PWA Campout

This is a flyer for the PWA (Persons with AIDS) Campout held twice a year at a private campground near Cameron, Texas.

Clicking the thumbnail will download the PDF file, which can be printed or shared with other gay men living with HIV/AIDS who might be interested in coming to the campout.

 

 

 

These are some photos from past campouts.

 

 

[meteor_slideshow slideshow="pwa-campout"]

Dating in the Modern World

Why finding a relationship seems more difficult these days

As every day passes, we as members of the gay community find ourselves at the center of a political and social conflict which seems to be tearing the nation and our lives apart. A fight we never asked for, but one we feel obligated to participate in — or avoid. It's our lives, after all. Who are they to tell us how to live? Who are they to tell us who we can love? Who are they to tell us that beige goes with everything?

It seems a distraction at times. The fight takes a great deal out of us, and so we feel rushed to find anybody to stand at our side in the battle for truth, justice and the GAYmerican way. As long as they fit our excessively strict criteria, of course.

If the queer community, in all its various and diverse facets, comprises an estimated ten percent of the world's population, finding a match is certainly more difficult for us than it is for the heterosexual horde. They have nine times more chances at love than we do. Britney has seven more to go. Liz has one or two, depending on how you do the math. Condi Rice has a lot of catching up to do; her dance card is quite empty. Unlike the Carpenters, she hasn't even 'just begun.'

But there are other factors affecting our ability to find "the One." Turning thirty or even forty is certainly an obstacle (in our community especially), but more dreaded — believe it or not — is HIV. It is far harder for somebody who has tested positive to know where they fit into our relatively small niche in the universe. It can isolate you to the point that you believe you will never date again.

I know. I felt that way myself.

But in the course of more than twenty years living with this, I've learned a few things. I realized that stigma begins within ourselves, and only we can end it. It's easy to allow others to humiliate and ostracize us and make us feel ashamed of ourselves when we accept it from them. Far too easy. The pain and fear of rejection just adds to our lowered self-esteem.

Now, ask yourself: was I talking about being HIV+, or being gay?

Sometimes, you must put yourself in the place of the other person to see things from a new perspective. A person living with HIV/AIDS is no less human than you, and you are no less human than a straight person. Which means, believe it or not, a straight person is no less human than you, though you are allowed to question their concept of taste, especially in clothing and what they call 'dancing.' You may even question the humanity of some. Falwell, Robertson, Rove and Phelps come to mind…

Now, to answer your previous query (or was that mine?). I came out and became positive within weeks of each other twenty-one years ago at the age of twenty-one. It had taken me so long to come out to myself because I was letting others stigmatize me. When I tested positive, I had already learned the lesson, and refuse to this day to let the words of others knock me down. That playground proverb, "I'm rubber, you're glue," has a moral that is effective even for adults.

What does all this have to do with dating? My point is that we often set standards so high that even we would not pass muster, peering through the eye of a needle wondering why nobody can get through to us. We limit our field of view to only the pretty people, thinking the plain are beneath our notice. I have found more value in the mundane than in the plastic unreality in which most of us seem to live.

Must be fit, hung, masculine, muscular, neg, blond, butch, slender, young… the list goes on. And that’s just the woman… Okay, maybe not.

The harshest are six simple characters: DDF UB2. Not sure if there’s more offense in the apparent ignorance of the “DDF”, the seeming lack of intent to play safe, or in the fact that people can’t spell out the words. You aren’t paying per character; if you’re going to discriminate, at least be intelligent enough to write it in plain English.

How would you feel if no one could see past the battle scars of your life, failed to notice who you really are? Or only saw the plastic we wrap ourselves in and passed you by as nothing special, just another piece of meat in a zippered bag?

Remember the words of Shakespeare: "To thine own self be true." If we are to find our perfect match, we must first know ourselves. Know our imperfections, and thus overlook them in our potential mates. See what others see in us, and refuse to return the disservice of judging the book by the beige cover. Abandon your plastic façades, and embrace the real you. Just don't do it in public; it creeps people out. Could even get you arrested in some states.

Who knows? Maybe your knight in shining armoire, or your damsel dyke on a bike is closer than you think. Look again with your eyes wide open, and let the new world dawn. It's only over when you give up, and when you stop trying so damn hard to find perfection.

We are, none of us, perfect. Well, none of you are at least.

