–“The World I Used to Be Afraid Of” by Blanche

Some of the first gay films I ever saw dealt also with the subject of the early days of HIV/AIDS, films like Longtime Companion, Angels In America, and Love! Valour! Compassion!, and Jeffrey (this still continues today with viewings of The Witnesses, Parting Glances, and The Living End). I was a confused new teenager with cable and insomnia, so I would stay up and watch anything that had to do with homosexuality (with a particular fixation on gay men, even then I felt more akin to them than to lesbians). It just happened that most of the films I saw were a little before my time.

I am pretty fresh and sheltered when it comes to the history and realities of HIV/AIDS in our community; I wasn’t born until the early 90’s, have almost always lived in suburbia, and have never known anyone who has HIV/AIDs, let alone died from it.  According to Larry Kramer, that puts me in the league of the lazy, uneducated gays of my generation by default (after he admonishes me for calling myself queer).  However, I strive to be neither purposefully ignorant nor excessively fearful.

Dame, die sich die Hände wäscht by Gerard ter Borch, taken from Wikimedia Commons

As I try to enter the world of dating and sex, I find myself periodically asking the question, “Would I date someone who was positive?” “Would I still hook up with them after they told me?” Looking at the OkCupid and ManHunt profiles of cute guys who are brave enough to clearly admit their status in their profiles (because, it is hard to be upfront about things that are often considered “less than ideal”), it certainly doesn’t rule them out in my mind. If you want to be ruled out in my book then show an open dislike for intellectual pursuits or put something along the lines of “no fats or flamers” in your profile.

There is definitely still a lot of unfair treatment and generalizations made. I can relate in more than one way to being stigmatized for a medical issue and have it become an automatic disqualifier in people’s eyes. There is this judgment that you can see pass through people’s eyes, and often that appalling silence that follows or that damn “Oh…” followed by the silence and judgment.  I don’t have HIV/AIDS, so I cannot fully understand, but I’d like to think I can at least make an effort not to be prejudiced despite my unintentionally sheltered upbringing.

It is really interesting hearing what my peers think about HIV and people who happen to have it.  For the most part, it seems more like a punchline to them than anything else.  With the exception of some of the social justice types with their sights firmly set on Africa and Bono, it seems to have disappeared from the mindset of those around me except in the form of a joke or an eyeroll when adults lecture about the importance of protection.  Our thoughts seem so separate from the interpersonal side of things.  I wonder what their responses would be if I asked, “Would date someone who was positive?” If it is anything like the responses I hear from many people about the question, “Would you date someone who is transgender?”, then clearly we have some things we need to talk and think about these matters on a personal, human level rather than technical terms and afterschool specials.

As persons who identify as LGBT, much of our struggle in life is to feel comfortable in our own skin. We come out of the closet to our loved ones as an act of accepting who we are as complete individuals and having others accept us. So why then are so many gay men electing to have cosmetic surgery to alter their appearance? Beyond the wallet, what is the cost of plastic surgery on the body, mind, and soul?

Many of us spend countless hours in the gym toning and sculpting our bodies, while others willfully exist as is, content with what they’ve been dealt. The number of gay men who have had cosmetic surgical procedures is steadily growing according to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons. In 2011, liposuction was one of the top five cosmetic procedures in America; while Botox injections are number one. The stigma surrounding these procedures seems to have melted away over the past ten years. Reality shows revolving around plastic surgery have almost glorified the practice. Is it self-mutilation or self-improvement?

People alter their appearances for many reasons. Some hope to gain an edge in the workplace by looking younger, some are trying to mirror media constructs, and yet others feel they just need that extra boost of confidence. Whatever the reason, one must question whether spending the money will yield long-term results or be a temporary fix. We will all age eventually, and while some try to escape it by morphing themselves into a self-proclaimed Adonis, others may find the perfect balance and ideally achieve the extended longevity they desire.

Not all procedures are as effortless as implants or a nose job. Many who partake in liposuction to loose a few extra pounds must also make a life change to keep the weight off. For those looking for the easy solution plastic surgery might be the way but will you be truly happy or just deeper in debt? Until we find the actual fountain of youth we’ll just have to work with what we have available.

Have you considered plastic surgery, and if so, what do you hope to achieve? How much does liposuction cost? Click here to see if it’s in your budget!

Several years ago, I told someone that I was HIV positive before I agreed to his invitation for a date. “Yeah, I know,” he casually replied, and then he looked a little embarrassed, as if he shouldn’t have said it. It was too late, of course; I knew exactly what he meant. He knew my HIV status because of the appearance of my face.

I was crestfallen, and felt something close to shame, certainly embarrassment. Why is it that I can produce this blog, proudly march with HIV POSITIVE on my t-shirt in gay parades, and even write a book about coming of age during the dawn of AIDS — but I get upset if someone can tell I’m positive by how I look?

When I choose to disclose, privately or publicly, it’s on my terms. I choose how and when to tell you. I want you to know.

Facial wasting (known as lipodystrophy) takes that choice away. It’s as if the disease is intruding, is taking the upper hand somehow, and worse, taking away my decision about when and to whom I disclose my status. And as much as I want to claim “Most Out Poz Guy Ever,” I don’t like wearing HIV across my face.

Most of us know “the look.” It’s the telltale gullies and sunken cheeks associated with longtime HIV infection or (more likely) medications (right). Many of my friends and colleagues in this struggle suffer from it, and they may either be comfortable with it, proud of it as a badge of honor, or simply resigned to it. I salute us all, whether our features tells our HIV story or not. But meanwhile, I’ll do what I can to wipe that shit off my face.

A few years ago I visited Dr. Gerald Pierone in Vero Beach, Florida (regarded as the leading expert in fillers and one of the Ask the Experts team at TheBody.com), and I documented that first visit and my facial filler treatments in a video blog, Treating My Facial Wasting(left). In that video I focused on my own attitudes — Was I ashamed? Trying to look younger? Simply vain? — and on the procedure process itself. Nearly a year later I revisited Dr. Pierone and got another treatment and documented it in my video blog, A Facial Wasting Update.

In this video episode of My Fabulous Disease, I revisit Dr. Pierone for a new treatment with the facial filler products Sculptra and Radiesse. While I’m there, I learn enough aboutArtefill, the only FDA approved permanent facial filler, to make me strongly consider the product the next time my face needs fluffing.

This video also focuses on very specific information about the actual costs of facial filler treatment. Both Sculptra and Radiesse have patient assistance programs that significantly reduce the cost of the medication, but you still need to pay the physician to do the procedure, and that price can vary. TheBody.com has a great article that outlines all the facial filler choices and how much they cost.

Tip: don’t allow any street corner vendor (or gym or even doctor office) to inject stuff into your face. Do some research and above all, find a physician who has done this many, many times (over 500 would be a good start). Be a smart shopper and empowered patient and ask about their experience level first.

I hope you find the video helpful and that you aren’t too afraid of needles!

In the meantime, my friends, please be well.

I’m having an identity crisis. Am I an AIDS activist, ready to question authority and demand high standards of service for those living with HIV/AIDS? Or am I a “resource” for the pharmaceutical industry, so that they might craft more effective community programs that will lead AIDS patients to “care.”

And that care, no matter how they frame it or how sunny the smiles of their community liaisons, ideally would lead patients to their HIV drug product line.

In this video episode of My Fabulous Disease, I take you along to a community advisory board meeting (CAB) for HIV drug manufacturer Janssen Therapeutics, formerly known as Tibotec. There was something about the cordial way in which the invited HIV advocates provided helpful feedback to the pharmaceutical executives that felt… a little strange.

Although I have agreed to keep the particulars of the meeting private, I will say that there were no fireworks on display – or any real antagonism to speak of. We advocates (“activists” seems like too strong a word) offered our best advice to Janssen, they appreciated it very much, lunch was served, and everyone left happy.

And I felt as if I had failed somehow. I had allowed the topics to be entirely in the hands of our hosts, and any issues that deserved discussion but were not on our elegantly typed agenda – educating patients about treatment risks, or, God forbid, drug pricing – were never discussed. I didn’t feel like much of an activist. I felt like a focus group member.

