We don't mean to suggest a secret bromance between straight author John Irving and gay writer Edmund White, but in a recent interview, Irving called White's book A Boy's Own Story far superior to The Catcher in the Rye.

"We're the same age, and I remember when I first read A Boy's Own Story—in the early 1980s—and I thought that the novel spoke much more to me about a boy coming of age (even though it's about a gay boy coming of age, and I'm not gay) than The Catcher in the Rye ever did. I reread The Catcher in the Rye recently, and it doesn't hold up at all; it's just not very well, or very consistently, written. But A Boy's Own Story is beautifully wrought, and fiercely defiant; I could reread that novel every year and find something terrific I had missed in a previous reading. I believe Edmund White is one of the best writers of my generation; he's certainly the contemporary American writer I reread more than any other, and the one whose next book I look forward to reading most."

It's wonderful to hear when good writing by gay authors is applauded not for being good GAY fiction, but for being simply good fiction. Too often, readers limit themselves when universal themes and understanding can be found in all types of writing. (Yes, that means we can read and learn from straight authors, too).  Hear hear, John Iriving!

Oh, Santa Daddy, Oh Santa Daddy
bring that white beard to me.
Let it brush upon my nipples, my armpits and my knees.

Santa Daddy, Oh, Santa Daddy
uncut, I’m sure, and hung.
I lie in bed and dream of you
your taste upon my tongue.

Oh, Santa Daddy, I know how naughty I have been.
These impure thoughts fill my nights
and are how my days begin.

It’s not the suit (entirely)
though I confess a fondness for red.
Not just the beard, nor jolly belly
that urge me to your bed.

I only know a kiss from you
is present all I need.
No toy, no candy necessary
just your breath to feed

and I will pass another year
knowing you have been near
my Santa Daddy, Oh Santa Daddy
I sleep with such visions dancing...

image from bigboytoons.com

I was about 13 when I asked my parents if they could get me a subscription to Sports Illustrated. They were more than a little eager to accomodate, as they thought there might be some hope that their sensitive, shy, awkward teenager might actually turn out to be a sports-lovin', beer-drinkin' and (most importantly) pussy chasin' young man. Well I do drink beer sometimes (not exactly like a frat boy), and I do actually like sports, but I never got around to the other thing.  The reason I really wanted that subscription was not to keep up with sports, but to jerk off to those Jockey ads with Jim Palmer. His furry chest and well-formed basket certainly helped to ease the tension of my teenage years.

When I was 15 and flipping through the pages of SI, I stumbled upon the most unthinkable thing -- a tribute to the life of an openly gay man. This sports magazine, to my knowlege, had never shown gay men in a positive light, and here it was doing a feature on... someone like me.  For years I had used the magazine as a way to work out my teenage sexual angst, but I never imagined it would be the place that I'd find a role model who ultimately helped me accept my sexuality.

The July 27, 1987 issue had an article entitled "The Death of an Athlete". It was a tribute to Tom Waddell who had died of AIDS on July 11-- just 16 days before this issue was released. Tom Waddell was a college football player and gymnast who went on to become an olympic decathlete. At the age of 30, he finished 6th in the 1968 Mexico City Olympic Games.  He was also paratrooper in the U.S. Army and an MD with a degree from Stanford Medical School specializing in infectious disease. Most notably, he started the Gay Olympics which later came to be called the Gay Games after the United States Olympic Committee sued Dr. Waddell for using the word "Olympics" so close to the word "Gay".The case went all the way to the Supreme Court before before it was decided that no gays were going to be putting on any kind of "Olympics".

Sir Adrian Fulford, sometimes called The Honorable Mr Justice Fulford, has been an openly gay lawyer in England for 30 years. He's 55 years old, and if I might add, he's a sexy lookin' daddy. He's got that mischievous look in his eyes. Sir Adrian also has quite the impressive resume. He received a knighthood from the Queen in 2002. He has been a judge on the High Court of England and Wales, and currently he is serving as one of eighteen judges on the International Criminal Court.

Pink News UK reported that earlier this month on a speech that he gave at the opening of The Pink Law Legal Advice Centre, in which he made some interesting statements about being an older gay man. Here are some snippets from his speech:

"One of the advantages, and I assure you there aren't many of them, of what sometimes feels like extreme old age, is that you gain a perspective on events that you simply didn't have before. Particularly you get a historical focus through which a bright light shines on events taking place today. For me the past has been crucial in appreciating how vitally important this new venture within the Queen Mary legal advice center is. When I came of age in the law in the mid 1970's, nothing remotely resembled the Pink Law project's existed. Although even then was a time of seismic and exciting change as regards to the provision of free legal advice...

But the area of sexuality even in those times of radical change and progress, was a complete desert. A few enterprising lawyers set up the Gay legal advice on a voluntary basis providing evening telephone advice but it was wholly dependent of volunteers and I can find no trace of its existence now. The legal profession has always been conservative, although less so now than the days gone by. And back then for many who did not conform to the heterosexual standard, particularly if you were not from a privileged background, there was simply nowhere to go for advice and help.

The movie "MILK" uses the framing device of Harvey Milk making a tape to be played in the event of his death by assassination. The following short film is called "575 Castro St" directed by Jenni Olson. It has a series of static video shots of Harvey's old camera shop (as it was recreated for  "MILK") with an edited down version of the original 13 minute tape. I had heard of this tape on a few occasions, so I was intrigued when a friend sent me the link to this. You can see the director's notes here.

