(November, 2003)

More and more, I come across guys who are either casually indifferent to safe sex or are rather insistent about NOT being safe. I remember hearing about “bug chasers"—gay men who purposefully seek HIV—a while back ago. Lots of possible explanations for this risky behavior exist: the need to rush along the edge, defiance, masochistic splendor with a flair for narcissism, and of course, maybe skin on skin just feels better. Online, in bathhouses or (occasionally) with work, guys ask if I will fuck them raw. Or if not in the form of a verbal request, there will be the unsubtle, sometimes very appealing, visual plea of an ass stuck up to the turquoise ceiling, like the gesture of the red baboon, demanding nothing and everything at the same time. (Any cock will do.) For hours this guy will remain in such a position, unconcerned about knees, elbows and blood flow, hoping that the pay-off will be worth it. This has been one of the more interesting phenomena that I’ve observed at the baths: the sight of two wordless, motionless butt cheeks, their punching bag hanging... The optimism of these guys is amazing. And their optimism is commensurate with the steady gait of their bottom. I choose to spend my hours at these places in constant motion. Once in a while I will hear a guy, in a room twenty over from mine, ask for his new friend’s load.

Is barebacking controversial? Most people have their opinions about this practice. If you don’t want to risk HIV transmission, use a condom. It doesn’t get much simpler than this - like basic math. But this truth functions only when it is considered an issue of personal safety first. People love to complicate matters, to see things where maybe they are not, use them to back up what they want to be true and to turn basic math into non-linear algebra. How much responsibility does a person have to disclose one’s HIV status to a potential sex partner? I, personally, would never presume to answer that question for any other person besides myself. I look at it this way: if a guy asks another guy his status, and that answer containing three syllables determines whether or not a condom will be used, then I have no idea what that really means: that a stranger is going to tell the truth? each stranger, every time? or is it that some guys are going to do what they really want to anyway, and they can absolve themselves of any consequences by saying that some guys are lying assholes? Well, I don’t know that either, but to consider it in these terms is also questionable.

Several years ago I went home with a guy from the bar who—I found out later—lied to me several times before asking me to fuck him without a condom. This was after his request—which came across more like a defense mechanism—that I serve my butt up to him under the same conditions was denied. I was 24 years old at the time, with a degree of guile that I suspect was equal parts charming, disturbing, and annoying. I had followed him and his very cool Volkswagen van out to backwoods Indiana until dawn. I remember there being not even the pretense of romance. No kissing, no blowjobs, no yanky my wanky, just one-of-us-fuck-the-other-one. And no condom. When the condom I put on anyway broke, it combined with the alcohol and poppers to curb the mood. Now, it seemed that this emotionally absent stranger had either passed out or lost interest, and I got out of bed to dress and leave. It was at this stage of events that my usually reliable cerebral cortex failed me completely, missing all signs of his approaching rage. He then, in fact, got out of bed, turned on the lamp, put his boxer shorts on, strode over to his dresser, and produced a gun. This deliriously frightening sequence of events, along with his rant that I had somehow pissed him off several times that night and that I wasn’t going anywhere, would go on to betray the fact that someone out there has been watching out for me every single day of my improvised life. After an unknown number of minutes passed observing this man shift from anger to empathy to sadism, and then dependence, I reintroduced my body to my brain, moved past the fear and guided myself out of his 70's split-level ("Just pick one foot up after another and go forward..."). I found out a few days later from a friend who did some investigating that this guy was HIV-positive. Unable to accept this, it seems that he thought others might be able to absorb some of his anguish if he could first pass his virus and then his attitude off to them.

When it comes to escorting, I have come to expect certain expectations regarding anal sex - namely that one purple penis head will guide all human players to a happy ending, and a condom can be as encouraging as looking at rows of unwashed vaginas. On occasion, it has had the disheartening effect to the extent that I am no longer able to do a job that had only a few seconds before seemed like such a sure thing. What’s a boy to do? Shoving the soft penis in anyway is the first thing that comes to mind, but this attempt becomes embarrassing after about two seconds, and in terms of an effort/pleasure ratio, I would rate this as equal to one of my massages. I could mourn my waning virility. I could curse the guy’s too-tight hole and demand that he stop playing hard to get. I could get over myself and pop another Viagra. I could ask myself, "What would Jesus do?" though that has never worked for me before (Fred and Barney, maybe). I would probably ask that both my nipples be tweaked counterclockwise while I have another go at myself and just try to stay optimistic while I close my eyes and think of the very hot, hairy, masculine and well-endowed 38 year-old man who goes around naked in the locker room, showing off to the other men, while pretending to shave.