It’s very possible that my attitude here is outdated. In the early days, we took to the streets because societal apathy and ignorance demanded it. We protested and threw red paint and otherwise shamed the pharmaceuticals into better medications, broader access and more community involvement. Those battles were waged (and largely succeeded) many years ago, while pharma has come through with an astounding arsenal of successful HIV medications. Why does something deep inside me resist civil dialogue that advances our mutual interests? Am I living in the past, being an activist without a cause?

Clearly, we have some common goals, chief among them HIV testing and access to treatment. And pharma has resources that community organizations could only dream of, so advising them on creating the best campaigns possible (to get tested, to “get into care”) makes sense. So why was I so ambivalent?

Activism should make people uncomfortable. Just ask Larry Kramer. I watched the late, great Martin Delaney, founder of Project Inform, demand in similar meetings that more be done in terms of drug efficacy and proper data and experimental drug access. He made me very uncomfortable and I was on his side. Martin usually got what he wanted. And he wanted it for you and me.

At least, through this video, I get an opportunity to discuss some pressing concerns not covered in the community meeting. I question some basic assumptions, such as whether our hard work on the ADAP crisis is pulling attention and resources from the “big picture” of pharma drug pricing and generics, and I offer an indictment of our U.S. health care system for good measure.

There are still confrontations to have and tough arguments to make, and the agendas of advocates and pharma alike should always be questioned.

It just might be a little uncomfortable.

Storytelling is a crucial part of our culture, and not simply for entertainment value. Sharing our stories can heal our pain, educate others, and help us relive our happiest triumphs.

This video is quite simple, really. One man explains to you what happened to him, from becoming one of the first AIDS patients in San Francisco to his life today in the service of others with HIV. Dab Garner has clearly put things into perspective, and his calm manner shows a man at peace with his fate, his survival, and the ghosts around him.

It’s an amazing story, actually. And considering the importance of passing our history down to younger people, it might not be a bad idea to share this video with someone you know, maybe even someone under 35 years old.

But for now, let’s allow Dab Garner to simply speak for himself.

Thanks for watching, and please be well.

Mark

I really shouldn’t be trusted. That’s the problem with drug addicts like me. We’ve protected our addiction through a myriad of lies and manipulations for so long that being truly honest again is like learning a foreign language from scratch. So when, at long last, my recovery has convinced me that honesty is the only thing that can save my life, I shouldn’t be surprised that my friends are reluctant to believe me.

Their skepticism is well founded. My drug addiction perverted every value I hold dear, and truthfulness was the first to be abandoned. But becoming a habitual liar was only the beginning. As a gay man I worked tirelessly through the 1980’s directing AIDS agencies and advocating HIV education. Despair was a daily companion, and I witnessed the death of friends in manners too gruesome to be described. When I became HIV positive during those early years, every loss of a friend, every visit to intensive care, was like watching my own morbid future.

But once my addiction to crystal methamphetamine took hold by the late 1990’s, caring for my community or even myself had become unaffordable luxuries. The drug, a common presence on the dance floors I once enjoyed, had tightened its hold on me. I was no longer satisfied with occasional weekend use and pursued meth with a vigor unmatched by my devotion to AIDS causes.

This onetime HIV educator became a selfish addict who engaged in perilous drug deals and even riskier sex. The sad irony escaped me, however, as I continued down my destructive path, even contracting Hepatitis C through needles and enduring chemotherapy to treat it. All the while, my addiction raged on.

My experience isn’t unique and widespread meth abuse has been brewing in other populations for some time. But something about its peculiar grip on gay men feels all too familiar, like a dreadful echo of what we suffered a generation ago. And the implications have me worried.

Most of my peers remember what it was like in the early 1980’s, when friends stopped calling or simply died over the weekend. The nightclubs were cloaked in sadness and had a vaguely sinister vibe. Empty desks at work meant someone was mysteriously sick again. During those years of “gay cancer,” we were too petrified to acknowledge the coming storm.

Today those ominous signs have returned, along with the helpless wish that things will improve if only we don’t speak too loudly about it. But rather than AIDS picking off my friends with random cruelty, meth addiction is the culprit. And this time, it is unlikely our community emergency will have ribbons and walk-a-thons or attract research dollars. Society’s sympathy for men dying from drugs is quantitatively less than dying of a sexually transmitted disease. This really is a plague of our own design.

Recovery centers are teeming with gay men battling meth addiction, and the drug has a very tight, culturally specific hold on them. It has surpassed other illegal substances as the drug of choice among gay users. There is something about the drug’s mystique as a sexual liberator that appeals to men who are so often judged by their sexuality. Just as I once did, countless men are abandoning their relationships, their careers and their personal dignity in pursuit of the insidious thrill the drug promises and never delivers.

And meth appears to be mocking my community’s long struggle to turn a corner on the AIDS epidemic. HIV testing sites claim that meth users are five times more likely to test positive for the virus than non-users.

How to combat the growing threat has this activist at a loss. Gay men know we had compelling prevention campaigns for HIV in the early days. They were called funerals. But changing an addict’s behavior is a much more ambitious challenge than changing basic sexual practices.

It was my goal to bring attention to this crisis when I agreed to appear in a recent documentary about gay men and methamphetamine (Todd Ahlberg’s startling “Meth”). In the film, I represent the voice of reason, the recovering addict remarking on what a sad scourge the drug has become. Only after the documentary was produced did I admit to anyone that I had relapsed prior to filming and had stopped using meth only hours before the camera crew arrived. Once again, my actions trumped my ideals.

It has been baffling to find myself literally saying one thing and doing another. The facts don’t lie: I have been working towards recovery for five years and my last relapse was only four months ago. The eight years I spend addicted to meth will leave scars. Thank God for the recovering addicts I have met along the way, who have shown me that long term success is possible if I will just “get honest” and hold myself accountable. My personal survival is the job at hand.

That’s tough for a former community leader to accept. I want to sound the alarm, organize a response, and join the growing chorus of gay men shedding light on our shameful secret. But how can I urge others to practice honesty when it has eluded me again and again? And what did the AIDS crisis teach me, what did the promises to honor the lives of so many dead friends mean, when I rewarded my miraculous survival by sticking needles in my arm?

I better sit this one out. The preciousness of life itself, and my own in particular, is a lesson I should have learned while caring for my friends dying of AIDS. It has taken a battle with an equally cunning adversary for that lesson to finally sink in.

(This piece appeared on Newsweek.com on November 28, 2007. My struggle with crystal methamphetamine continued, until finally getting clean and sober in recovery on January 1, 2009. — Mark)

The word he meant was different: crazy. Defined as “mentally deranged, esp. as manifested in a wild or aggressive way.” A word many of us toss around without thinking. “My ex-girlfriend is crazy! She called five times a day convinced I was cheating.” “That party was crazy! I had six shots of tequila.” “My friends acting crazy. I think he went off his meds.”

I work with adults who are developmentally disabled. In this job I do end up seeing some eccentric folks–from questions about if the upstairs neighbors are trying to poison someone through the stove, to lighter things like talking about how awesome primary colors are (OMG. And don’t get us started about how if you mix primary colors they become secondary colors!)

We use the word crazy as a put down when someone does something that we view as odd, unreasonable, or inappropriate. Using the word crazy stigmatizes an action. (In the examples above, excessive phone calls, drinking too much/drunken debauchery, and going off prescription medication possibly resulting in an unstable individual.)

When someone says something that seems ridiculous to us, our response can be important to helping that person feel either safe or isolated–usually in the more serious situations, not the joking around ones. Example: if I had said to my client who was concerned that her upstairs neighbor is posioning her through the stove–”You’re crazy! Be quiet. Did you take your medicine?” versus “Is there any particular reason you feel that way? I’m sure your neighbor is just cooking on his stove and the ventilator is making noise. No one is trying to hurt you. Let’s brainstorm some ways that you can feel safe.” The first response would have diminished her concern and shut down communication. The second response I hoped and meant to validate her feelings and come up with a solution to make her feel safe.

Us queer folks have higher levels of depression, anxiety, and suicide. Luckily, we’ve started dialogue on suicide through organizations like the Trevor Project, and projects like It Gets Better. Let’s work on de-stigmatizing depression, anxiety, and other mental health concerns as well. Have you ever felt stigma for a mental health minority status? Have any TNGers reclaimed the word crazy?

This is directed to HIV negative gay men. Listen carefully. This is your time.

