I began my life in the South and for five years lived as a closeted teacher, but am now making a new life for myself as an oral historian in New England. I think my life will work out the way it was always meant to be. That doesn't mean there won't be ups and downs; that's all part of life. It means I just have to be patient. I feel like October 7, 2015 is my new birthday. It's a beginning filled with great hope. It's a second chance to live my life…not anyone else's.
My profile picture is "David and Me," 2001 painting by artist Steve Walker. It happens to be one of my favorite modern gay art pieces.
It’s been far too long since I’ve had a proper evening out—good food, good company, and a reason to dress up a little. One thing you should know about me: I love clothes. I love the search for the perfect outfit, the anticipation of debuting something new, and the quiet confidence that comes from getting dressed up for something special. An old friend used to call me a fashion plate. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but there’s no denying I enjoy the ritual of putting together a look for a night on the town.
Tonight’s outing is long overdue. My friend and I haven’t had a dinner out together in months—perhaps not since my birthday last November. She’s my closest friend here in Vermont. We both moved here around the same time, and we’re both originally from the same part of Alabama, so we share a lot of common ground. But this past semester has been a whirlwind for us both—busy schedules, long days, and not enough energy left for social plans. Until now.
We’ve had this dinner on the calendar all week, and we’re both looking forward to it. It’s not just the company—it’s the destination. The restaurant we’re heading to is a favorite of ours, set along the banks of a cascading river. The sound of rushing water over rocks has always had a calming effect on me. It’s the kind of place where the setting enhances the whole evening.
The ambiance inside is just as appealing: a harmonious blend of industrial and rustic design, softened with modern lighting and eclectic furnishings. It strikes that perfect balance—classy without being stuffy, hip without trying too hard. The crowd is always mixed, which gives it a lively, unpredictable energy that I love.
In the past, I would have picked an outfit well in advance, something I’d been waiting for the right occasion to wear. But lately, with my weight loss, I’m at that in-between stage—too small for many of my old clothes, but not quite ready to invest in a whole new wardrobe. Still, I have a few pieces that fit well and make me feel good. Tonight’s look is simple but springlike: a muted yellow oxford shirt and crisp, light khaki pants. Fresh, clean, and just dressy enough.
Whatever I wear and whatever I eat tonight, the real joy will be sharing the evening with a friend who understands me, in a place that feels both comforting and a little bit special. After all, sometimes the best nights out aren’t about anything extravagant—they’re about reconnecting, relaxing, and remembering how good it feels to just be.
I’ve been on vacation this week, and honestly—it’s been really nice. Except for having to go into work on Thursday this week and next (the museum is short-staffed during the summer), it’s been a true break. I’ll be the only one there, which makes things easier, and while today might bring an art shipment and a backlog of emails, I’ve done my best to stay away from my inbox. Out-of-office reply firmly in place.
What’s been especially lovely is not having to get up and rush anywhere. Isabella, of course, still insists on waking me up between 4 and 4:30 a.m., but without the usual morning scramble—deciding what to wear, prepping for the day—it’s felt like a small luxury. I’ve still gone to Planet Fitness, but my trainer has been under the weather this week, so I’ve kept it simple and just walked on the treadmill. Hopefully, he’s back tomorrow so we can return to our regular sessions.
In other news, some of you may remember that my doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist, but the earliest appointment I could get was in November. I asked to be put on the cancellation waitlist, though I was warned I was near the bottom and not to get my hopes up.
Well, surprise! On Tuesday morning, they called and asked if I could come in that afternoon. I was there by 1 p.m.
I’m really glad I got to see him. This liver issue has been weighing on my mind. He explained all the different potential causes for the scarring shown on my ultrasound and liver elastography. But here’s the good news: he doesn’t believe the test results are accurate. The techs who performed the exam apparently had difficulty getting proper measurements, and he said liver elastography isn’t always reliable—especially since my bloodwork has never shown any major liver issues. Some numbers have been mildly elevated now and then, but nothing alarming.
He said there are two more accurate ways to assess liver damage: a liver MRI or a biopsy. I’ve had an MRI before (of my brain, no less), and he assured me this one would be much easier. As for the biopsy—he said it’s more involved and, frankly, about as unpleasant as it sounds. It’s usually a last resort.
He ran a few blood tests, checking for Hepatitis A and a genetic condition called hemochromatosis (which causes iron overload). The results came back clear—perfect iron levels and an unexpected bonus: I apparently have immunity to Hep A. I’m not sure how, but I missed his call and got that info from a voicemail.