Or, I could just let my chunky monkey be free, white and happy once more. Whether or not this happens depends largely on whether or not there is chemistry between us and if something silently transpires and comes out looking like trust. It will also happen after some kind of process of elimination takes place. "Well, what do you want to do?" Grin, shrug, moan, twitch. "I could use a thumb, a couple of fingers…or I could just take it off. It feels better..." I am forthright with my clients to the degree that a good heart permits it. I was a terrible liar when I was a kid. The only times I could get out of going to classes were when I walked out of the building. And now, being in the midst of such a predicament and being naked and adult and male, blood rushing from certain places to certain other places will betray me every time. (I am sure it is the same thing going on that makes me very uncomfortable with role-play. I refuse to tell a guy that I want his man pussy). I am faced with this professional dilemma maybe four times out of 100, and it seems to play out about half and half. It does feel better. There is no doubt about this as I usually can have an orgasm this way. I usually have to pull out at least once during the session because I don’t want to freak the guy out, because I didn’t get permission, and also because I like to see myself come. Then there was a guy, asking about my services, who wanted to know if I would suck his dick with a condom on (his, not mine - I almost asked to make sure). He said he wanted to make sure he didn’t give anything to his girlfriend. My little article here cannot accommodate the layers of irony in that statement, but I should have told him the only thing he might give her was a profound case of silly. There is a chance that I am being insensitive to this kind of request, but I would rather watch a father and son shop for underwear together at Target than suck on a dick that had a rubber on it. The interaction wasn’t even interesting enough to share with my other escort friends. What I actually told him was that he probably wasn’t going to catch anything if I was just going to suck his dick, but I would do it, anyway. Okee-doke.

I had a client once who was only interested in being blown and being pissed off instead of on. He began to tell me about an escort he had once hired. This escort had recently started doing a one-man show, dramatizing his life story—including his escorting experiences—and in the course of the performance, he disclosed his positive status. As my client told the story, he became increasingly upset, even though it seemed that they had done nothing unsafe and no unwanted transmissions occurred. He was simply mad, and right and wrong ultimately got in his way of having much fun (That is unless being more right than anybody else along with being angry about it was his idea of fun times). I could have told him he was lucky he didn’t like to get fucked or something else rude, but I took the quieter route and listened to him and gave him some much needed understanding when he gave me my cues.
I do know an escort who is HIV-positive. He is quite open about it. I also know that he not only loves, but prefers, piggy sex: everything from filth down. And I would guess that many of his clients are also HIV-positive. Though some, I am sure, just find his incredibly fat cock, furry butt, and crazy imagination too exciting to resist. I have stripped with him on the few occasions when the bar actually wanted more than one dancer who kept all their body hair. And if it happened to be a private club we were performing at, he would get out there on stage and plop his ass down on the biggest dildo that would fit him.

During those moments when I actually think I am Mary Tyler Moore, I will have my own very best interests in mind while also having in mind the very best interests of those around me. Love is all around. At all other times, I remain challenged. If all people loved themselves in a way that promoted personal growth, social interest, and healthy-looking toenails, would promiscuity, barebacking, drugs and all the rest still be issues? Probably, but not nearly as much. What about the 20 year-old boy (the age of my youngest client thus far) who doesn’t really think in these terms? At least not as much as he probably will when he turns 30. Yes, I suppose that I do think that is different. Like feeling an extra surge of compassion for a dog with only three legs. And since vulnerability is a quality I have always been unnaturally attracted to, I have never really had a problem providing guidance to those whom I perceived needed it.

This has been a somewhat circuitous presentation of the issues as I currently grasp them. Sometimes I’d just rather give the guy a nice, homemade rim job than to have to negotiate anal sex with an uncooperative penis. I have had all my shots so I can eat as much as I want and not have to worry about the extra pounds. But, as I said earlier, this moral issue exists only when you think about it too much. I am not a leader, nor am I much of a follower. I try to take care of myself, and sometimes I can do it for six weeks in a row and sometimes my extreme efforts actualize the way a mirage does - yet without the duration of a mirage (Then there are times when I turn around and look back and the mirage was actually a lovely pale green ocean, temperature 86 degrees Fahrenheit, with dolphins and west highland terriers and free booze everywhere, and I just didn’t jump in).

So how possible is it to goad someone into practicing safe sex? Messages that go something like "just tell your partner" run along the same lines as Nancy Reagen’s "Just Say No" and probably are just about as compelling. (Was this just a dream I had or did Gary Coleman actually sit on Nancy Reagen’s lap in the 1980's? They need to get Gary for the "tell your partner" schtick, too. This might accomplish results of an entirely different nature.) Have some fun, be nice to dogs and people, (it doesn’t matter if you let them see you sweat), and be as true to yourself as you can. In the words of Edina Monsoon, "Just do your best, darling...”