Fall From Grace: Part one

Growing up I was raised in a fairly religious household. My mother was a born-again Christian and my father was a meek alcoholic that basically went along with whatever my domineering mother commanded for fear that she might slap him. It was probably this dynamic that lead to my interest in atypical gender roles in relationships and my sister's strict adherence to traditional hetero-normative gender roles in her marriage.


We went to church every Sunday morning no matter how late we were, and we were always late. We were like the funky bunch when we went to church. My mother always wore a skirt and hat and oftentimes a pair of lace gloves. She was the quintessential goddess of religious piety, self-righteousness oozing from every pore of her perfectly manicured ensemble. I think to her religious zealot was a role to play, one that would win her an Oscar. In blazing contrast were my sister, father, and I. We were always disheveled, unkempt, and loud. My father was a type 1 diabetic and even had a few blood sugar reactions where EMS was called. My sister and I were constantly bickering in the pews and wore whatever the fuck we wanted. We were not complacent to abide by my mother's guidelines, and unlike my father we were not deterred by the slap. In church my father, sister, and I were the antithesis of my mother, and she was beyond aware of this. I can only imagine what the other parishioners actually thought of us, and the rumors that were spread beyond our backs. I think I feel the worst for my mother because she tried so hard to create this fantasy of our family, but the reality always fell remarkable short.


My mother did not believe in baptism at birth, and so my sister and I were to commit to believer's baptism when we felt so compelled. I don't want to portray my sister and I as godless heathens. We most certainly enjoyed aspects of Christianity and believed in God, but we did it without all the fuss and pretense of my mother. I had a very casual, informal relationship with God. My prayers were conversations and God was really more of a father figure as my father was very much absent from that role. I would definitely say that I had a very strong relationship with God from the ages of 10 to about 20, and it was at the age of 12 that I made the choice to be baptized.


It was a balmy day in May (I believe) and my entire extended family was present to watch me have water sprinkled on my head like a babe and receive some pointless certificate. Seriously, I got a certificate for having water put on my head. Was I going to need to present this to future employers to ensure that I was now marked as one of God's chosen? I'm sure it was a very moving moment for my proud mother as her children MADE the choice to join the ranks of God's elect.


In just a few months we would switch churches and move to a smaller community church in an urban setting that was teeming with families with children. My mother thought it was important that we socialized with other religious children, and her choice was a good one. The only friends that I still have that I made before college are friends that I made in church. Sure at this point we have differing views on a gamete of things, but there is an importance and intimacy that comes with knowing someone for many years that is hard to forget.


It was in this church that my religiosity really took root. As I grew up I went on missions trips, lead drama for a children's summer Bible program, and studied the Bible as well as any teenager. I even took the purity pledge to remain abstinent until marriage (this obviously did not last). I was definitely drinking the Kool-Aid and loving it. I think it was easier to be a religious teenager because so many of the issues that make me abhor the church now never really came into to play. We never discussed homosexuality, and attending church in a urban neighborhood we were constantly engaged in helping "outsiders." It was a church community that served and tried to bolster the community. My church growing up was not focused on what kind of Christian you were, but on love and the love that we should show one another, and that should be a universal belief.


Once I began college I wasn't home as much and my attendance at my home church lapsed, and I was often too hung-over on Sunday mornings to attend church while at college. Finally, I suppose the fact that my current lifestyle and the lifestyle that I had were no longer congruent and that posed problems with my belief system. I began having premarital sex in the context of a committed relationship, and I no longer felt that it was going to send me straight to the fiery depths of hell, nor did my soul cry out in guilt and shame after each subsequent orgasm. I understand that religion enjoys its laws and rules, yet I began to doubt whether they were all real and necessary. However, it was really after college that my final breaks with the church occurred.


First, my home church fell apart and was in shambles when I returned from college. There were many conflicts among the pastor and parishioners, and the mission of the church changed from one of community to a more doctrine focused goal. I was never really big on doctrine, and I don't really respond well to people telling me what to do. I am prone to breaking rules that I do not agree with, and religion tends to have a way of attempting to force ambiguous and tireless boundaries upon our lives. Secondly, I no longer am the person I was when I returned from college. University opened my eyes to a more liberal way of thinking that did not coincide with the judgmental attitude that my mother, sister, and much of my church chose to judge the world. I was more conscious about people and the various systems that influenced their lives. Life was not black or white, but was a plethora of shades and colors that needed to be studied like a priceless painting. I was interested in seeing a person's whole before damning them to hell or calling them a scourge on the world.


