultimate truth. But once we are, the rest is easy. The good people come forward and the lesser people make themselves irrelevant.

(The gay scene) is fine in LA. There are all sorts. I can do without the one’s who are all dolled up on the outside and empty on the inside, but that goes for all people.

I tend to lean towards the east side of town which means the little clubs and cafés in Silverlake and Los Feliz, but there’s something to said for the simple pleasure of meeting friends up in West Hollywood or down at the gay beach affectionately known as “Ginger Rogers” (AKA Will Rogers State Beach).

I always knew i was gay since junior high school, but aside from occasional “recreation” with a couple friends, I didn’t really come out until just after college.

At that time I was living in Newport Beach, CA and devoted to sailing. A handsome guy named Marc came down from LA with some friends of mine to go out on my boat and we all partied into the night.

The wind completely died and we just drifted in the moonlight. I asked if anyone wanted to go swimming but only got one taker. Marc and I jumped off the boat in our boxer shorts and raced each other to a buoy about 50 yards away. We held onto it, laughing and trying to catch our breath without catching each other looking. For a moment, there was total silence and we looked right into each other’s eyes and both just knew.

Right then the friends way over on the boat yelled that the wind had caught the sail and the boat was moving! We had to swim with all our might to catch up to it.

It’s really hard to get hold of a slick, wet hull of a moving boat but I happened to get one finger in the grommet hole of a bumper hanging off the starboard side. The boat pulled me along in its wake as Marc swam up to me. Instead of grabbing my hand, he wrapped both his arms around me and held on as the wake water poured over us like river rocks. We kissed beneath the semi-private curve of the hull and let the boat carry us for as long as my finger in the grommet hole could hold out.