I’ve lived with HIV more than half my life, and people often praise me far more than I deserve, simply for surviving. They use words like brave and courageous.

You know what takes courage? Getting an HIV test every few months. You, waiting nervously while your most personal sexual choices are literally being tested, waiting to find out if you’ve been good – or if you’re going to pay for a single lapse in judgment by testing positive, when the look on the faces of your friends will say you should have known better.

I have no idea what that must be like. I took the test over 25 years ago. The positive result was traumatic, no doubt about it, and I soldiered on during some awfully frightening times. But I have a significant psychological advantage over my HIV negative friends: I only took that damn test once.

During all these years, I’ve acted irresponsibly at times or taken chances I hadn’t intended. But there has been no further judgment from a blood test. That reckoning was faced long ago.

But you – whether you have been sexually active for a year or a decade – have very likely faced some tough choices and behaved wisely. You keep doing the right thing.

This is your time. The word courageous is for you.

If you don’t define yourself, in large part, by the fact you are HIV negative, start now. It is your accomplishment. It says you are taking care. And it says you are eligible to participate in HIV vaccine trials or mentor someone else trying to remain negative.

There is ongoing research now that is focused on HIV negative men like you. Exciting new studies are investigating drugs to prevent infection after something risky has occurred, while other studies have shown promise for a drug regimen that might block infection before it happens.

And right now there are vaccine trials waiting for men like you to help find the ultimate weapon against HIV. They need volunteers, badly.

This is your time. This research is about you. This call to action is for you.

I can already hear the rumblings on both sides of the viral divide. People are so quick to take offense, so afraid of being misunderstood, of being labeled or blamed or ostracized.

My fellow positive brothers are so bruised by stigma that it can be hard for them to lift you up. They’ve been rejected by you. They don’t like hearing “maybe we should just be friends” and they don’t like seeing “UB2” in your online profile. They might be positive as a result of one heated mistake, or due to sexual assault, or by trusting (or loving) the wrong person — and they deeply resent feeling judged.

Maybe they think your negative status is the result of pure luck, or that you don’t like anal intercourse, or you’re lying.

Meanwhile, your sacrifices go unrecognized. You’ve seen some positive friends take early disability, hang out at the gym and get help with the rent. They receive so much support and empathy that it must feel like there isn’t much left for you. Every year we all swarm the streets for the AIDS Walk, and you can’t help but wonder if your parade will ever arrive.

These grievances and resentments give me a headache. It doesn’t matter much to me who is most injured. How infinite is our compassion for one another? I don’t care anymore who gets what. What matters most is who does what.

This is your time. This truce, this call to a higher purpose, is for you.

You are fully human, like everyone else, my friend. You are courageous, afraid, selfish and compassionate. You make difficult choices and you make mistakes. And we need you so very badly.

Thank God for you. This is your time.

This piece was written as part of the GA Voice commemoration of 30 years of HIV/AIDS. I was honored to contribute to their special issue. — Mark

Summer is approaching and vacation plans are being made – but have you ever considered a retreat or getaway with other people living with HIV/AIDS?

It might sound odd to seek out a vacation event just for people with HIV. For me, my status is only a part of who I am, and I’ve gotten pretty good at disclosing when I need to. But for many of us it’s tough getting past that hurdle. So joining a group of others living with HIV might be a fun solution if you’re looking to make friends with other people living with HIV and build your support network.

Whether roughing it in the great outdoors or getting pampered on a cruise ship, there’s a growing number of options. Here’s a look at just a few.

The HIV Cruise Retreat. Okay, we’ll start with kind of a fancy one, because I’ve actually participated in this one and I’ll go again this year.

Openly HIV+ travel agent Paul Stalbaum organizes this cruise each Fall to the Caribbean, and I had a blast last year – over 200 people, mostly gay men, drop all the usual gay bar posing and really let themselves enjoy the fellowship and exotic locales. It’s not cheap – cabins start in the $700 range for a full week cruise. Note: I’m not paid or compensated for plugging this cruise; I really did have a fantastic time last year.

The HIV Campground Project promotes social camping events at a variety of locations around the country, usually weekend retreats at campgrounds for gay men.

Their web site has information but I found their Facebook page (HIV Camp) to be more useful. Various retreats range in costs from FREE to $100 or so, and based on their web site (and the foam party pic shown), they’re looking to attract the party hearty crowd.

For women who can travel to the Oakland, California area, an organization known asWORLD (Woman Organized to Respond to Life Threatening Illness) attracts women from across the country to their retreats held twice a year.

The retreat itself will only cost a first-time attendee $40, and this is often offset through scholarships. Each 3-day retreat provides up to 40 women with a holistic experience that includes treatment education workshops, stress management, art activities, support groups, safer sex information, and discussions on topics including disclosure and stigma.

I must say I am intrigued by Colorado Manreach, a community building organization that hosts a series of retreats throughout the year in “all four corners” of Colorado for gay men.

The pictures I’ve seen show some awesome scenery and what appears to be handsome, rugged men enjoying themselves. What a great getaway this would be! Both HIV positive and negative men are welcome, and registration is free (a donation of $50 per day is requested). The retreats are produced for men in rural areas of Colorado, but Manreach has welcomed guests from neighboring states as well.

But if you love Colorado, there’s more! The purpose of the HIV Retreat at Shadowcliff is to offer a proactive environment where poz folks can learn skills in a setting of friendship, safety and acceptance… by providing an affordable 3-day mountain getaway. Not to mention it’s in an awesome setting with a full agenda of educational, social, and other activities.

Shadowcliff (left) has two retreats coming this year, with costs ranging from $80-90 discountedfees to a full price up to $195. Who knew Colorado was the place for poz retreats, huh?

If anyone has participated in one of the retreats of vacations I’ve mentioned, you really must give me the scoop! I’ll look forward to your posted comments and feedback — and other ideas I may have neglected to mention.

For a good resource of ongoing retreats, travel tips, and up-to-date information on international travel restrictions for people with HIV/AIDS, check out HIV Travel Restrictions and Retreats, or browse their Facebook page.

And let us not forget, there are a multitude of opportunities to make friends through online communities, especially if you’re unable to travel to one of these retreats. Besides the usual dating (and hook-up) web sites, my favorite social online network is POZIAM, a free site devoted to creating a non-sexual, social environment for men and women living with HIV. You’ll find chat rooms, pictures and video of events, and plenty of friendly and supportive online members.

As always, my friends, please be well.

Mark

Tracy asks sexual partners to sign a contract before getting intimate, c. Julie Turkewitz for Housing Works

Crossposted from Housing Works with permission from Julie Turkewitz.

Julie Turkewitz is a writer and photographer living in Brooklyn. She reports on HIV and AIDS issues for a blog sponsored by the NYC-based nonprofit Housing Works. When she’s not doing that, she’s a freelance journalist. Her photography and writing have appeared in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Baltimore Sun and Time Out Buenos Aires, among other publications.

Find the original post here.

*****

For Tracy Johnson, 22 and HIV-positive, romance often begins at a karaoke bar. There’s music, conversation and innocent touching. He’s at ease until it’s time for the first kiss — that’s when he leans in, pulls out the document and asks the object of his affection to sign, indicating he’s shared that he has HIV.

That piece of paper, he believes, could save him from years behind bars if a partner ever alleges that he didn’t disclose his status. He carries it everywhere.

“I was scared,” said Johnson, a medical assistant and motivational speaker from Cleveland. He typed up the document after seeing a string of media reports about judges throwing HIV-positive Ohio residents into prison for non-disclosure. “I’m young, I don’t want to go to jail, so I want to cover myself at all angles.”

State laws that penalize non-disclosure of HIV status to a sex partner have become increasingly worrisome to people living with the virus. Since 2008, there have been more than 100 HIV-related prosecutions in the United States, according to the Center for HIV Law and Policy. Punishments range from a fine to up to 40 years in prison.

As a result, people like Johnson, who found out he was HIV-positive at age 15, are desperately seeking ways to document that they have disclosed their status to a partner.

Johnson’s Ohio is particularly prone to punishing people for non-disclosure. It’s a felony there to engage in any sex act—that includes partner play with sex toys — before telling a person you are HIV positive. Since 2008, police have made at least 27 arrests for not sharing HIV status. One Ohio man is serving 40 years on charges of failing to tell his girlfriend he has HIV.

