His novel The Hours has never ceased to inspire me to dig deeper as a writer, and maybe one day, I might write something so truly touching, raw, and authentic. At one point in the evening, we encountered a handsome man who described himself to me as a writer, and despite my misinterpretation of Randy's raised eyebrows, I sipped my drink and casually asked what he had written, only to discover to my embarrassment that the man who stood before me was one of my most revered writers. There was Paul, who as the minister of one of the largest Unity Churches in America is fundamentally changing the way that denomination-as well as many others-accept and embrace gay men.

Randy and I were joined by a delicious assortment of men of all varieties. At moments like this, when I glance backward and feel the tide of life and memory rushing forward, I am torn between gratitude for what was given and longing for what was lost.ĭancing through the night last night, my heart was full of joy. I, like so many gay men, have savored the highs and trudged through the lowest of lows in life-and we are truly fortunate to have survived when so many others did not.

Just last night came word to Randy that yet another old friend had drunk himself out of existence. Some didn't survive the AIDS crisis, and countless others didn't survive the angst of knowing they wouldn't die, that HIV was a chronic, manageable illness, and so they dove deep into the darkness of crystal meth, alcohol, and the like, dancing their way into the arms of death. I remember all those beautiful masculine faces that grace the walls of my memory.

Next year I will cross the half-century mark, and my mind wanders back through all those winding corridors of years in San Francisco, New Orleans, Key West, and New York. Good friends, work that I love and am passionate about, and-not the least-I am alive. As the noon sun is peaking just overhead now, my heart is full of gratitude, for I've been so lucky in life. I'm sitting on the patio in front of the weather-worn, shingle-clad cottage that my good friend, Randy, has rented for the summer in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where every summer evening he gives an entertainingly realistic performance as Cher to eager sun-drenched and alcohol-infused crowds.

It's now late August and another summer is quickly slipping away.

The Velvet Rage by Alan Downs