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.

Tighty Whities

My friends will attest to the fact that I can get a little obsessed with Grindr. I used to go through these spurts where I would literally spend entire days at work on it trying to meet people, mainly for sex. I was still fairly new to this whole homosexual world and wanted to experience sex with many different kinds of men. I prided myself on not being too critical or picky. If you were fat, unkempt, Asian, or bald it didn’t matter I would still probably hook up with you. I looked at it like how would I know who or what I was ultimately attracted to if I didn’t try it, and seriously with a little bit of alcohol I could close my eyes and every man looked like Nick Bateman, well maybe not exactly, but there was a blurry outline.

I also didn’t turn down most fetishes. I mean sure I’d give nipple clamps and foot lickers a shot, but I wasn’t indulging fisters, people who wanted me to birth golf balls, or scat, but for the most part I was open to your desires. And one fetish that I routinely encountered was people who were obsessed with underwear. What type of underwear was I wearing? What color were they? Were they clean or dirty? Can you send me a pic of you in your underwear? Out of your underwear? Your underwear being washed in a washing machine? It always got a little annoying after a while. Like how many pictures do you really want to see of my underwear, can’t we just fuck already?

The most interesting underwear fetishist came about one day while I was on Grindr during a break between classes in grad school. I went to a rather large University for grad school and I thought that this would mean that there were tons of students available to fool around with, even if the majority of them would be 18 to 22. However, this was not the case. Whether college students weren’t Grindr savvy yet, or this university had a more closeted culture the prospects were slim. There was this one kid who would often come up who had the face of a model, chiseled, handsome, and sure of himself. Plus he was 23 which was a huge plus because I was not at all a fan of cradle robbing (yet), but I would “settle” for a 20 year old in a pinch. I would never message this kid on Grindr because I thought that he was just too beautiful for me, and seriously he probably lived on campus, so where were we really going to hook up anyway? I was a little past hooking up in dorm rooms at this point. However, at the end of the semester while sitting in the library pretending to work on a paper about the disenfranchisement and gentrification of Asian elephants I received a message from him on Grindr and was beyond excited. It turned out that we had a bunch of things in common as he was going for his Bachelors in social work and I was getting my masters.

I don’t know exactly how long the messaging lasted, but it must have been a few weeks because by the time we planned on meeting the semester was already finished. It was one balmy spring morning and I must have turned on Grindr to stave off boredom. He was on and we began chatting and soon the chatting became ridiculously suggestive, and then the requests for underwear pics began. The requests were simple enough in the beginning. Send me a picture of you in underwear, take a picture of the underwear off of you, and send me a picture of your underwear drawer (that last one totally happens more than you would believe)? I don’t understand why people get off on just seeing pictures of my everyday underwear. I totally get that sexy underwear can be a turn on, but I can assure you that there is nothing arousing about a pair of baby blue boxers from the Gap covered in tiny penguins wearing Santa hats, trust me.

These requests then escalated to things that I had not encountered and should have begun to send me red flags, but I was waaayyyy too open-minded in the beginning and was pretty much down for anything. He began to ask pictures of me stretching my underwear on me. This was a new request. However, he then asked me to take them off and take pictures of me stretching them to see how elastic they were. Not only was this request out of the ordinary, but very difficult to capture. I mean I needed two hands to properly stretch the underwear and a third hand to snap the picture, and unfortunately I only have two hands. So there I was in my family room using the corner of a desk and my other two hands to attempt to get a “sexy” picture of my underwear stretching. It was at this moment that I began to think, “What the fuck am I getting myself into?” At this point the morning was waning into the afternoon and I needed to know what was going on because I don’t need someone to waste my time. If you wanna hook up let’s just get there. I don’t need to see a billion pictures in preparation.