“I anticipate we will see more people using these documents,” said Todd Heywood, a Michigan-based journalist who covers criminal cases involving HIV for the American Independent News Network. He’s also HIV-positive. To guard against a partner who later claims he never shared his status, Heywood saves internet chats where he’s spoken about his HIV.

“Most of us are caring, law-abiding human beings who want to be good citizens. So we’re stuck in that rock and hard place, where we have to figure out, ‘How do I prove I didn’t break that law?’ . . . It really is bizarre what we have to go through to protect ourselves.”

Sean Strub, the founder of POZ magazine, has been interviewing HIV-positive people since 1983. Increasingly, he said, he’s hearing of people who make conscious efforts to document disclosure. They save a chat string or include their HIV status in an online dating profile. Others bring a partner to doctor’s appointment to demonstrate the partner knows about his or her status.

No real protection

It’s unclear, however, if any of these measures would hold up in court to prove an individual has shared HIV status.

René Bennett-Carlson is an attorney at the Center for HIV Law and Policy. She knows of at least one case where documentation saved a man from prosecution: He was able to present police with text messages demonstrating his partner knew he had HIV.

But she has yet to see a case where an HIV-positive person presented a contract like Tracy’s proving he’d disclosed his status. While she said it’s “logical” that a court would accept such a contract, she can’t be certain.

Heywood has been watching HIV non-disclosure cases closely, and he said there’s no guarantee Tracy’s document protects him. A third party is not present to witness the signing. A prosecutor could, therefore, allege that the document was forged or that the sexual partner was under the influence during the act.

Individuals across the U.S. are at risk for prosecution: 34 states have laws that specifically punish not sharing HIV status before sex, and the U.S. prosecutes more HIV-positive people than any other country in the world.

Laws that punish non-disclosure of HIV status are typically put in place by public health officials seeking to prevent the spread of the virus. In practice, however, these laws undermine public health, discouraging testing and exacerbating stigma. They’ve been condemned by a wide range of human rights and health organizations, including the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights. The President’s own National HIV/AIDS Strategy calls for a serious review of their efficacy.

These laws also make HIV-positive people extremely vulnerable to criminal prosecution. When a partner accuses an person of not disclosing, the HIV-positive individual has just one defense: Provide some proof of disclosure.

But most discussions about sexually transmitted diseases occur in private, and proof of disclosure is sometimes impossible to produce. Once a relationship goes sour, HIV-positive people can be at the mercy of embittered partners who can go to police to claim they didn’t know a person’s status.

While there’s no definitive way to protect oneself from criminal prosecution, Bennett-Carlson is urging people to document HIV disclosure in every way possible.

“This is the reality in our criminal justice system, unfortunately,” she said. “I think what Tracy’s doing is very interesting, and with these criminal prosecutions like they are, maybe more people will start having others sign contracts.”

Heywood is entertaining a more permanent way to prove he shared his HIV status. “I half joke about getting a bio hazard tattoo in my tramp stamp area,” he said. “Just so I could stand up in court and say, ‘How could he miss it?’”

Photo by Julie Turkewitz for Housing Works.

Crossposted with permission. View the original article here.

I suppose it was only a matter of time before HIV fitness guru and hottie Nelson Vergel and I ended up in bed together. After rummaging through my kitchen in a video blog about healthy eating, and then flexing his biceps at the gym when he instructed me on weight training, it really was more than he could bear. The man is only human, after all.

Alas, our queen-sized romp which opens this video was clothed, comical, and quite chaste. But it was the perfect place to start a blog about erectile dysfunction (E.D.), testosterone replacement, and how all of this affects people living with HIV/AIDS.

You’re about to get a big education on erections. Well, on the lack thereof, to be precise. The content isn’t porn but it is very adult. If your workplace wasn’t a great place to watch my recent video tour of a poz sex club, then you’ll probably want to catch this one at home, too. Just don’t miss this impotent information. Sorry, couldn’t resist.

Besides writing his new book, Testosterone: A Man’s Guide, Nelson has gathered an impressive amount of information on what causes E.D., what the treatment options are, and what issues become a factor when you throw HIV into the mix. (I did some research of my own, but all I found was a hilarious candid camera video about an “erection spray” that has immediate, sizable results.)

Every treatment and factoid on E.D. is here: pills, pumps and prosthetics (oh my!). Mostly, though, just hearing Nelson repeatedly say “erectile” in his adorable Venezuelan accent is worth the ten minutes it takes to watch this.

Nelson mentions some great resources and here are some links. His book is available on Amazon, his non-profit is known asPowerUSA and has a web site of its own, and he offers resources on identifying a doctor familiar with testosterone replacement on his web page devoted to the topic.

Nelson is also available to answer your questions on TheBody.com, where he serves as their fitness and nutrition guru in the “Ask the Experts” forum.

As always, thanks for visiting. It will be interesting to see how many of you “share” this link. Will it be more, because it’s a sexy topic, or less, because it’s also an uncomfortable one? We’ll see!

Please be well,
Mark

Check out Domina Vontana’s weekly column, Goddess Files, every Wednesday at 2 p.m.

Personal lubricants are an essential, but often misunderstood aspect of the sexual experience. Until this year I thought of lube as something I needed for the dungeon, not for my bedroom. Working at Lotus Blooms has changed all that. Now I understand that using lube is normal and I’m glad to know there are a variety of types to choose from. So many in fact that I think an explanation is in order. Lubes add variety to love making and give couples more choices about how they want to be together.

Lubricants now come in three basic formulas — water, silicone or a hybrid of both. Mixing silicone and water based lubes is a recent development. Water lubes are enjoyed for their natural feeling. Silicone lubes last longer but are often more obvious when being used because the feeling isn’t quite as natural as the water formulas. Hybrid lubes that contain both water and silicone are an effort to bring together the best qualities of both formulas. The hybrids last longer than just plain water based lubricants, but not as long as a pure silicone formulas and they provide a more natural feeling, like the water based formulas.

Organic lubes are another recent development. The first time I heard of such a thing was last April at the Texas Burlesque Festival in Austin. The cigarette girl was selling organic lube off the tray hanging from her neck. That was my first clue that there was now more to this lube thing than just KY and Crisco — or worst of all, Astroglide. Two of my favorite suppliers in this category are Sliquid Organics and Blossoms Organics. Both are water based lubes. Sliquids makes an original, warming, gel and hybrid. The warming formula has a touch of menthol and the gel is a little thicker than the original formula – good for anal. The Hybrid contains about 13 percent silicone and it was the first bottle of lube I ever bought for my bedroom.

When purchasing lubes or any personal product it’s important to read labels. The adult novelty industry is not regulated by the FDA. For that reason manufacturers can put anything they want in your products and they do. If it’s cheap, old or smells strong, put it back on the shelf. Never purchase a lube that contains parabens or glycerin. Ladies in particular need to avoid anything with glycerin, it’s gluclose which is sugar and it’s one of the main causes of urinary tract infections. Bacteria feed off the sugars and reproduce rapidly and this causes the infection. Flavored lubes in particular are usually full of glucose.

Often when at work I am asked by customers if there is one oil or lube that can do it all. They want something that will work for love making, massage, and taste good. It’s nearly impossible to find a body-safe quality product that can do so many different things. Most good lubes are going to be nearly tasteless and odorless so forget about the flavored route unless you want a product specifically for oral. If what you want is a lube that’s good for sex and massage, try a silicone based formula like Slquids Silver. It’s an awesome little product that you can put anywhere and enjoy for a long, slick rub or ride. Generally speaking, an item labeled “massage oil” is not meant for use for lubrication.

One of the old myths about sex toys and lubricants is that you can’t use silicone lubes with silicone toys. This used to be more accurate than it is now. Recent developments in the industry including the reduction of latex toys and an increase in the quality of silicone used (often surgical grade) means that proper care of your body, toy and lube is generally enough to keep it all working safely together. Hybrid lubes are more evidence to the fact that as customers begin to demand better products and take ownership of their sexual well being, the market is rapidly expanding to meet their demands. If you want to err on the side of caution, sure use only water based lubes with your silicone toys. But if you want a hybrid, don’t be scared to use it just because your toy is silicone.