His overall impression was reassuring. With my recent weight loss and commitment to healthier habits—eating better, regular gym visits—he believes the liver scarring may heal on its own. That sounds like good news to me.
Now it’s time to get ready for work. Wishing everyone a good day—and if you’re on vacation too, I hope it’s as restful as mine has been.
🐈⬛
I almost forgot the Isabella Pic of the Week. Even she knows she’s pretty and can’t stop looking at herself.
From the polished marble of ancient statues to the shimmer of modern photography, Greco-Roman gods have been reimagined for centuries as icons of idealized, eroticized male beauty. In myth, their bodies held cosmic power; in art, their nudity has long served as a conduit for expressing desire, divinity, and the human longing for transcendence.
This post explores nude depictions of four major figures—Apollo, Adonis, Dionysus, and Ganymede—through a selection of artworks that span antiquity, the Renaissance, Neoclassicism, and into modern queer photography. These gods persist not merely as symbols of myth but as enduring archetypes of same-sex attraction and aesthetic longing.
Few deities embody beauty like Apollo, the Greek god of light, music, and reason. His idealized, youthful body became the template for masculine perfection across Western art history.
The Apollo Belvedere [above], a Roman copy of a 4th-century BCE Greek bronze, exemplifies this ideal. Standing nude but for a cloak draped over one arm, Apollo’s form is serene, balanced, and timeless.
In the late 18th century, Neoclassical sculptor Antonio Canova reinterpreted this ideal in Apollo Crowning Himself [above](1781–1782), depicting the god nude, lifting a laurel wreath with quiet triumph. It is a vision of reason and beauty as divine harmony.
Modern artists have reclaimed Apollo with more intimate and erotic intentions. Photographer Herbert List’s Nap in the Afternoon [above] (1933) portrays a nude young man reclined in soft light, radiating not mythic grandeur but human vulnerability and quiet sensuality. Likewise, Pierre et Gilles’ Apolló [below](2005) transforms the god into a glowing nude queer icon, bathed in gold, sun rays, and self-aware kitsch—modeled by Jean-Christophe Blin with overt erotic charge.
Adonis, loved by both Aphrodite and Persephone, represents ephemeral beauty—the lover who dies young, whose body becomes memory and myth.
Bertel Thorvaldsen’s Adonis [above] (1808–1832) renders him fully nude and poised with graceful sorrow, a figure both heroic and tender. This tension becomes tragic in Peter Paul Rubens’s Venus Mourning Adonis [below] (1614), where Adonis lies partially nude in Venus’s embrace, his body mourned as much as it was desired.
In modernity, Adonis has been reborn as a name for fitness models, physique photography, and pornographic performers. Whether in glossy “Adonis Physique” [below] portfolios or by adult actors adopting the name, these contemporary “gods” continue the legacy of youthful male beauty displayed and consumed—reflecting society’s ongoing obsession with eroticized perfection.
While Apollo embodies clarity and Adonis, fragility, Dionysus represents something wilder—fluid gender, sensual abandon, and ecstatic freedom.
The Ludovisi Dionysus [above] (2nd century CE) captures this duality, showing the god nude and youthful, reclining beside a satyr. His form is less structured than Apollo’s, more languid—inviting the viewer into the pleasures of intoxication and eroticism.
Michelangelo’s Bacchus [above] (1496–1497) expands this image with a staggering, fully nude god offering wine. His body is softly muscled, unsteady, and provocatively unguarded—a subtle challenge to Renaissance masculinity.
In modern queer art and performance, Dionysus is frequently reimagined as a nude figure of androgynous seduction—adorned with ivy, lounging among vessels and male companions. Whether in contemporary photography, drag, or performance art, he embodies liberation from gender, structure, and shame.
Ganymede, the beautiful Trojan prince abducted by Zeus, is mythology’s most overt celebration of male same-sex desire. Ancient Greek art embraced this narrative, often depicting Ganymede nude and pursued by Zeus in eagle form, as on red-figure vases from the 5th century BCE.
Neoclassicism softened the abduction in Bertel Thorvaldsen’s Ganymede and the Eagle [above] (1817). Here, Ganymede stands fully nude, offering a cup to Zeus with serenity and grace. His nudity is not scandalous but dignified, even sacred.
