RFD 198 Summer 2024 1 Number 197 Spring 2024 $11.95 Number 198 Summer 2024 $11.95Issue 199* / Fall 2024 FIFTY YEARS Submission Deadline: August 15, 2024 www.rfdmag.org/upload In the autumn of 1974 RFD launched from Iowa, set- ting us on a journey from one coast to the next over the next fifty years. We’re asking you dear readers, writers and artists who may have contributed, read or were amused, informed or evoked by something on our pages these past fifty years to consider sending in your reflections, responses and apprecia- tion for RFD, it’s readership and help us celebrate what makes RFD special for you. If you yourself sent in your first poem, you attended a gathering after seeing a listing, or you helped in crafting RFD please send in your memories. If you know someone who helped shape RFD who is no lon- ger with us please share their story. We’d also love to hear about how RFD shifted your approach to the gay community over the years. What part of RFD’s initial “back to the land” ethos sticks with you and how has its attempts to bridge divides and explore com- monalities and celebrate difference matters to you as we take in five decades together. *Since 1974, RFD missed production of just one issue, which is why the 50th anniversary issue is number 199 rather than number 200. Cover of the first issue of RFD. RFD 198 Summer 2024 1 Running From Domesticity Vol 50 No 4 #198 Summer 2024 Between the Lines Talk about jetlag! The RFD crew had a huge number of submissions; it was like getting a huge horde of travel postcards—tasty news, cool images and revelations about your journeys. We so appreciate all of the many submissions, we are sorry we could not fit more into this issue. People sent in stories about our queer travel journeys, life on the road, reflections on community built on a global scale, and imagery and evocations of special places to readers who chose to share their journey. We also had folks reflecting on Faerie origins, social protest, and remembering a dearly departed Cockette founder, Rumi Missabu. One of the things we did in between sorting the stories and im- ages for this issue was taking a hard look at our subscriptions prices in light of higher costs we face. We have not changed our prices since 2009 when RFD moved to New England. We see a slow erosion of our core cash reserves as we have been subsidizing subscribers across the board not just bulk subscribers. We hope the new sub- scription costs are reasonable for folks and now we have not taken to increasing the rates lightly. Meanwhile, we have to say we have been able to subsidize things with the help of generous donations as well as folks rounding up their subscriptions. We still offer US readers a low-income rate and we have done our best to make foreign sub- scriptions as reasonably priced as possible. OK everyone, enjoy the summer, send us your vacation postcards and think about your reflections on RFD’s fiftieth birthday for the Fall issue. In addition, please send in your theme ideas for upcoming issues. Peace Out from a balmy New England evening. —The RFD Collective 2RFD 198 Summer 2024 RFD is a reader-written journal for gay people which focuses on country living and encourages alternative lifestyles. We foster community building and networking, explore the diverse expressions of our sexuality, care for the environment, Radical Faerie consciousness, and nature-centered spirituality, and share experiences of our lives. RFD is produced by volunteers. We welcome your participation. The business and general production are coordinated by a collective. Features and entire issues are prepared by different groups in various places. RFD (ISSN# 0149- 709X) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, PMB 329, 351 Pleasant St., Ste B, Northampton, MA 01060-3998. Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD Press, PMB 329, 351 Pleasant St., Ste B, Northampton, MA 01060-3998. Non-profit tax exempt #62-1723644, a function of RFD Press, Inc., with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., Woodbury, TN 37190. RFD Cover Price: $11.95. A regular subscription is the least expensive way to receive RFD four times a year. First class mailed issues will be forwarded. Others will not. Send address changes to submissions@rfdmag.org or to our Northampton, MA address. Copyright © RFD Press, Inc. The records re- quired by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and associated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic material as- sociated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian of records at the following location: RFD Press, 85 N Main St, Ste 200, White River Junction, VT 05001. Production Managing Editor: Bambi Gauthier Production Editor: Matt Bucy Submission Deadlines Fall–August 15, 2024 Winter–November 15, 2024 See inside covers for themes and specifics. For advertising, subscriptions, back issues and other information visit www.rfdmag.org. To read online visit www.issuu.com/rfmag . org. Visual Contributors Inside This Issue Artwork not directly associated with an article. Front Cover "Returning Home" by Chris Moody Back Cover "Ready for the Pride" by Eric Lanuit. Richard Vyse ................................2 Chris Moody ......................4, 13, 40, 63 Ana Mendes ...............................19 Michael Starkman .........................33 T.R. Chamberlain ..........................34 Crowdog ..................................42 Matt Bucy .................................44 Gregory T. Wilkins (aka Equus) ..............59 Wave .....................................60 Gordon Binder .............................61 Richard Vyse in NYC: "When I show my gay erotic art at the Prince Street Project Space, I enjoy the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Art in SoHo, the only LGBT national museum where my art is in the collection!" RFD 198 Summer 