He finally agreed to meet at the university, and I began the drive down. When I arrived the person that I met was vastly different than the kid in the picture, not that it wasn’t the same person because it definitely was, but the kid’s profile pic was definitely a photo shopped head shot. I don’t need you to look exactly the same, but please try and use everyday pictures because when we actually meet we aren’t going to be on a photo shoot. We are going to be in your living room, and you will most likely be in sweat pants, let’s be honest. The other thing that was slightly off putting was that he was very feminine. Now I am by no means saying that I am some hyper-masculine jock or anything, but traditionally I tend to be attracted to men who are more masculine than I am, and this kid was far from it. He talked with that accent that sounded like every word out of his mouth was supposed to be seductive. I’m sure even if he said, ‘I just dropped a deuce and didn’t flush” would have sanded like “I want to gag on your cock and swallow your load.” I don’t need to feel like I am in some badly scripted porno film from the first second I meet someone. Despite this he still had a good face, slightly less handsome than in his picture, but surely more than workable.

He led me to these woods behind his dorm room and whipped out a joint. Now things were starting to get very interesting. I don’t usually smoke marijuana, but will definitely indulge myself from time to time, and at this point I had no idea where to get it from so I had to take advantage of the opportunity when it arose. However, I was such a novice at this time that it still made me paranoid, and being in the woods with a stranger was not helping anything. However, it turned out to be a nice experience we chatted, and walked around, and it was really a beautiful setting overall, I must say. At some point the high began to wind down and it was time to put on the Ritz. We were standing against this one tree and the kissing started. I love kissing while high. I feel like it really intensifies it, like the rest of the world fades into the background and all that is left are your lips and his/her lips and black space, and it feels as if time just stands still. It is probably one of the most intoxicating experiences for me. I don’t even really like to have sex high, but kissing is so enjoyable.

After kissing for God only knows how long our hands started undoing each other’s pants and the hand jobs began. This lasted for probably a few minutes and then he was whispering in my ear “give me a wedgie.” My internal response was “WWWHHHHHHAAAAATTTT!?,”but my actual response was, sure??? Being high made this a little easier, but in my head I just kept thinking, “How the hell do I even do this?” I wasn’t a bully in high school. I’ve never given anyone a wedgie before and I’ve heard there is an art to it. But as I was currently a homosexual sexual explorer I decided to dive right in.

It was at this point that I noticed that he was wearing some sort of cheap cotton briefs, like Hanes or Fruit of the Loom. Now I will admit that I have some bougie tendencies, like I will only shop at J Crew proper and not the outlet, and I only wear Calvin Klein microfiber underwear, and for a kid who has a wedgie fetish I was expecting something stretchier than cheap cotton briefs. I get it; you are a college student. So save your allowance or ask for them for Easter or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa (I hear underwear is quite the popular Kwanzaa present these days).

I began tugging on his underwear and he kept urging me to tug harder and harder cramming his underwear further up into his ass crack, and at some point this experience stopped being weird and started being arousing. I'm not saying that I would have wanted to give anyone else a wedgie, but it was a turn on to see how much he was enjoying all of this. As I began working his dick with my other hand, while tugging on his undies with my other it became obvious that this boy was gonna bust a serious nut soon, and bust he did all over my hand, his pants, my pants, and a few innocent leaves. Unfortunately no one brought anything to clean up with so we utilized some grass.

After the experience we both zipped up our pants and maybe kissed goodbye. I believe that he hit me up once or twice after that and wanted an encore, but it never happened. it's not that I was against it, but I think logistically it never really panned out. It was a new experience for me for sure, and clearly something that I will never forget. I think it is important to push yourself sexually and occasionally try things that might freak us out. I still have a lot of fantasies that I would like to try one day, some of which I don't even share with people because I am worried I'll be judged. I think when it comes to sex we need to keep an open mind and appreciate our differences, especially if the things that turn us on don't harm anyone else. Plus, who knows, we might learn things about ourselves in the process.

My Winter Coat

My mother and I have always had a pretty good relationship. She and I have, for the most part, been very open and honest with each other. When I began to come out a lot of this changed. For those of you reading this who do not know my mother, she is an avid fundamental Christian that believes that most of our sins are caused by demons that have inhabited our souls. I think this goes without saying, but our religious views diverge quite a bit here. Now I want all of you to know that I love my mother and I understand and forgive her for being who she is. At her core she is a kind and loving woman and she means well, but her beliefs are ingrained and not about to change overnight. That being said she has come a long way and I am confident that she will continue to grow in acceptance of my current romantic and sexual interests.