Social Security, arguably the most popular social program in United States history, began way back in 1935 as a signature part of Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal. It was the end result of years of competing ideas about what a program of social insurance would look like for the United States – a country that had rapidly changed in the modern industrial era.

The idea was that Social Security would address the permanent problem of economic security for the elderly by creating a work-related, contributory system. Workers would provide for their own future benefits through taxes paid while employed. According to the Social Security Administration, it was an “alternative both to reliance on welfare and to radical changes in our capitalist system. In the context of its time, it can be seen as a moderately conservative, yet activist, response to the challenges of the Depression.”

Over the last thirty years, in anticipation of the needs of the Baby Boomer generation (hello, Daddies!), Social Security has taken in much more than it has paid out. Now that’s changing as the Boom generation retires.

How do you feel about Social Security? Do you think it’s in trouble, like some conservatives would have you believe, or do you think it’s in fine shape, as progressives usually point out? Hunters, do you worry there will be no benefits for you when you get older?

Most politicians agree that some changes have to be made to the program for it to last. Former President Bush wanted to invest Social Security money in the stock market, as opposed to its current investment in bonds. Do you think that would have been, or is, a good idea? As we well know, markets don’t always go up. How about a cap on contributions? Right now, only the first $106,800 of income is subject to Social Security tax. Should those earning higher incomes pay more?

Should “rich” retirees get lower benefits? “Means testing” indicates that if your income were already high enough your Social Security benefit would be reduced. Is this fair to people who have been paying into the system all their working lives?

Finally, what about raising the retirement age? For me, it’s 66 years and two months for full benefits, though I, like everyone else, can start taking benefits at 62. People are living much longer than they did in 1935. However, there are many considerations other than life expectancy that figure into whether or not someone should continue working past a certain age.

I’d like to ask the other Daddies (Hunters too!) how they plan to fund their older years. For me, it’s likely a mixture of a small pension from a company I worked for (if it’s still around), IRA (unless the market crashes again), and Social Security (keeping my fingers crossed). I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to (or want to) “retire” in the traditional sense of the word, but I don’t want to have to work till the day I drop dead, either.

Crossposted with permission from Mark S King

There is a folder, tucked within a folder, buried deep in my computer files. I shouldn’t be looking at its contents, yet I can’t bring myself to delete it altogether. It is labeled MARCUS, and inside the folder is my disease.

During my years of crystal meth addiction I went by the name of Marcus, at least to dealers and tricks and fellow addicts. It helped me determine who was calling my cell phone – those calling for Mark or Marcus usually had very different agendas – and Marcus even became an alternate persona as my drug addiction progressed.

When partying as Marcus, I felt confident and aloof. I took awful chances. I never met a strobe light I didn’t like or a box on a dance floor I wouldn’t jump on. A steroid-crazed gym regimen and the dehydration of drug abuse transformed my body into the low fat, pumped up gay ideal.

Photographs of that body, in full, preening strut, are the contents of the MARCUS folder. The pictures were my calling card for online sex-and-drug pursuits. They suggest nudity but are cropped modestly – although God knows that much more damning images of me surely exist in the dark corners of cyberspace.

In one of the few pictures showing my face, I stand under a running shower – a pitiful Playgirl pose, spray nozzle in hand – with a blank face and shipwrecked eyes. The only emotion on display, just around the edges, is a dull fear.

My life was precisely as pictured. It wouldn’t be long before my drug use trumped my gym schedule, and my status in online chat rooms devolved from intriguing hottie to that crazy mess that doesn’t look like his pictures.

Since then, my recovery from drug addiction has helped me understand that the Gay Strut is key to my disease. It is a sly porthole back to raging insanity.

Explaining all this feels idiotic. What vanity I possess, asking you to gaze upon my former, overwrought beauty as I complain about the consequences. It feels like an invitation to tell me how much healthier I look now, or that recovery is “an inside job.” I know this. I’m just sharing the curious road that got me here.

My recovery depends on healing my mind, body and spirit. At the moment I’m two out of three.

My spirit is happy today. My smiles are joyful and plentiful. My mind is clear, although I don’t kid myself, there are remnants of a brain pickled in methamphetamine for many years. But healing is underway, and my mind and spirit are enjoying the process.

Only my body lags behind, injured, resentful, and suspicious of the path to well being. I’m sedentary and stubborn. I relate being physically fit with something traumatic that once hounded and eventually ruined me.

I want to be healthier, and to control my weight and rising cholesterol. I need to fix this, I tell myself, but I’m afraid to fix this. There’s the potential that I’ll go back to a lifestyle more horrible than my expanding waistline.

It’s good to get in shape again, I tell myself with sincere intentions. The treadmill is really taking off the pounds and I should start weight lifting again and hot damn, that muscle recall really works just look at my arms and I should buy new tank tops and work out even harder and get steroids prescribed again and what’s wrong with hanging out at a bar shirtless and shooting pool and sure I’ll do one hit of that, thanks, and man this body of mine would look damn hot at a sex party right now and who’s your dealer and do you have needles…?

Getting back in shape is an easy call. Except my mind puts physical fitness on the same crazy train as my drug addiction.

There is a solution. There always is. And I’m working on it. The fact I acknowledge my insanity is a good start. Now I can begin the process of teaching my body new tricks.

There are traps on the road to recovery, as anyone getting clean and sober will tell you. I’m much better at seeing them clearly than I used to be. But the vigilance it requires is a full time job.

I get afraid that a dangerous choice might look perfectly innocent. Or be a reasonable part of life. It could be a healthy choice, even, at least for you.

But sometimes, my very reckoning can look as pretty as a picture.

I felt obliged to show some of the Marcus photos, but have cropped and altered them into something less decadent. Any similarity to pictures you may have seen in online chat rooms is purely coincidental. This topic is also something I’ve done my best to separate from my series of fitness videos with expert Nelson Vergel. Why burden the guy with my insanity? Thanks for reading, and I hope you’ll share this. — Mark

That blemish did not pop,  but as the day wore on it became increasingly painful. It was then I assumed I was harboring a nasty spider bite. A red patch of infection began to infiltrate my entire upper body. This blemish was so tender that even my shirt brushing against it provoked a sharp burning sensation. When I attended an art show that evening I made a conversation piece out of the terrible “spider bite” that was ruining my time.

By the time I got home the blemish had turned into a golf-ball sized mass of puss and pain. My entire upper body was encased by a red rash, and I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do. I kept poking myself with needles and wishing whatever was happening to my body would stop.

At work the next day the infection underneath my shirt had gotten so massive and painful that I asked to be sent home. At my $100 visit to a walk-in doctor’s clinic I learned that the terrifying mass on my chest wasn’t a spider bite, but instead a staph infection. And so the nightmare began.

I was put on ten days of antibiotics. When that first infection finally “came to a head” it burst and a painful surge of puss released from my body. As the staph infection drained a long white string of mass issued from the sore. I remember the terror of being alone in my bathroom covered in puss and blood. I was relieved that the throbbing pressure of my boil was gone but still in a lot of pain.

Over the next six months I kept getting staph infections.  These infections were still painful but not as much as the first one. The walk-in clinic kept issuing ten day stints of antibiotics. After thirty days of no infection one (or two or three) would reappear. I began to feel as if my own body was cursed. Sometimes the clinic said I had MRSA, other times they said I didn’t.

Sometimes when the infections were especially painful I tried to expedite the process of them “coming to a head”. Many terrifying late nights were spent poking searing hot needles into my body trying to drain the sores and just be “normal”. Internet searches about staph  infections were vague and terrifying. Sometimes in the middle of the night I worked myself into such a frenzy I called 1-800 Ask-A-Nurse numbers just to have someone to talk to. Perhaps I was over-reacting and being a maniac but the truth was that no matter how many pills I took these big sores kept returning to my body. I took the obligatory HIV test and I was negative. And the sores kept returning.

I sterilized my entire apartment. I washed every linen in boiling water. I kept buying new razors. I wore rubber gloves when doing anything. Nothing worked. The infections kept coming back.

After sinking hundreds of dollars and hours into the walk-in clinic I finally made a list of questions for the physician in an effort to educate myself in better preventive maintenance for these infections. I never had them “lanced” because I was poor and the thousand dollar tales of emergency room lancing further made me ill. Was it necessary for me to have these sores lanced? Should they all come to a head? Is it normal for them to keep coming back? Quietly I sat on the waiting table hoping the doctor could give me some answers and guidance.