Coming out and responding to the arguments from my religious friends and family caused me to feel ashamed of my Religion, the Religion that I stood by and defended through my young adulthood. It was as though my thoughts, feelings, and arguments meant nothing. It didn't matter how much work I had done for my religious community or that I still had a personal relationship with God. The very fact that I was now admitting to being attracted to men and acting on those thoughts and feelings negated everything, and I could see the look in my mother's eyes that I was a deserter and needed to be stopped.


I will never forget the night that she invited a religious "counselor" to our home to talk to me about my choices. I was too old at this point to let her opinions influence mine, and I stood my ground that I was in no way going to humor her efforts to influence me. The interaction was actually fairly benign and this man mainly just asked me questions about myself and responded politely, mostly he just listened. At one point I began to question my mother on her motives and feelings and she froze, and this man I had just met had to answer my questions for her. I think I lost a lot of respect for my mother that night. It was enough that she was willing to judge me as a person and say disrespectful things to me, but it was an entirely different thing to bring a man to my home to question my beliefs without her being able to state her own arguments and feelings. My mother still goes to these support groups for friends and family of members of the LGBT community who believe they are going against God's divine plan, and she has one of those obnoxious bumper stickers advocating for keeping marriage heterosexual. Sure these things are hard for me to stand, but I just have to brush it off, we don't get to chose our family and I suppose that I hope that she will accept me one day because I'm most certainly never going to deny myself of who I am.

Here We Go Again

It’s weird to continue to blog about my life without writing about something that recently happened and I’m going to do my best to make it at least slightly humorous. On February 7, 2015 I was diagnosed with HIV. Now I know what you are all thinking, “didn’t this just happen like 8 months ago?” Yes, it did, but this time there was no false positive, there was no rescue net a week down the line. This time I actually had a viral load and a gamete of positive test results.

The call came from my doctor three days after I had my blood work taken when I was sitting on my couch with the guy I’m currently seeing, my best friend, and my ex-girlfriend (talk about awkward). I missed the call and had to call the office back incessantly until someone called me back. I suffer from chronic anxiety (my term for generalized anxiety disorder) and having a call from my doctor three days after having my STI workup was extremely anxiety producing, so much so that my bestie, Jaime, was courteous enough to give me one of her Xanax’s. When my doctor finally telephoned me back I walked into the kitchen and he began to tell me the bad news. I guess at first I thought he was calling to tell me I had something rather benign that was curable, like the clap or syphilis. A round of antibiotics and I’d be as good as new, but this was not to be the case. I took the news that my HIV test had come back positive and I would need to come in for further testing. I listened and kept my shit together. I then had Jaime and my ex, Brielle, go upstairs and I told my current love interest, Ben, that I tested positive. I sent him home and fell apart.

Later that night I went out to dinner in the city for my birthday, and what a wonderful birthday it was. I was too drunk to pretty much comprehend anything. I often drink to cope with my problems and this instance was definitely not any different. It was a night filled with melancholy and tears, and most certainly not one to remember. The next few weeks passed in a blur. I saw my doctor the following Monday, and then again the Monday after that. I was started on medication, specifically Truvada and Tivicay. I was shocked that I experienced NO side effects and ultimately if it wasn’t for actually taking pills every day I would probably momentarily forget that I even was positive.

One thing that my doctor said when I came in for my first visit was that I would wake up thinking I was going to die every day for the next six months, and at this point it’s been almost 7 weeks and I don’t feel that way now. Sure there are times when I think about how one night stands probably won’t be a thing anymore (not that they were really a thing to begin with), and it was hard to know that most of my fuck buddies weren’t calling, but for the moment I was dating someone who was willing to see past HIV and see me, and that was more assurance than anything else. Sure HIV can be a hard pill to swallow, but I am more than HIV, and HIV is no longer the disease that it once was. We have anti-viral regimens that are easily tolerated and can bring down your viral load to levels of being undetectable. The pills don’t create vast changes in the body, and there is even PrEP that can stop your sexual partners from contracting the virus.

However, speaking with people about my HIV has definitely allowed me to see the many misconceptions that people have. My friend’s sister even asked if we could share drinking glasses. I understand the severity of the diagnosis, but at least now I have it and I am taking steps to ensure that I do not pass it on.