2024 3 CONTENTS Larger Than Life ..........................Jerl Surratt ............................5 Tiago, My Love (Cavalinho Na Chuva) ......Manuel Igrejas ........................6 Holding Danny’s Hand at the Crown & Anchor .................Michael McKeown Bondhus ...........20 Cruising the Piazza .......................Ed of All People ......................21 The House We Left Behind ................Callen S. Sor .........................22 What I carry .............................Ed Madden ..........................28 Dear Seattle ..............................That Boy from Kentucky ...............29 Maghreb ................................Jasper Lawson ........................30 Hook-Up ................................Brian Cronwall .......................35 Dateline: Global Gathering Radical Faeries, Cape Town, South Africa, 2020 ..........Silver Unicorn ........................36 Faeries Cover the Globe ...................Hammer .............................38 Northern California Summer, 1972 .........Michael Gould .......................41 A Funny Adventure in Traveling to Ancient Places ......................Toby Johnson ........................44 The Origin Of The Faerie Movement ........Murray Edelman .....................46 Photographs .............................James Reade Venable ..................50 Rumi Missabu 1947-2024 ..................Keith Gemerek (Fussy lo Mein) .........53 Third Month Abroad ......................Wonderful ...........................55 Electrifying Love .........................Sequoia Thom, M.A. ..................56 Keats’ Grave .............................Sugar le Fae ..........................59 Ptown Premiere ..........................Hart Vetter ..........................60 Prague ..................................Stephen Schwei ......................624RFD 198 Summer 2024 "Life" by Chris Moody. RFD 198 Summer 2024 5 Larger Than Life Your anniversary is almost here, the d of b-and-d, and fittingly a date that falls in fall, in late September, so not as saddening as this would be had it not been the lovely time of year I fell in love with Venice, thanks to you. Back twice, all on my own, the atmosphere had less to do with me than you-and-me. A kind of brother in the role of father, you shared with me your late life fantasy of being ravished by a gondolier which made me feel more like a son to you. That memory’s a cherished souvenir, the kind you have to close your eyes to see, the kind one searches out any number of times. We’re in a gondola. I’m facing you and our gondolier. And he can’t help but hear what you’ve confessed and makes it clear to me he understands, which made him all the sexier a presence, since he’d smiled, as I would tell you soon as I could once we were off the pier, getting the first bear hug you’d ever given me on a street. Another memory I’m nearer to feeling for having closed my eyes to see your towering sunlit figure reappear, god-like in his heavenly city, you devil you. —Jerl Surratt6RFD 198 Summer 2024 Joe Ianuzzi yawned and stretched in this strange, small new bed. He looked at his watch and panicked until he realized that he was on vacation and didn’t have to run anywhere or listen to the traffic reports on the radio. He curled back up in the spoon position and cupped his stirring cock and balls. He called them his kittens, and nobody else had touched them in a long time. A few min- utes later, he was awake again and padded the few feet from the bed to the pint-sized, bruised-purple bathroom. He splashed water on his face and ran his wet hands through his sparse hair, where salt was overtaking the pepper. He looked in the mir- ror at the perpetual bags under his droopy brown eyes and said, “You are not a pretty girl, Miss Ianuzzi.” Then he saw the merry twinkle in the corners, which he hoped was part of his charm. He smoothed his sliver of a mustache and composed his sleep-blurred face into the alert and amiable one he liked to present to the world. Joe blew a kiss to his mirror image, which, like him, was fifty-six, about five-foot-seven, and, according to his doctor, about twenty pounds overweight. He was in Lisbon at the Hotel Figueira. Figueira meant fig tree, and fig motifs were on every wall, plate, glass, and cocktail napkin. How he got here was a miracle, one lucky break after another, the cards falling in the right direction for a change. Joe sat on the bed and wondered what to do next. It was 5:13 pm, and Lisbon’s sun poured its gold through the window, lightening the figs and fig leaves one shade each. He was glad not to be in his spotless garden apartment in Moonachie, New Jersey, a sleepy little rectangle of a town with 2,000 people, just off Route 17 in the shadow of MetLife Stadium. Refreshed from his two-hour nap, he decided to wander around the neighborhood and play it by ear since he hadn’t done any research or bought a guidebook. Joe picked up the business card on the nightstand and read “Tiago Pimentel, Luso Cafe” above a phone number and email address. Was it too soon to call Tiago? The overnight TAP flight from Newark had been filled with Portuguese people. When it arrived at dawn, a good-looking, bearded driver from the hotel met him at the airport, greeted him enthusiastically, and led him to a white Mercedes van. His name was Tiago, and he was tall with curly brown hair and merry eyes. He looked to be in his thirties. “You are from New York!” Tiago said once they were in the roomy van. “I love New York!” Joe didn’t have the heart to tell him that he flew in from New- ark, and he only went into New York City occasion- ally. “Have you ever been there?” Joe asked. “No, but I feel like I know it from watching Home Alone 2: Lost in New York when I was a boy. I saw it so many times that I know it by heart. Is it anything like that?” His English was good with a slight British accent. “Pretty