When the doctor arrived I told him I had some questions.  He told me this was fine but that I needed to “hurry up.” And so I sat in the back of a shitty walk-in clinic with a doctor telling me my medical questions weren’t worth his time. I stormed out into the lobby, raised a scene, wrote a letter, and saw that this doctor wasn’t working there a couple weeks later. Despite the fact I let the medical establishment know you can’t fuck with terrified patients, my body kept getting infected. It was time to make a change.

Once I walked into the office of Dr. Martha Ford I knew I was in good hands. I didn’t have a primary physician since I was very young and it was reassuring to know I was finally going to be taken care of. When Dr. Ford told me she loved my shoes I was sold.

I had to return to Dr. Ford’s office five or six more times before the infections stopped coming back. With different combinations of antibiotics (mostly acne prevention meds) my body stopped getting staph infections. I still have a few scars from the bad boils. They look like burns.

I am writing this for anyone whose body is doing things that scare you and mystify you. Don’t keep going back to walk-in clinics if they are dismissive. Don’t return to a doctor that doesn’t make you feel like you matter. And don’t sit alone in a bathroom in the middle of the night with a lighter and needle trying to prod an infection out of your body.

The biggest scar is on my chest above my right nipple. It is a constant reminder of the year I spent trying to rid my body of staph.

Photo courtesy of the U.S. Navy archives

Discussing disability is a difficult issue. Many recognize a person with a visible disability and — because were raised not to stare or remark on those who are different — we have learned to ignore disabilities by ignoring the individual’s presence. In instances where we do recognize someone’s disability, we begin to overly accommodate their space and surroundings, perhaps as a compensatory mechanism for all differently-bodied people to share our space and effort with those who are perceived disabled. Then there are people who recognize the disability and probe into the individual’s personal life,  highlighting his different-ness even more.

Some time ago I was hanging out at a club when a man in a wheelchair rolled up and began dancing right next to me and my friends. He was handsome, shook his body around and waved his hands like no tomorrow. He looked as though he was having a great time and I gave a kind smirk before I turned my head  and continued dancing with my friends. His striking, wavy hair and pleasant smile still linger vividly.

As I remember, there were people who noticed his wheelchair’s presence and looked, though did not notice the individual: a sort of kind gesture of noting his disability while simultaneously ignoring his presence. Others gawked and covered their mouths to remark. The flashing lights, fog machine, and refracting disco ball could not mask the ever-growing circle of people who spread away from him until he was dancing in his own little space.

Arguably there was an interplay of tolerance within the club that night, which created a sense of normativity within the gay club. However,  this tolerance came with a heavy dose of public scrutiny, explanation and condemnation. In contrast, Jenny Morris quotes  JoAnne Rome, a woman born without a left hand, in her book Pride Against Prejudice. Rome speaks about the experience of enduring the stares of able-bodied individuals, stating, “I owed an explanation to everyone who demanded one ….‘What happened to your arm?’ was a luxury I could not chose to answer… the world made it clear I owed them an explanation”.

Certain assumptions are made about appearance and identity. For example, imagine the ideal “man” in society. One may envision a white, thin, Christian with a powerful wage earning capacity. Does his idealized podium remain if he had a prosthetic arm? The correlation between visual appearance and a claimed identity problematizes the connection between the basis of community and membership in communities.  Simply because one person looks a certain way does not mean they claim a certain identity.

Does exclusion from one group create the formation of another? Are there connections between disability and queerness  within our society?

Appearance and perceived disability can be read as a queer issue: heterosexuality is perceived as the norm, while homosexuality is a perceived as abnormal.  While queers may appear to be included within the framework of society, queerness cannot divorce itself from  public scrutiny, explanation, condemnation and tolerance within dominant society. By this basis of exclusion from heterosexuality, homosexuality is placed as the outlier. Just because we see gay images or what people think of as “gay” around us does not mean every gay person should claim this identity. Or does it?

So I ask you, TNG readers, how does the queer community accommodate differentness?

Photo by Paul Goyette, Wikimedia Commons

I was 36 the first time I had sex in public. I had no idea it was an option. I kept hearing Ella Fitzgerald  in my head, singing: “How long has this been going on?” I truly thought people went to the park to read, the restrooms to pee and the malls to shop. Who knew?

Coming out of a long-term relationship at 36, I was angry, hurt, suicidal and just plain finished. It was one more disappointment that seemed too much to bear. Once the relationship that you have spent so much time putting together disintegrates, there is a faulty understanding as to whether or not you are still attractive. Cruising takes care of that. Nothing like a romp in the great outdoors to set your heart a ’thumping, your mind to shutting down and the belief that you have thumbed your nose at the man and polite society; that you have truly gotten away with something dastardly.

Oh yes! Online or in person, the concept of free, noncommittal sex — hookups if you’re 30 or under — serves a number of functions. The connection can be explosive, entertaining, and instantaneous. Most importantly if the person is a pain in the ass you never have to see them again. You don’t have to argue about the same thing for the millionth time. It’s free and always available. Everyone at these spots wants to be sexual. A bit of negotiation and you’re off and running. Is this enough? What happens when this carnival of manly delights ceases to thrill? What do I do when I would rather sit home and the thought of getting up and getting dressed for the man buffet causes me to yawn?

The concept of cruising fascinates me on some several levels. One of the things that I find so telling is the risk we are willing to take when it comes down to this business of getting “done.” Often we are led to believe that our actions have no consequences — that we can do whatever we like, whenever we like and if it isn’t hurting anyone, who gives a shit. This is a very wrong, upside down way of handling our decisions and consequently our lives.

Everything we do has consequences. Some are immediate while others take time, working slowly and deliberately. What we really mean is this decision has a certain set of results that I am comfortable with. I can live with the fallout of such and such decision. This is truly the case for cruising. Yes, I could go to jail. Yes, I could contract an STD or possibly HIV. Yes, I might have to register as a sex offender. I could be bashed or have my throat cut, but I am willing to take these chances. Fascinating, right? Yet when it comes down to the serious work of truly listening, knowing that the person you love more than life is not hearing you — can’t and won’t get it —we run for the hills. That seems to be too much work. We will fuck strangers in dark alleys and trust that the person is somewhat sane or at least hasn’t murdered anyone this week. Yet we won’t tell the person we live with and lay beside nightly when we are afraid.

Gentlemen, we have to do much better.

Will cruising/public sex ever go away or stop? Who knows? Can we make decisions that are truly risky and could possibly change the course of our lives and the context of our relationships? You bet.

Credit: Bill Branson , NIH

It’s no secret that parts of the gay community can be obsessed with appearances: the right weight, the right muscle tone, the right body hair, etc.  Eating disorders, or at least the reporting of them, have become more frequent.  In the lesbian community, however, I have encountered a different value on weight.

The nice term for my size is “petite,” the honest term is “scrawny.”  All the women in my family, like myself, are very thin and lean no matter what we eat.  That may sound fantastic, but we’re from Wisconsin, northern England and Norway - those sweaters get expensive!!  In addition to my genes, I was malnourished up until I went away to college and was able to feed myself.  It can take a body many years to recover from a neglected diet.  Therefore, even though I could probably eat a larger meal than yours and then finish off what you can’t, I’m very thin.

Even though there are many lesbians who envy my inability to gain weight, they aren’t attracted to me for it.  “I like some meat” is the common explanation.  Really?  First you ask me for dieting advice, and then say I’m too skinny for you.  Thanks. Anyway, women who are “too skinny” sometimes get harshly judged for it.  We can’t be butch without weight to throw around, for example.

In any case, lookism doesn’t benefit anyone save for diet scammers and plastic surgeons.  And if you’re just genuinely not attracted to someone for being too skinny – don’t ask him or her for dieting advice first!

My friend Carlton is a chain smoker, even if all his cigarettes are imaginary.

His standard pose consists of one hand resting on his hip — elbow jutting out as if in the midst of a runway strut — while the other arm is forever in motion, his hand swiveling constantly around his face and shoulders.