That being said Ben and I had unprotected sex several times before I was diagnosed. I guess I just felt comfortable with him from the get-go and I suppose he did too. It’s not even like I enjoy bareback sex all that much more than protected sex, but it kind of just happened the first time we fucked because we were both heavily intoxicated and we just never bothered to wrap it up after that. At this point it’s been almost 8 weeks since we consummated our relationship and he has yet to get tested. I know that he is pushing it off because he is afraid of the results, and this differs drastically from my anxiety-ridden personality. If I were him I would have gotten tested every week for the last 6 weeks, but I can’t push things out of my mind. Thoughts plague me until I go a little nutty. However, his procrastination is still causing me stress because his status is something I still need to deal with and process. Maybe that’s me being a little selfish because after all what does it really matter? But it does matter. His status will absolutely have an impact on our relationship, a relationship that has already been through so much in such a short amount of time. I guess I just try and think positive and rationalize that because he has yet to have flu-like symptoms he’s probably negative.

Then last Friday, March 20, I received a message from my doctor informing me that I was undetectable. This was ridiculously surprising because I had only been on the medication for four weeks, and my doctor had hypothesized that I wouldn’t be undetectable for two months. This was definitely life finally giving me something to smile about and hope that things will continue to get better. I know that as life unfolds there will be continued challenges, but I’m confident that I’ll be able to tackle them.

Eleventh and Amsterdam

One night stands have never been something I was fond of, and for the greater part of my young adulthood an activity that I never thought I would partake in. My first potential one night stand turned into a courtship of sorts with an amazing man in Baltimore who played the piano, loved Indian food, and despite being a bottom could pound an ass just as good as any top, given that you overlooked his propensity for going soft. However, this entry is not about my former lover in Baltimore, but of my second and to this day my only real and true one night stand.

I had recently broken up with my ex, Jarek, and I was still very much on the mend. I don't deal well with loss that is not death and breakups tend to be very difficult for me. My way of dealing with loss is often engaging in risky, impulsive behaviors. I often become hypersexual or hypo sexual, take up smoking cigarettes, and there is an obvious increase in my drinking. I also have friends who enjoy drinking and going out and being irresponsible, so these impulsive, risky behaviors are often bolstered by my friends, and with this cocktail of bad choices I was heading for a wake-up call.

In addition to my risky behavior I had also started dating another boy, and when I am single I go through boys like clothes from H&M. My friends are constantly hearing about the onslaught of coffee dates, dinner dates, sex dates, and sexual trysts. I am exhausting when single and actively playing the field. I'm sure my friends find me and my life exhausting to listen to and this is most likely intensified by my anxiety-ridden personality. Thankfully in my older and wiser late twenties I have slowed down a little in the pursuit of something long-term and meaningful. I think at some point most people will evolve to this determination after our need for random consumptions of flesh have been satiated.

I met my next conquest (Billy) at a gay club when I was entirely too intoxicated and he was also entirely too intoxicated. We began talking about God only knows what for God only knows how long and then at some point arbitrary conversation turned to making out and that lead to dancing while making out. We half-danced, half-made out until the club closed and we said our goodbyes and exchanged numbers and I assumed that after the niceties where concluded we would never see each other again (this was not so, and my drama-filled relationship with this boy continues till today, albeit unromantically). We went on several dates, and he was wonderful and intelligent, had a zeal for life, but was young and unsure of himself and lacked a certain dominance that I require in the bedroom. From the third date I felt my feelings waning and I knew that it was going to have to end. I was not over my ex and was not ready for monogamy or the confinement and expectations that come with relationships. I feel like we all need to recharge after a relationship because they take so much work and effort. I often feel that after a breakup I am emotionally spent and need to be selfish for about half the time that the relationship lasted.

I often attempt to be monogamous from the get go of dating. I try to focus on the person I am currently seeing because I think it's the best way to get to know someone without distracting yourself with other people. I do need sex regularly and once I have sex my thirst for it only grows and grows. I believe certain people would probably describe me as insatiable and my desire for sex can border on obsessive. That being said I had remained "faithful" to Billy for the three weeks we were dating and we hadn't even had sex yet, so needless to say I was fucking horny.

One fateful Tuesday night my good friend, Bob, and I had dinner, and whenever I hang out with Bob things tend to escalate. I'm sure he doesn't read my blog so I'm gonna divulge that he is most definitely a functioning alcoholic who self-medicates with a plethora of prescription medications. I think he knows about these maladaptive coping skills, but refusing to do much about them. He is pretty much complacent to go through life unhappy and pretty much always under the influence of three substances. I have tried to talk to him about his issues, but you can't force people to change or get help. We have almost stopped being friends several times due to his antics, but I always come back because at the end of the day we both really care about each other.