I also have not made this easy on her. I tend to hold this “Fuck Everyone” view of the world and often do what I want to do as long as I do not foresee it causing harm to another person. I have probably caused my mother some emotional harm with my antics. This blog post will outline one of those instances.

It was December 2012 and one of my good friends, Hillary, was visiting from way out of town. We ate dinner at Houlihan’s, where I came out to her, and we discussed the fact that we were both dating men who were 37. After dinner Hillary didn’t have any plans, so I invited her to go to Feathers, this divey gay bar/club in North Jersey. She of course was delighted. I had my other friend, Hugo, pick us up because we anticipated getting intoxicated. Sure, I had work the next day, but since when did work ever take precedence over intoxication?

I took this belief to heart, that night throwing back more drinks than I could count and getting to a level of obliterated that few people have ever seen. I believe I made out with four people at the bar that night, one of them being the ugliest woman that I have ever seen. She kept complimenting me though and saying how much she just wanted to take me home that I had to throw her a bone or two. I mean all I did was make out with her for a bit, it's not like I aggressively ate her snatch or anything.

At some point it was time to leave Feathers and I can't remember if it was because the bar was closing or we were entirely too drunk at this point to function, but we left. The three of us clambered into Hugo's BMW coupe and headed home. We almost made it to the exit when Hillary began throwing up in Hugo's car. Hugo pulled over and Hillary and I clambered out. Hillary threw up on the side of the road several times and I took a whizz. I then took off my shirt for her to wipe down Hugo's seats with (I still own and wear this shirt). At this point a cop pulled over behind us and I almost shit my pants. I wasn't entirely certain that Hugo was too drunk to drive, but I was pretty sure he was, and Hillary and I were clearly a mess. The police officer was nice and told us to exit off at the next exit and get home. We obviously obliged him and were home in a Jiffy.

At this point I was still living with Mommy dearest and she was thankfully asleep and in bed. I have this tendency to take my clothes off normally, but the urge is even stronger when I'm drunk. As soon as we walked into my house I began to disrobe in our entry foyer and scamp around. At some point Hillary disappeared into one of the spare bedrooms and I was left naked with Hugo. Now I am not a huge whore, but I tend to be more of a sexually free person. There aren't too many friends that I haven't hooked up with in one way or another and tonight in my drunken state Hugo was going to get his chance, I mean I was already naked after all.

At some point while prancing around my house nude I became aware of my nakedness and decided to cover myself with my winter coat that just barely covered my ass. So now I was completely naked except for a navy wool coat with a hood. After partially clothing myself I began making out with Hugo and I don't remember how or why the making out started, but my tactic is to usually just grab your face and force my lips upon you. This was a tactic that I began using in college and is still a running joke with my friends. I am a face rapist if you will. My friends would constantly have to apologize after my face rape advances were often shot down. I don't have very good flirtation skills and I have no idea how to "pick up" someone, but I do know how to kiss and I would pretty much make out with anyone. If you have the balls to just lean in and kiss a stranger why not go with it and enjoy the moment. If it ends up being horrible well at least you have a great story to tell your friends the next day.  This tactic even almost got my ass whooped once when I tried to face rape some dude at a gay bar. He literally grabbed my arm and ushered me out of the bar and hurled me onto the street and into a pile of garbage bags. It was not a moment I am proud of, but I can assure you that my intent was harmless and in my defense I am a very good kisser.