All that’s missing is the cigarette, which you would swear you witnessed him smoking after having met him. Carlton even punctuates wry remarks by tapping his index fingers soundly on some phantom, extended filter. If his remark is particularly withering or at least gets a laugh, he’ll bring two fingers to his lips and add “puff puff, darling…”

Carlton’s age lies somewhere on the distant side of sixty. He was raised after Stonewall but on a far more moneyed block of New York City, where discussion of queers was verboten. Even today, Carlton insists that coming out to his wealthy mother would be quite disastrous and a completely surprising bit of news to her.

“I lived in Dallas, dear, years ago” Carlton is saying during our lunch. We had just switched tables twice, trying to escape the draft that’s been stalking my friend since Reagan was ignoring AIDS. “And let me tell you something darling. The ranch hands one would meet out in the bars had terrible personal hygiene. And I had a few, trust me. Just wretched.”

I wasn’t sure what line of questioning to pursue. What might constitute an authentic ranch hand, I wondered, or why one of them might wander into the kind of bars Carlton favored. But I was in no hurry to expose his curious thinking. Multiple opportunities would typically present themselves.

“Really?” I asked politely.

“Oh let me tell you! That Brokeback movie? There was a real lack of cleanliness, didn’t you see that? Those straight boys… maybe they were adorable, but my God! I was holding my nose just watching that movie.”

“Carlton, the guys weren’t straight. They were gay and living a lie. That was the whole point of the film.”

“Oh they were straight,” he reiterated, despite all evidence, cinematic and otherwise, to the contrary, “believe you me.”

Carlton insists that his conquests be straight, or at least a reasonable facsimile. A simple claim of heterosexuality will do. As he funds drink orders from male strippers at his local club, slipping bills personalized with his cell number into their posing straps, he is most likely to pause for any utterance that includes the words “my girlfriend,” “kind of hard up,” or “bus station.”

He keeps attachments at a proper distance, which also helps avoid bothersome questions from Mother. Romance, alas, is simply a matter of commerce.

“I had a fabulous date this week,” Carlton is saying. “Square jawed. Handsome. And everything just where it should be, darling. Puff puff!”

“You can’t call them a date if you pay them, Carl.” I liked injecting the proceedings with jolts of sanity, like a random slice of sunlight piercing a forgotten attic.

“Don’t say that! You’re terrible,” he cries, waving me away, his fingers gripping his phantom Benson & Hedges Menthol 100.

“This is reality checking in, Carlton. They’re called prostitutes. Street hustlers, knowing you.”

“Stop!” He protested, and then feigned resignation. “He was straight, believe you me. And I think he really likes me.”

I was tempted to respond, knowing the remark would lead down an entertaining rabbit hole of delusion and denial, but it felt like poking an animal with a stick. I let it pass.

“Carlton,” I scolded, “you should watch yourself.” I was truly concerned for his safety. His friends have all made it clear that he isn’t allowed to live in a building without security cameras and a doorman. We want footage to broadcast on America’s Most Wanted when the time comes.

“Oh please. I know, I know…” he relented, in an apparent moment of self realization. “I couldn’t possibly take time for a relationship right now, you are completely correct.” The moment had passed. “Besides, my phone is ringing off the hook this week.” He giggled and sipped his wine. “My dance card is filled, darling.”

“Oh Carl…” I sighed. “It’s the first of the month.”

“And so?”

“Rent is due, sweetie.” My eyes met a blank stare. “And so… your friends are calling for dates.”

He wrinkled his nose, considering whether one fact had anything to do with the other. He was unconvinced.

“Be that as it may,” he said finally, returning to his wine. “But please, darling, don’t try to take away from my funsy-poo.”

“Funsy-poo?” I responded. He smiled sweetly. Whatever bottle of lube rests on Carlton’s nightstand, you can bet it sits on an embroidered doily. From Mother.

Further discussion of his dating risks was a fool’s errand, and that went double for anything related to HIV, about which he spoke in faraway terms, like a Daughter of the Confederacy discussing the recent unpleasantness.

“I’m speaking at an AIDS conference next week,” I said suddenly, to test my own theory. Carlton glanced from his wine glass with a pitiful smile and then wiped it away with his napkin.

“Good for you, my dear. I would do more charity work myself but with my travel schedule…” He managed to find something fascinating in the bottom of his wine glass and his voice trailed off.

I have made remarks about HIV testing to Carlton but he waves them away, often with a joke about his pitiful sex life, despite what he may say about his dance card. He knows I write a blog about living with HIV but he certainly has never visited it. He is a generous patron of other sites, however. Sites with secure transactions that help him populate date nights with young men who, if you believe them as fervently as Carlton does, are just a little hard up or without a girlfriend or need a bus ticket back home.

We strolled out of the restaurant and I madly craved a cigarette after all that Carlton had seemingly consumed. He lightly brushed me with a kiss and promised to call in a few days if he could possibly find the time. He slowly sauntered away, taking in window displays and the busboy at a sidewalk eatery with equal interest. He was without care.

Never have I known anyone who so charmingly operates only within acceptable truths. For Carlton, self preservation long ago vanquished self discovery.

It’s a delicate balance, believe you me.

You can find King’s original post here: http://marksking.com/my-fabulous-disease/carltons-glorious-dangerous-denial/

Hey  guys! So I fell off the universe for a while and into a black hole of awesome and then not awesome and then some other stuff. But for now, I’m back!  And, I joined a new gym!  I’ve always been kind of gym-y.  I like burning off anxiety, uncertainty, and lack of fullfillment in physical pursuits; it’s where I deposit the insanity.

All American Pie Eating Contest Credited: Good.is

In my recent post “Queering Fatness”, I address the issue of Fatness within the queer community as something to be feared of and a site of tension from many people.  This is largely caused by the obesity-led health crisis and subsequent media coverage portray the fat male body as amoral and unhygienic. With a recent coverage done by Good.is, it regards the statement made by George W. Bush in 2008 that more people were discharged because of their body fat percentage rather than their sexual orientation.

What is interesting is not the positive statement that one may be too fat to defend our country, as Bush’s statement suggests, and therefore lacks the physical capacities of a health individual. Rather the statement implies that there is a certain image of the American military and the American War machine is promoting a certain type of American citizen.

With “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” discriminately forcing many queer people out the Armed Forces, many of whom are African American women, there is a  pathological apprehension of women being held in combat positions relegated to more “softer” aspects of the armed forces.  Now with the perception of obesity within the military,  we begin to see an actual physical incapability of fighting in a war. It may sound a bit odd that the military barring people of service because of a physical capability but nothing is meant about the physical capabilities of having openly gay people serve in the armed forces. Neither is there a physical incapability of women serving on combative positions. But for obesity, the armed forces view it as a greater threat than being gay.

So is it a witch hunt to find all obese people and discharge them? Is it right to bar obese people from participating within the armed forces? Being obese is harder to hide than being gay because of this physical embodiment. It is tricky because society passes judgment on obese people almost reflexively because of this embodiment but how can you really judge expressing “gayness”? What becomes increasingly clear is another failure of an institution to realize a productive value of obese people in different capabilities rather than simply stating that theyare incapable of serving the armed forces.

This renders the obese body as something disposable and feeds the claim that obese people have no value and no patriotic duty serving the armed forces.  What we, then, begin to see is a different image of the armed forces promoting a sense who can serve their patriotic duty to their country and , ultimately, who cannot.

I started doing yoga because my attention span was getting too short; to try to heal a constantly aggravated back injury; to be bold and do something new; to spend time with a buddy who teaches and practices; to improve my body. Yoga has given me all these things, but it has also given me one more thing to do, one more excuse.

Flat on my back for those few moments I try to organize my Life To-Do List, to prioritize. What is most important?

Some days I write a mental list of things I can accomplish.

• Laundry
• Buy Groceries
• Write thank you notes
• See girlfriend
• Go running

Or things that will challenge me:

• Make bigger credit card payment this month
• Go to dentist
• Eat better
• Think about marathon training
• Clean out closets
• Write everyday this week

But sometimes my brain won’t let me off that easy.  I stretch my tired body out long, and close my eyes, and try to deep breathe through the barrage of demands my mind is making:

• Figure out what you want to do with your life
• Get your shit together
• Live better
• Be better

Yoga-Me gets mad at Non-Yoga-Me. I tell myself to cut the negative energy and give myself credit. I remind myself that change is slow. Progress is incremental. These reminders usually don’t work. When I come out of my Savasana and roll up my matt, my body feels like it has done its job. It feels both tired and strong at the same time, but my mind always tells me I need to do more.