In celebration of the opening of the new movie "MILK", we are excited to share this amazing piece by Steve Beery. Steve was a writer and gay activist who died of AIDS in '93. He met Harvey Milk when he was 25 years old and Harvey was 48. Harvey was a daddy who definitely appreciated younger men. This piece was provided to us by Armistead Maupin (my wonderful husband), who met Steve at Harvey's memorial service and remained his closest friend until his death.

My Month with Harvey

by Steve Beery

I was suffering from a typical San Francisco ailment – costume claustrophobia. My tights were riding up, my fake-satin cape was itchy, and beads of sweat were rolling down behind my eye mask. I was dressed as Robin the Boy Wonder at the 1978 Beaux Arts Ball, and I was being unmistakably cruised by a man I knew but had never met.  The man was Harvey Milk, the first openly gay city supervisor – a man I respected and admired.

We’d smiled and nodded on Castro Street several times that year.  I like Harvey’s wide-open grin, and I’d wondered whether the attraction was mutual.  Now it looked like maybe it was. Nervously I straightened my cape, checked my trunks, adjusted my gloves. The supervisor, at ease in his rumpled grey suit, extended his hand and uttered the corniest pick-up line imaginable. “Hop on my back, Boy Wonder, and I’ll fly you to Gotham City,” he said, almost keeping a straight face.

The line was corny, but effective. Harvey had a gift for persuasion, a way of making you believe he could do anything. We swapped phone numbers and got together the next night.  The thing that impressed me most was his laugh, explosive and uninhibited; that, and the slightly daffy look in his eyes, like an overgrown kid’s. At 48 he was nearly twice my age, but full of boyish mischief.

It didn’t take me long to realize that Harvey was a nut, a screwball, a wild card. He was also a satyr, a gleeful disciple of Eros who’d found a way to marry his essential craziness to a set of well-ordered work habits. He insisted on being on call to his constituents 24 hours a day. No problem – from towed cars and trash pickup to tree pruning – was too small. Despite his hippie, flower-power, Summer of Love experience, there wasn’t an ounce of “California mellow” in Harvey. His native New York aggression, undiluted by the amiability of Castro Street, was always spoiling for a fight.

I was surprised, on our first date, to find out how strong he was.  He didn’t have a gym-toned body; he was built more like a big bull, rangy and muscular.  Within his first two minutes at my apartment he picked me up and dumped me unceremoniously on my bed.  He liked to do things fast, at double speed. He walked fast. He talked fast. He even ate fast.

Just think, if you had been Antinous (pronounced an-tin-oh-us), you could have said, "my gay daddy is the most powerful man in the world"... and it would have been true. Many don't realize that one of the Roman Empire's greatest rulers was an openly gay man. The first time I heard about Hadrian and Antinous I was daydreaming in my Roman and Hellenistic Sculpture course in college. Professor Connelly brought up the bust of a Roman Emperor on the slide projector and I thought to myself, "hmm... he looks like a sexy bearded daddy".

Truth is, that's one of the reasons I took the course. I love all those sexy sculptures of the hot daddies. I used to drool over the Farnese Hercules and the Laocoon, and a host of other sculptures of gods, philosophers and emperors. Unlike our culture, the Greeks and Romans really celebrated an older ideal, not just youth.

The professor brought me out of my daze as she said, "Hadrian was gay and had a young lover named Antinous". Wow, a gay Roman Emperor. I knew that the Greeks and Romans were a little less uptight about gay sex, but I didn't know it was possible to have that much power as an openly gay man.

Hadrian was born on January 24 in 76 AD. After his parents died he was put under the care of Trajan who was a cousin of his father and happened to be Emperor at the time. In 117 AD he was named emperor and he ruled until his death in 138 AD.

Hadrian has been described as the most versatile of all Roman Emperors. Trajan was a warmonger, but Hadrian ushered in a time of peace. Hadrian was also an intellect, a patron of the arts, and quite a great architect himself. Among his accomplishments were building the Pantheon and Hadrian's Villa.

The Pantheon is my favorite piece of architecture anywhere. Hadrian built it as a temple to all the gods. It seems that his intention was to create a symbol of unity to bring different belief systems together. The dome is 43.3 meters in diameter and holds the record for the world's largest un-reinforced concrete dome. Modern architects and engineers are still baffled at how he achieved this feat nearly 2,000 years ago. Michelangelo designed the dome in St. Peter's to be 1 meter smaller than the dome in the Pantheon in deference to Hadrian. He didn't want to overshadow his hero's great architectural triumph.

Article by Josh Kilmer-Purcell, originally published on Out.com (http://www.out.com/detail.asp?page=1&id=22551).

I admit it. When climbing the landscaped stairway in front of Armistead Maupin’s Noe Hill home, which backs up into the magical Sutro Forest in the heart of his beloved San Francisco, the first thing I look for is pot plants.

My stomach has been lurching over the hills on the taxi ride to his house, and a little of Anna Madrigal’s special blend would do wonders. Not spotting any plants, I continue climbing, aware of how much I desire Maupin to resemble, in spirit, the eccentric transsexual landlady-matriarch Anna Madrigal from his groundbreaking Tales of the City series.

We gays do that to our lions as they age. We desex them. We strip them of their power and influence. We mock their vast accomplishments as quaint. In an age when coming out can often be as breezy as joining a junior high gay-straight alliance, we look back on the hushed secret languages of those who came before us and think of them as somehow weaker than we.

So when the man standing at the door isn’t wearing a caftan and drinking Frannie Halcyon’s famous mai tais but is instead a sturdy, handsome, genial snow-haired daddy type, I think, To hell with the weed. Pass the poppers.

Armistead talks about how his younger lover has made him appreciate his own daddy-body more than ever.

Everyone gets older, Armistead notes, so you may as well focus on being the best older gay man you can be.