And back to the present story, Hugo and I were swapping spit in the foyer and then I ushered him into my kitchen and onto the sink counter. At this point I lowered his pants and dropped to my knees. I'm gonna let you all infer what I was doing on my knees here. This lasted for a few minutes until this became tedious in my incredibly intoxicated state. I led Hugo to the couch in my living room and we began to fool around and I began to undress Hugo. It was at this point that I heard movement upstairs and I knew that my mom was awake. My mother has a bathroom in her bedroom, but she is a hoarder and her bathroom is unusable because it is filled with random shit. Her bathtub is filled with clothes and assorted goodies and her sink and counter is covered in junk, so she often comes downstairs to use the main bathroom. My mother then made it to the second floor landing and peered around the corner to observe Hugo and I canoodling on the couch. At this point I was naked except for my winter coat and Hugo was dressed, except for a shirt. My mother then quickly jolted into the bathroom and I rapidly attempted to make the situation seem more appropriate by having Hugo put his shirt on and straightened up the couch. As my mother exited the bathroom she came down the steps to the living room level and began telling Hugo that he needed to leave. My mother does not approve of my homosexual activities and definitely opposes my casual sexual trysts. With this in mind I'm sure this experience was particularly jarring for her. Hugo quickly excused himself and ran out into the night, while I was left to face my mother wearing nothing but my winter coat (which at this time I had buttoned). I was still very intoxicated and could not even formulate a good enough lie to make my mother think that I had been doing anything else other than fornicating with someone she didn't know on her couches. I went to bed feeling slightly embarrassed and mad at myself for not exhibiting more restraint.

In the morning I awoke with a terrible headache and a fuzzy recollection of the night before. I chugged several bottles of water, got ready for work and drove Hillary home. I'm almost certain I spent that day locked in my office with my head on my desk. Later when I came home my mother confronted me and I believe our conversation went a little like this:

Mom: "You know what happened last night really disturbed me, and was not something that I wanted to see."

Now I was ready for her, and had formulated what I believed was an immaculate response.

Me: "I know mom, but you see when I get drunk I just happen to take my clothes off."

My mother provided a household that did not make clothes a requirement. Now I'm not saying that we walked around naked all the time, or really ever, but I did spend most of my time at home chilling in underwear. And my mother thought that undergarments were basically just an option, meaning she pretty much never wears a bra or underwear unless she is going somewhere that requires her to be presentable (the mall is not one of those places". The best example of this belief of my mother's is one day in the summer she was out in our front yard gardening and she was wearing her summer "uniform," which consisted of a purple wife beater and blue nylon short-ass running shorts. She became very hot from all the gardening and folded her wife beater up to that she thought was the top of her abdomen to cool off. In actuality she pulled it up above her breasts giving our entire neighborhood quite the show. I do not know how long this lasted before she realized her indecent exposure. My mother was also often guilty of trying on clothes sans panties.

This is the climate in which I grew up and this environment allowed me to become very comfortable with my body and allowed me to develop a healthy self-image. My mother bought my explanation and it appeared that she had not seen anything explicit and had not even noticed that Hugo was at one point shirtless. My mother was still ashamed that she had a son that wore nothing more than a winter coat in front of his friends and her, but this belief was a lot better than if she knew what actually occurred that night. I hope that she will never find out and be spared from the trauma that would undoubtedly follow. My mother and I still don't see eye to eye, but I believe that we are becoming more comfortable with each other and our differing beliefs and life styles.

Vials

So now I’m going to conclude my HIV diagnosis story. I guess it’s taken me the better part of four months to get there because I wasn’t really finished dealing with it. I think I needed to really finish processing what it meant to me before I could put it down on paper, well technicological paper.

The next morning Jaime and I went to my favorite brunch place, Red Eye Café, in Montclair, NJ. I ordered eggs Benedict with pork belly. Eggs Benedict is my go to comfort breakfast and I needed some comfort that morning. I was still barely more than a zombie at this point, so I’m sure adequate social functioning was not happening.

After an awesome meal we went to my favorite park in Montclair (clearly today was a day of favorites), had some cigarettes, and shot the breeze while eating Bavarian cream donuts. We then went and picked up my friend Jarek from the bus stop. He somehow felt compelled to come in from New York City to help comfort me at this terrible time. Now Jarek is this super anal, super organized, kind of neurotic person who just makes you hate yourself because YOU are a lazy Son of a Bitch, and of course he pulled no strings here. He was on a mission to find me a doctor and get the ball rolling. I was not in a place to get the ball rolling. I was still continually praying to Jesus on the regular that this was all just a terrible, terrible nightmare Finding a doctor and talking about a cocktail of toxic pharmaceuticals was the last thing on my mind, but that was the beauty of Jarek he was always prepared to make you face things that were intimidating and most likely overwhelming, he was quite the sobering friend.