Where do we find the balance between pushing ourselves to succeed and pushing ourselves off a cliff? When does finishing the laundry or running 3 miles satisfy our desire for progress, and when will only the drastic do?

It’s almost the end of 2010. What goes through your mind when you give yourself five minutes of silence?

The New Penelope Cruz Inspi(RED) t-shirt Credit: thesaturdaypost.com

Last year, I attended a World AIDS day fair held by my school’s Women’s Studies club on campus.  Having once organized a World AIDS day fair myself, I was curious to different this year’s theme will differ from last year.  Is it a focus on the plight of children with AIDS? Is it centered on women and the tourist economy? Will it be a commemoration and paying respects to those who have perished? Where I was in search of a common theme, one thing was certain: nearly everyone was wearing red.

The emblematic AIDS ribbon is perhaps one of the most visible signs of support for AIDS awareness. Movie stars, athletes, politicians and the everyday person wear it and instinctively we associate it with AIDS awareness. Its bright red hue confronts any passerby to notice it to help us remember. But as I walked around the fairgrounds of this years fair, the red ribbon was certainly present, but so were the Inspi(red) t-shirts Gap promoted in 2006, a representative from American Express promoting the Red Card, Starbucks promoting 1 dollar coffee and free coffee served in red cups if you were wearing red and Target giving out free t-shirts. People adorned with red hats, red shoes, dyeing their hair red and bringing their cute little puppies in red sweaters showed in crowds. What was I wearing? Khaki pants and a green v neck shirt with a red ribbon proudly on my right side. Was I missing something?

While I am an ardent supporter of AIDS awareness, I could not help but fathom for a moment if everyone here was really in support of AIDS awareness or if they were simply following a trend.  A friend remarked how I stood out like a sore thumb but I quickly replied, “I just fit right in.” AIDS awareness should raise awareness and , indeed, a crowd of red on a busy school campus garners the same attention as the emblematic red ribbon. But my friend’s question is a reflection of the greater annoyance of a worthy cause co-opted by big businesses encouraging buyers to purchase more red to proudly claim we are dignified supporters AIDS awareness.

This year I reviewed the Join(RED) website, it was clear to me that the powers at hand glamorized the AIDS ribbon in this larger marketing campaign to get consumers to buy more at the expense of being perceived as progressive and supporters.  In the simplest terms, the site reads “Buy (RED), save lives. Its as simple as that”. I have to reject this notion of buying more to show support for a cause. I am not arguing that buying these products do not achieve a certain level of gratification in knowing one supports a cause. Consumers buy products  if not for the simple reaons doing so does make one feel better. Neither am I arguing that these companies do give some of their proceeds of the sales to some facet of AIDS awareness. Albeit only a small margin of what the overall cost of purchasing the product goes to a greater good. What I do motivate is that buying more is not the solution to ending AIDS corporations promote it to be nor is it a fitting avenue at bringing awareness because support should not be bought, it comes at will and good heart of many.

Buying more? Credited: Fitnessgoop.com

Parallels can be seen too with the “go green movement” in America.  In the wake of ever growing consciousness of being environmentally friendly, supermarkets and corporations are advocating consumers to buy more metal water bottles, more burlap and canvas bags and eco-friendly vegan Toms. But purchasing more things means we are consuming more resources from the environment. Counter-intuitive, taking more resources to create more reusable products begets the need of reusing altogether. This can be seen with the Join(RED) campaign. Using 100 percent African Cotton to make the new trendy Inspi(RED) t shirt does not alleviate the real problem of AIDS awareness, prevention and assistance in affected countries such as South Africa, Sudan and Nigeria. Buying a new red aluminum bottle is not going to solve the problem of sustainable fresh water for the single child in Thailand. Swiping that Red American Express card which gives 1 percent of  its purchases will not pay the hourly wage for a health care worker to teach proper condom usage in Kingston.

I wear my ribbon loud and proud, but I do not need to buy a t shirt to validate my support. I will gladly show my support by contacting an AIDS clinic and voice my support for their work. I will congratulate my fellow friends and allies for holding the World AIDS day fair in cultivating a larger consciousness on campus. That is how I will display my support World AIDS Day. This is how I will celebrate World AIDS Day.

Ideal Male Beauty Credited: fatqueer.blogspot.com

Whether or not the medical concept of obesity is truly the dire emergency that it is touted as by many public health officials, the fat male body is viewed as something that is emasculate, disgusting and amoral. Fatness is so conflated in the queer community that uttering its name is as hurtful as dropping the “f bomb.” Pathologically avoided and socially damaging, society and the queer community places a notion of fatness equated with degradation of the body. But why is such a damaging connotation placed on the human body when every human being possesses this quality of fatness? No one is ever truly devoid of fat. Nonetheless, there seems to be an unequal distribution between our notion of fatness as degrading, while the notion of thinness, and even extreme thinness, is somewhat permissible.

We all have fat but it is the noticeable amount of fat on our bodies we give attention to and scrutinize. Because we are socially conditioned to believe that fat is unappealing, a comparison drawn with fat acceptance and queer acceptance elicits a variety of theoretical stances. The most poignant one regards the medicalization of the queer body and the medicalization of the fat body in shaping identities. Members of both communities have attempted to use scientific studies to justify their identities, to attempt to legitimize their existence by claiming it is an immutable piece of themselves. But increasingly, searching for a “fat gene” or a “gay gene”, these professionals and health officials bypass critical discussion that would place blame. By placing their identity in the hands of genetics, they derail discussions of choice, behavior and environmental impact which shape us all.

The Bear, The Big Daddy of Queer Fatness. Credited: thebearoutpost.com

Even more there remains no analytical lens at which queer people of color address these issues of choice, behavior and environmental impacts which evaluate assumptions about body image and image culture which many are affected. Notions of heritage and social celebrations where food is central to a cultural practice reveal a sense of pride in eating food but also what it means to be a person of color. By extension, already marginalized with the tenuous relationship in the dominant culture, fatness and queerness are even more marginalized and isolated within these communities which criticize their own bodies as unappealing and shameful. Fatness, in this case, not only centers itself in identity politics or the center of the body consciousness but exists within a nebulous of meanings and understanding which shape out intersectional analysis of one another. Fatness does matter and always worthy to discuss because in discussing it, we confront the issue head on and explore its constructive political meaning and even erotic potential, dare I say.

My own criticism of this body-based agenda — as the gay media has a stranglehold on the queer body — is that it requires a serious reconsideration of the impact of thinness and the psychological imposition of weight reduction strategies have on the queer body. Explicitly, we need to evaluate the connections with which we do not consider thinness as illness yet highlight obesity as a monstrosity within the gay community. As for myself, I am apt to conclude that health at every size is an appropriate health ideal. In the ever-growing shadow of the obesity-led health crisis, reputable studies conducted have suggested that weight and health is a tricky slope. While on the one hand obesity has direct correlations to health, there is also a discursive downplay of thinness as a health problem. There is an impulsive judgment to criticize the fat body as slothful and unhygienic. However,  the thin body does not invoke the same diction. The function of realizing health at every size is that there is no one mythical human being the queer community should strive to look or aspire to. This mythical human being— white, male, Christian, middle classed, heterosexual, adult and thin —has grown to mythical propositions while distorting everyone’s sense of body image. But like myths, they do not exist and it is time to pursue the approval of our own desires to meet our own needs and overall affect our own positive health.

So when your ready to eat your Thanksgiving meal, appreciate your body and give thanks that it’s the only thing you truly own in this world. Own it and love it because it not going anywhere.

On their official website, in addition to donating, you can enter contests for prizes and find out who has the best ‘stache in the United States, and the world. The top prize as the International Man of November will get a 10-day Galapagos Islands Tour. I dare someone to grow something like this guy. Ain’t he beautiful?

Other contests include who can raise the most money for the cause. All proceeds go to the Prostate Cancer Foundation and LiveStrong, the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

The movement started in 2003 in Melbourne and has since grew (much like the founders’ faces) to countries like New Zealand, South Africa, the Netherlands, Finland, Spain, Ireland, the UK, and Canada.

We want to know how your mustache mission went this month. Send us your pics at submit@thenewgay.net