This narrative takes a more intimate turn in Wilhelm von Gloeden’s Ganymede-inspired photographs [above] , taken in Sicily between 1890 and 1910. His nude young models, posed with amphorae or gazing skyward, evoke myth while offering coded homoerotic imagery at a time when queer expression was criminalized. These photographs blend longing, artifice, and resistance—a queer reclamation of myth.
From ancient temples to modern studios, the nude forms of Apollo, Adonis, Dionysus, and Ganymede have served as vessels for beauty, longing, and erotic speculation. Their depictions reveal more than aesthetic ideals; they reflect how cultures across time have understood desire—particularly same-sex desire—not as taboo, but as divine.
These bodies, carved in marble, painted in oils, or captured in silver print, continue to remind us that queer love, and the beauty that awakens it, is older than shame and as enduring as myth.
He was a boy when first we met; His eyes were mixed of dew and fire, And on his candid brow was set The sweetness of a chaste desire: But in his veins the pulses beat Of passion, waiting for its wing, As ardent veins of summer heat Throb through the innocence of spring.
As manhood came, his stature grew, And fiercer burned his restless eyes, Until I trembled, as he drew From wedded hearts their young disguise. Like wind-fed flame his ardor rose, And brought, like flame, a stormy rain: In tumult, sweeter than repose, He tossed the souls of joy and pain.
So many years of absence change! I knew him not when he returned: His step was slow, his brow was strange, His quiet eye no longer burned. When at my heart I heard his knock, No voice within his right confessed: I could not venture to unlock Its chambers to an alien guest.
Then, at the threshold, spent and worn With fruitless travel, down he lay: And I beheld the gleams of morn On his reviving beauty play. I knelt, and kissed his holy lips, I washed his feet with pious care; And from my life the long eclipse Drew off; and left his sunshine there.
He burns no more with youthful fire; He melts no more in foolish tears; Serene and sweet, his eyes inspire The steady faith of balanced years. His folded wings no longer thrill, But in some peaceful flight of prayer: He nestles in my heart so still, I scarcely feel his presence there.
O Love, that stern probation o’er, Thy calmer blessing is secure! Thy beauteous feet shall stray no more, Thy peace and patience shall endure! The lightest wind deflowers the rose, The rainbow with the sun departs, But thou art centred in repose, And rooted in my heart of hearts!
About the Poem
Bayard Taylor is not a household name today, but in the 19th century, he was known as a celebrated American poet, travel writer, and diplomat. A close contemporary of figures like Walt Whitman and Ralph Waldo Emerson, Taylor’s work was steeped in romantic idealism, emotional intensity, and the mystique of distant lands. One of his lesser-known but deeply resonant poems, “Love Returned,” offers a quiet but powerful meditation on lost love.
At first glance, “Love Returned” seems to be about an emotionally bruised speaker reckoning with the unexpected return of a former beloved. The title suggests something joyful, even redemptive. And yet, the tone of the poem is anything but triumphant. Instead of welcoming love back with open arms, the speaker responds with hesitation, guardedness, and sorrow. There’s a clear sense that too much time has passed, too much pain has been endured. The love that once flourished now feels shadowed by distance and distrust.
Lines such as:
“Thou com’st too late, O love of mine…”
reveal the speaker’s reluctance to embrace this returning affection. We sense a deep internal struggle: the heart that once yearned is now tempered by hard-won wisdom and past wounds. Love may return, but the damage of its absence lingers. The emotional register here is raw and sincere, placing it squarely among the more moving poetic treatments of love’s ambivalence and timing.
In “Love Returned,” the use of abstract, universal terms like “Love,” “thou,” and “mine” allows readers of any gender or orientation to find themselves in the speaker’s position. But for LGBTQ readers—particularly those who have experienced the painful dynamics of love delayed, denied, or hidden—the emotional undercurrents may feel particularly resonant. The poem evokes that aching space between longing and fulfillment, a space many queer people have inhabited at some point in their lives.
Moreover, the speaker’s refusal to immediately accept the returning love is layered with meaning. It’s not just about betrayal or abandonment. It might also speak to the fear of being hurt again, of trusting love that once had to be hidden, or of reckoning with the societal forces that prevented it from being fully realized the first time. It is a deeply human moment, but also one that echoes the specific emotional terrain of queer lives lived in secrecy.