Anyway, we picked Jarek up from the park and ride and as he came Jaime had to leave to go back to Philly and her marathon nursing program. Jarek and I spent the day schlepping to Central Jersey to pick up my Z-pack from Nelson’s house and then into the city we went to take Jarek home. I then went food shopping with him at Whole Foods, said goodbye to Jarek, packed up my car with groceries, and began the drive home through the Lincoln Tunnel. This was the first moment that I was completely alone since I was diagnosed and I could not handle the silence, and then Sam Smith came on and I was a goner.

There are songs that without fail will leave you feeling vulnerable and teary eyed. Sam Smith has a song, Like I Can, that automatically makes me well a little. The fact that Sam Smith is a bonafide homosexual and I can relate to pretty much all his songs made this song even harder to listen to. Being diagnosed with HIV made me question whether or not I would ever find love, more than I already do, and this song was not helping at all at the moment. So alone in my car, listening to Sam Smith, while driving through the Lincoln Tunnel I began crying, sobbing even. I cried tears for me, for all the obstacles I would have to face, and the judgment I would face from others. It took about two seconds before I was using my car phone to find someone who was available to hang out with me, and in the meantime I went home, got drunk, and watched the Big C. My coworker Nikki came over later and spent some time with me, and life continued to get a little easier, and that was the end of day 2, and I, my friends, was still standing.

Over the next few days I found out I had health insurance, booked an appointment with a doctor Jarek found me, and then having to call the office and admit to them that I was diagnosed with HIV in an effort to get an earlier appointment. I mean I was diagnosed with a potentially life threatening disease, I should be accommodated. Once I uttered the words HIV the doors opened and I was given an appointment for the next day.

On Wednesday morning I went in to the see the doctor and although he was very experienced with LGBT issues I felt like not too much was explained to me. We went through my entire sex history, and he probed my sex life for intimate tid-bits. Top, bottom? Protection? Whips, chains? Anal probes? Size of anal probes? You get the picture. It was clear that this was a gay doctor’s office once the doctor’s medical assistant, Ryan, made his appearance. He was wearing trendy New Balance sneakers, a flashy button-down shirt that looked like it came from A Night at the Roxbury and heavily whiskered medium-washed blue jeans. I was kind of appalled at this get-up. Not only was it not professional, but it wasn’t even cute. I’m pretty sure my deceased grandfather could have put together a cuter outfit consisting of pieces all from Old Navy.

After all the assessing was done it was time for the real fun to begin! They needed to take 15 vials of blood. As I sat there with the IV in my arm and watching vial after vial being filled and my head feeling lighter and lighter the magnitude of the situation really began to sink in, not to mention that after all these vials were filled Ryan was going to need to swab and scrape the interior of my rectum for HPV and the Clap. After all the probing was done I put my clothes back on and went back to my life.

On Friday I got a call from Planned Parenthood that they had the results of my HIV blood test and that I needed to come in to get them. I was pissed at this point because why would I need to go and get re-diagnosed all over again. I begrudgingly left work and headed over, but when I arrived I was greeted with the news that my blood test was negative! Negative!!!!! I hugged the NP that relayed this news and had she been hotter I probably would have made out with her a bit. I really didn’t know how to handle this news. Did this mean I was negative? Which test had been wrong? Planned Parenthood left me with the advice that I was most likely negative, but should use condoms during sex and get retested in three months. This seemed like less than stellar advice at the time. I was completely numb and didn’t know what to do. I then called my doctors office and told Ryan the news. My doctor called me back quickly, and told me that a negative blood test was a good sign, but I was far from out of the woods.