After we finished dinner on Tuesday and most likely two bottles of wine we started taking shots and then Bob had a brilliant idea to schlep into the city for some gay bar hoping. I know we began the night at Therapy, who was hosting a drag show, where I downed two dirty vodka martinis and from there the night becomes very blurry. I know that we ended up at Industry and I was beyond intoxicated, and at some point I was accosted by this French young man. In college I studied abroad in Paris and since then anything Parisian makes me week in the knees and this man and his accent were no exception. His name was Max, he was 26, and he was working in New York City temporarily, and would return to Paris at the end of the summer. Max continually attempted to get me to return home with him, and continued to feed me drinks, but I could not leave Bob alone and rejected Max's ploys. However, Max ultimately used one last ploy, he suggested we go out and have a cigarette. Now I am often an on-again, off-again smoker and currently I was off, so the promise of one of those sweet cancer sticks was too much to deny. We went outside and as we were enjoying our fags hailed a cab and easily prodded me into it. Off we went uptown and I forgot all about Bob and the fact that I was going who-knows-where in Manhattan when I had work at 8AM the following morning.

When we arrived at Max's apartment we had to climb an unknown amount of flights and we began sexual escapades that would last hours and would entail having sex three times, and once on Max's roof where I was fucked from behind while holding onto a chimney stack. I remember this one moment vividly because how often does one get to have sex on a roof?

When I awoke in the morning my mouth was dry, my ass was sore, and I had no idea where I was. I checked my phone and I had 3% battery and it was 7:45AM. I quickly found my garments and rushed out of Max's apartment. On my way out we kissed goodbye and Max said he'd text me, but we both knew this would never happen because we never exchanged numbers, and it wasn't that kind of thing.

I ran down the street, realized I was all the way uptown, and called my boss to report that I had woken up late and would be late; little did I know how late I would actually be. I then stopped at Starbucks to purchase my rescue beverage, a trenta half black, half passion iced tea with no water and three pumps classic syrup. It hydrates and cures hangovers, I swear. I also needed to take a mammoth shit. A night of all fucking and drinking will do that and there was dire need to evacuate. I then hailed a cab to port authority and took a bus to Clifton all with my phone on airplane mode to conserve battery. Once back in Clifton I called a cab to take me to Bob's apartment to pick up my car. I then had to drive home, shower, and head to work. I arrived at work three and half hours late and had to explain to my coworkers that I did not die. Thankfully no one asked how oversleeping would make me so late because I would not have been able to answer that question. When I look back at this day it feels surreal, a manic part of myself that I truly don't recognize.  

That night I had plans to see Billy and go out with my friends to this local gay bar in Jersey. I was exhausted from the lack of sleep from the night before and was stressed out with the weight of knowing that I was going to end things. I knew that I needed to end it, and the fact that I didn't even feel guilty about having sex with Max, even when I knew that Billy thought we were already exclusive was too much to handle. I knew I needed to be alone still, there were still parts of myself that I needed to work on and mend and I wasn't going to drag Billy around with me.

We got home early because I wasn't feeling well and I ended everything at around 1230AM. I offered for him to sleep over because he had a few drinks, it was late, and he lived an hour away. He of course declined and left. I knew he was angry and I figured he'd never speak to me again, which was fine because it would be easier for both of us. I've only had another one night stand since this one, and it too was not without feelings of regret. I'm fairly certain that one night stands aren't for me, but at least it has offered up a good story.

Gay-cest

Gay-cest is pretty much inevitable in the gay world. I mean men are whores, so we tend to sleep with everyone that we deem attractive in our local geographical area and there are only so many gay men in the world, so the chances of sleeping and dating the same men as your friends, exes, and current partners is high. However common this phenomenon may be it is almost always a bit uncomfortable, especially if emotional attachments are involved. At first I thought that I was the only one that was so affected by gay-cest, but recently I have started to encounter similar reactions from my friends and I feel a lot less insane. I'm a lot better than I used to be, but there are still times when I want to move to Antarctica and build an igloo, but then I realize how much I would miss sex.