About the Poet
Bayard Taylor (1825–1878) was a prolific American poet, novelist, journalist, travel writer, and diplomat. Born in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, Taylor demonstrated a precocious talent for language and literature from a young age. He began publishing poetry in his teens and soon embarked on the first of many extensive journeys abroad—travels that would inspire a series of widely read books chronicling his experiences in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. Taylor became a household name in mid-19th century America for his vivid travel writing and poetry, including the popular Views Afoot (1846) and Poems of the Orient (1854). He served as a diplomat in Russia and later as U.S. Minister to Prussia (now part of Germany), where he died in 1878 at the age of 53.
While Taylor married and led a respected public life, modern scholars have noted homoerotic undertones in much of his poetry and correspondence, suggesting that Taylor experienced same-sex attraction, particularly in his youth, but he lived in a time when open expressions of same-sex love were dangerous—legally, socially, and professionally. His early poems often feature idealized male figures and deep emotional bonds between men, framed in ways that were common among queer writers of the 19th century who had to navigate a society that criminalized or pathologized homosexuality. Like many queer writers of the 19th century, Taylor often employed gender-neutral language, making it possible for his expressions of love to be read in multiple ways. This ambiguity was not just a poetic device; it was a shield, allowing intimacy and affection to pass under the radar of a society that punished queer expression.
Taylor’s personal letters and early poetry hint at a rich and complex emotional world in which same-sex desire played a significant role. Though he later married and maintained a public heterosexual persona, he had deep emotional bonds with men—some of which appear to have crossed into romantic or erotic territory. Scholars have identified several of Taylor’s poems, including “To a Young Soldier” and several of his Eastern-themed verses, as part of a larger tradition of 19th-century queer poetics—works that expressed forbidden feelings through coded language, aesthetic distancing, and allegory.
Taylor’s relationships with male friends—intense, affectionate, and sometimes suggestively romantic—reflect a pattern familiar to LGBTQ+ historians: a life of coded expression, emotional sublimation, and poetic longing. While he did not (and likely could not) openly identify as queer in his time, Taylor’s body of work contains a rich undercurrent of queer sensibility, especially in poems like “Love Returned” and “To a Young Soldier.” Today, Bayard Taylor is recognized not only as a pioneering American literary voice but also as an important figure in early queer literary history, whose writings offer a window into the inner lives of men who loved other men in an era of silence.
With the exception of this Thursday and next, I’m on a two-week break—finally using up my remaining vacation days before the new fiscal year begins on June 1. Unless travel money miraculously drops into my bank account, this will be a staycation. And honestly, I’m okay with that.
My only real plans for the next couple of weeks are simple ones: I’ll be keeping up with my Monday, Wednesday, and Friday workout sessions with my trainer, and I’ve got dinner plans with a good friend on Friday night. That dinner, in particular, is something I’ve really been looking forward to.
We’re going to the only place around here that serves a wine I truly enjoy: Henri Perrusset Mâcon-Villages Chardonnay, from Burgundy, France. Now, I don’t drink often—maybe the occasional margarita, a vodka cranberry, or a hard cider—but this chardonnay is something special. It’s a bit of an exception for me, since I usually prefer sauvignon blanc or pinot grigio, typically French or Italian, with a particular fondness for wines from the Loire Valley.
I’m sure the wine aficionados reading this might cringe at my taste, but I gravitate toward crisp, dry white wines. I’ve never really learned the proper terminology to describe wine, but every time I look up the ones I like, they all seem to fall under that “dry and crisp” category.
The restaurant’s food is good, though maybe not exceptional. I usually order the lobster and shrimp scampi—it’s solid, even if lobster isn’t my favorite seafood. (Let’s be honest, sometimes it feels like restaurants throw lobster into a dish just so they can hike up the price.) What really makes the meal, though, is dessert. Their flourless chocolate cake is rich, dense, and downright decadent. And the cheesecake? Also worth the calories.
I’m also surprisingly looking forward to my workouts. That’s not a sentence I ever expected to write, but here we are. My trainer has found the right balance—he doesn’t push me too hard, knowing I haven’t seriously worked out in years, but he still challenges me just enough. It’s early days, but we’re making real progress. It feels good.
And while food and wine are lovely perks, what I’m most excited about is the simple pleasure of getting dressed up and heading out. I don’t often get the chance to really put together an outfit and enjoy an evening out, so Friday night will be a treat. Good wine, decent food, indulgent dessert, and—most importantly—a great friend whose company I know I’ll thoroughly enjoy.
Staycation or not, it’s shaping up to be a good couple of weeks.
Joe
The Closet Professor 