The next morning I received an email from my doctor reporting that my viral load came back and the virus was undetectable in my body. This is when things really started to brighten up. We still needed a few tests to come back to be certain that I had received a false positive reading the rapid test, but things were definitely looking up.

It was upon hearing this news that I decided to get ridiculously intoxicated on gin and lemonade to celebrate. I had my good friend Peter come over to keep me company and entertain my drunk ass. Unfortunately, he was forced to put up with my drunken antics, like watching me strip on my back deck while lotioning my genitals and watching episode upon episode of Girls, a show that he now thoroughly despises. Later in the evening my friend Todd joined us and we were going to go out and grab a bite to eat. I suggested we go to this little restaurant and bar in Montclair, Egan and Sons. It’s one of my all-time favorites, mostly for the Carrera marble countertops and sexy bartenders. I could do without the mostly white, straight, and often douchey and entitled college crowd, but it’s a cross Egan and Sons patrons have to bare.

Upon arrival at Egan’s I was given a t-shirt to wear because men aren’t allowed to wear tank tops. So now I was stuck toting my ass around in an oversized, white Hanes T-shirt with a huge Bud, Miller, Coors, insert another white trash watery beer bottle on it. I was mortified. I pride myself in the way that I dress and now not only was I intensely intoxicated, and still severely fragile from my potential HIV diagnosis, but I was forced to wear a hideous t-shirt. Egan’s was just asking for it. However, I held it together and attempted to be as nice as humanly possible to our pig-faced trollop of a waitress. After dinner Peter bid Todd and I adieu, and Todd and I went to the city to gay bar hop. I don’t really remember anything from that night and I’m ok with it. Life, in general, was pretty blurry for a few weeks, and not remembering my moments of psychological fragility is ok with me.

Fast forward a week and a half I met with my new doctor to go over my lab results and obtain a full physical. I was super anxious to hear his thoughts and get the final yay or nay on my status, but first I had to sit through a gamete of prods and pressures to hit the finish line. The worst of all these tests was the Spirometry test. This test assesses your lung function and capacity by having you breathe out into a tube. I sucked at this test and could not do it properly. I could tell that Ryan was becoming irked by this and politely apologized, and his response (classically gay) was “ Oh, I’m not mad at you. It’s just that there are other things I NEED to be doing, other than watch you breathe.” Thanks a lot douchebag, maybe you should wear tighter white denim to work next time?

This test indicated, assuming I did it right, that I had the lungs of a 68 year old. This seemed pretty unlikely because even though I smoke cigarettes I try to combat this with routine cardiovascular exercise, so I'm just blaming Ryan for skewed results.
After Ryan huffed out of the room the doctor came in to assess me in my very fashionable blue paper gown. He listened to my heart, looked in my ears and then it was time to look in my eyes. Now I have awful vision, like without any kind of corrective lens I'm technically legally blind (I'm still waiting on my seeing eye dog), so the doctor was having a hard time seeing into my eyeball. It was during this examination that his genitals brushed against my thigh and well he was aroused. Either that or he had a cigar in his pocket. I didn't really know what to do at this point. I mean I was attracted to him, I mean I routinely went for the "Daddy" type, but this was my doctor and I didn't even know his favorite color, so I just choked it up to another hilarious life experience.

After the examination the doctor took me into a separate room and we were going to redo the rapid test. It was the only test that I had yet to test negative to, and I guess in many way this would finalize my negativity. The Little Imp, Ryan, came in and administered the test, and what seemed like a billion years later my doctor came in to give me the good news that it too came back negative. It was an amazing moment and I felt like so much weight was lifted off my shoulders. I spent the car ride home calling my friends and telling them the good news.

This experience was a huge emotional rollercoaster and something that I will never forget. It changed the way that I think and feel about HIV/AIDS, casual sex, and the way I treat stigmatized people. I definitely think harder about who I sleep with and value sex more than I used too. I realized I didn't really value sex at all as of the summer of 2014, and that was something my younger self would have been disappointed in. With all that being said I am four months out from this false positive and I'm happy, healthy, and definitely wiser. I don't know that I'd want to do it again, but I can say for sure that I've learned from it.