much,” Joe lied. He’d never seen the movie. “Are you here for business or pleasure?” “Pleasure, I guess,” Joe said, looking at Tiago’s inquisitive green eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Let us make sure you have some,” Tiago said. He winked. Lisbon whizzed by outside the tinted windows. Joe was so intent on the back of Tiago’s curly hair and his eyes in the mirror that the city was a pictur- esque blur. Like the good salesman he was, Joe asked a lot of questions because he learned over the years that people like to talk about themselves. Joe didn’t. He thought himself the most boring man in the United States, or at least New Jersey. Tiago was thirty-three, married, with a ten- year-old daughter, Pia, his pride and joy. He didn’t talk about his wife. He lived in Lisbon in Lumiar, a neighborhood near the edge of town. Driving the van was his part-time job; his main gig was in the marketing department of Luso Cafe, a big coffee company. When they arrived at Hotel Figueira, Tiago jumped out and carried Joe’s bags to the front desk. Joe took two twenty euro notes out of his wallet to give to Tiago, though the airport ride was offered by the hotel and included in the Booking.com rate. “Thank you very much,” Joe said. “I enjoyed the ride and your company.” “As did I! As did I!” Tiago chirped. Joe held out his hand to shake Tiago’s and slip him the bills, but Tiago surprised him with a big, Tiago, My Love (Cavalinho Na Chuva) by Manuel Igrejas RFD 198 Summer 2024 7 tight hug, his soft beard grazing Joe’s face. Was there a peck on the cheek in there too? The hug made slipping him the twenties smoothly impossible, so once they separated, Joe shook Tiago’s hand and slipped them into his palm. Tiago pocketed the cash without looking at it and gave Joe another hug. This time he felt Tiago’s soft lips on his cheek. “If you would like to see Lisboa, call me. If I am free, I would love to show you our beautiful city.” With that, Tiago was out on the street and back in the van. Joe’s face tingled from its brush with Tiago’s beard, and he realized that the hug had left him breathless. His body quivered in an agreeable and unfamiliar way. One hug from a handsome man, the graze of his beard, the brush of his soft lips, and he was undone? Was he really that lonely, really that hungry? Yes, and yes. As a sales rep for Continental Restaurant Supply, The Ironbound section of Newark with its popular Portuguese restaurants was part of his territory, and Joe was there twice a week. He knew all about glassware, dinnerware, and flatware, but restaurant equipment was his specialty. The stakes were higher and so were the commissions. His clients trusted him and his twenty years in the business. His informed soft sell and reliability made him one of the best restaurant supply salesmen in New Jersey. Arctic Air had a promotion on its new HC55 Merchandiser, the kind of thing that you reach into at a deli for a Snapple, or that a waiter would reach into for a carrot cake. Sell five of them and win a trip to Europe. He didn’t expect to win, he never won anything, but he liked the challenge of it. Thanks to his fact-filled, low-key sales pitch, a heat wave, and a power outage, Joe wound up sell- ing five HC 55s, three in Newark alone, in a record three weeks. Arctic Air gave him a week in Lisbon, airfare, hotel, and $1,000 play money. He flew TAP, the Portuguese airline, to keep the vibe Portuguese, and because of his clients, he knew something of the complicated, intriguing language. He enjoyed it in the banter of the robust kitchen crews at their aromatic, communal late-afternoon meals; like mu- sic with a gentle, aggrieved undercurrent running through it. This trip came at just the right time. Joe was stuck. The job was tolerable, he made a decent living, but there were no surprises. He got up at seven AM and was on the road by eight-thirty, first stopping by the office/showroom in Hackensack for sales meetings and paperwork. Then he hit the road, seeing ten to fifteen clients a day, and he usually got home by six-thirty or seven PM. His clients and the people at the office constituted his only social life these days. He used to stop at one or another of his clients’ restaurants for dinner, but after being told he had to lose weight, he just popped Hot Pockets into the microwave and ate them in front of the TV. Then he watched porn and scrolled the apps, hoping against hope he could meet someone nice or at least have an adventure. Instead, he felt trapped in a bad video game he couldn’t win, so he typed and swiped until he was exhausted. Two glasses of ice-cold Stoli right from the freezer, and then it was bedtime. But not tonight—Lis- bon was waiting for him. He took a shower and got dressed, a baby blue Tasso Elba short-sleeve shirt, cotton pants, and a Tasso Elba tan linen blazer. As he was packing, he’d googled, “What to wear in Lisbon” and got “Smart, casual, under- stated. And wear nice shoes.” Perfect. That was his summer salesman uniform. Joe took the fig-leaf- filled elevator three floors down to the lobby, then he was on the street in the middle of a crowd waiting for one of the quaint yellow street cars. He looked to the left and to the right. To the right, the lines for the streetcars clogged the pavement with tourists and there was a hill with an imposing castle on top of it. A castle! There was more light and air to the left, and the balmy air carried a promising maritime tang. He walked toward the light, passing bakeries with creamy pastries front and center and those decep- tively simple, addictive pasteis de nata, Portuguese custard tarts that he bought in Newark and used His body quivered in an agreeable and unfamiliar way. One hug from a handsome man, the graze of his beard, the brush of his soft lips, and he was undone? Was he really that lonely, really that hungry? Yes, and yes.Next >