The first case of gay-cest that I encountered occurred accidentally. I was dating this guy (Henry) for a few weeks and I had slept over his house. In my rush to get home and get to work I unintentionally left my cell phone behind. By the time I realized this I was already home and he was already at work. I did not know how to get in touch with him and then I realized that we were Facebook friends and realized that I could Facebook message him. My Facebook was currently deactivated so I had to reactivate it, and upon doing so realized that my current beau was friends with another one of my exes, and I guess the biggest kicker was that this ex (Brian) was the first man that I ever slept with. I don't know why that makes him matter more than pretty much all my other exes in the sexual arena, but for whatever reason it does. It also doesn't help that the way he dissolved things was kind of douchey, and I was slightly crushed. 

Me being the curious, anxiety ridden fool that I am had to ask my Brian, who I became some sort of friends with, how he knew Henry and of course the answer was that they had also dated for a couple months, but I guess that's still better than "we fucked once in a church bathroom" (for the record I have yet to hear that as a response). I don't know it bothered me so much, but I could not get it out of my head to the point that I brought it up with Henry, a mistake I have learned from. Eventually, I got over this fact, but my ship with Henry did not sail long and I ended things a few weeks later.

Brian was the cause of another source of gay-cest in my life two years later. I was visiting my Best friend, Jaime, in Philly and we were gonna go out in the gay scene. I got there late on Saturday afternoon and we ordered in dinner and pre-gamed, hard. I believe the two of us polished off a bottle of pear Grey Goose and then some (I am perpetually broke and she's living off loans at the moment, so hard pre-gaming is almost always necessary.) We wandered around the Gayborhood, rather, aimlessly, because neither one of us knew where to go. Eventually we found a gay daddy to lead us to some promising bars. Finally, we wound up at Woody's. Woody's was a gay bar that had a bar downstairs and dancing upstairs. And to go upstairs you had to pay a cover. This was new to me because in New York most gay bars do not have a cover, dancing or no dancing, and the bars that do require a cover are usually obnoxious and not really my style.

To say the least Jaime and I were wasted off of our asses and I don't really remember much of the details of that night, but what I do remember was the DJ was awesome, Philly gays are NOT that attractive as a whole, and at some point we were grinding on each other on top of risers. At the end of the night Woody's was so packed that we migrated to the stage and continued dancing. it was at this point that a man began to grind on me, and when I turned around he was exceptionally good looking. He had a handsome face, a good build, and was tall. Now being the tall (6'3.5") glass of water that I am tall can get you a long way. i mean normally I won't fuck or date someone that is less than a 6, but if the person is 6'2 or above I'd probably lower myself to like a 4.5, and 4.5's can be pretty rough, but it is hard to find people taller than 6'0 in the North East.

Now Jaime had made me promise that I would not go home with anyone and when I was sober I was confident that this was do-able. I mean at this point in my life I had only gone home with two people from bars, and so I thought "what are the odds." Well ladies and gentlemen the odd were not in my favor. I'm pretty sure that after five minutes our tongues were down each other's throats and in another five minutes he was asking me home, and I should have said "no." The good friend in me wanted to say no, but the drunken whore in me wanted to say "FUCK YES!," and unfortunately the drunk whore won. I then made my best friend take a cab home, alone from a gay bar as I walked home with this beautiful guy to have what can only be described as really drunk lack-luster sex with a string bean with pretty terrible muscle tone. And he plays gay volleyball, so I kind of assumed he'd have a decent body under that lumberjack-ism button down shirt.

The next morning I awoke and we did the obligatory "I have so much to do today, I really need to get going." We exchanged numbers and he expressed interest in seeing me again when I was back in town. I said that I would. I took the cab ride of shame back to Jaime's and profusely apologized when I walked into Jaime's row house and she was pretty ok about it all. I then stalked him on FB and found him. At this point I again realized that Brian was a mutual friend and again, texted Brian (because I'm an idiot) to see how they knew each other. Brian responded fairly quickly that they were fuck buddies for a while over a year ago. This coupled with the fact that I texted my one night stand the obligatory 'had a lot of fun last night" text and he hadn't responded and that I was still uneasy about dicking Jaime over pushed my anxiety into overdrive and I was pretty much a mess. I don't know why I have horrible anxiety, and I know it makes me crazy sometimes, but generally I can keep my insanity to just thoughts that I know are crazy.

Thankfully this was the last time that Brian was a source of gay-cest for me, but gay-cest has continued to plague my life. I have gotten used to it and am proud to say that it no longer turns me into a ball of anxiety and awkwardness. I still would rather it didn't happen, but have come to accept the fact that it is a staple of the gay community.