Hmm. Maybe it’s time I start taking my own advice…

Excerpt from my Memoir, "But I Remain Standing…"

But I Remain Standing…

A Memoir

by Dave Martin

FOREWARD

When I first set out to write the story of my life, I wasn't quite sure where to begin. Perhaps with my birth; but no. To start there might imply the tale would finish where my life ends. That has yet to happen. Of course now I hope I won't regret writing that…

As a writer and a poet, I have a license to embellish. The freedom to tell a story as I see fit, to bend or twist the truth without breaking it. And as a native-born Texan, I am required by state law to always tell a tall tale – a Texas tradition, as it were. Texans do not invent truth, we simply overlook or ignore facts in favor of a show of bold color. Spice it up, turn it into something worth listenin’ to.

There I go, garnishing reality already. There is no such law. Perhaps it’s something in the water that drives Texans to go beyond embellishment to blatant lies. Sorry; untruths. We never actually lie. Honest.

But, truth be told, it does make for a wonderful story, does it not? We Texans can make even the most fantastically ridiculous event seem like an everyday occurrence. Remember the Jackalope? And, perhaps therein lies the real truth. You believe what you wish to believe. Ay, there's the rub. You, the reader, beg for the fantasy in an all too real world. A singing frog is more entertaining that one who simply croaks. Now wouldn’t you agree?

As desperately as you wish to brush off a such a tale as rubbish, you can get drawn into the yarn until, ensnared by the brashness of the storyteller, you hope it never ends. Truth be damned!

However, this narrative is about my life. It’s not a fable or fairy tale - well, so to speak. Perhaps it is a bit of the latter. But, more on that as my epic progresses.

I cannot make a Texas-sized saga of it. We may stretch the truth beyond believability, but when it comes right down to it, honesty and integrity must prevail. For you see, that too dwells in the heart of a true Texan. Just more proof that George W. Bush ain’t a Texan at all!

This does not mean that I will not make justifiable use of my freedom to embellish. As a man of Italian descent, I am well aware that the seasonings make the dish more appealing, and thus memorable. The harsh truths more palatable. The aroma masking the odors of the past, perfuming the elephant dung. And that’s no bullshit, either.

Which is good, since as we age, our memories sometimes confuse us. Our brains can hold far more than we could ever hope to draw upon, and it often manages to hide from us the things it believes would only bring us pain. Or it fills in blanks with how we wished our lives have been, to the point we convince ourselves that the make believe really happened.

But none of this postulation and philosophizing aids in answering the question: where to begin.

The answer was oddly found in one my earliest poetic works. My second poem, to be precise, written during my senior year of high school. It not only provided me with the title for this monumental endeavor, but a starting place. It gave me the opportunity to reflect on the words I had written over twenty-five years ago, and be amazed at how clearly they described and defined my life before I had even lived it.

And so it begins, somewhere in the middle…

But I Remain Standing…

At once, I see myself,
Standing among a crowd of people.
And though it is but Summer,
The crowed dwindles, but I remain standing.

And when Death stands before me,
I walk around him,
For it is not me that he has come for.

As the Autumn leaves fall,
The crowd grows smaller,
And Death is once again before me.
Yet now I laugh, for he is not to take me yet.

But now, the snows of Winter fall,
And I am alone.
Once more, Death faces me,
Though now I say nothing, do nothing.

I then see myself,
Standing among a crowd of people.
And though the Spring sun shines,
The crowd dwindles,

But I remain standing…

Serodiscordancy

Serodiscordant (sero-discordant) is a term used to describe a couple in which one partner is HIV positive and the other is HIV negative.[1] Serodiscordant relationships are also referred to as "magnetic". - wikipedia.org

To be honest, in all my years of being HIV-positive, I’d never heard of mixed-status relationships being referred to as “magnetic.” I suppose it makes sense - a magnet has both a negative and a positive charge. Just seems ironic that with magnets, those opposites attract. With HIV, more often than not, they repel.

What’s ironic is that every one of my now five relationships has been serodiscordant. That is if you consider my first one with Keith, in which I became infected with HIV, was discordant until I seroconverted. And again, other than that initial relationship, each has known of my HIV status. Well, Keith believed himself to be HIV-negative, too. As did I.

Since Keith passed away over twenty years ago, I’m using his first name here. Other names have been replaced by first/last initials in parenthesis.

I learned that my fears of being HIV positive were true two days after meeting (K.B.) in early April 1987. When I told him, thinking that I’d be shunned and cast out like Keith had been, (K.B.) promised he’d stick it out and take care of me.

So began thirteen years of co-dependency. I didn’t want to be alone when I got sick. Having seen how quickly Keith went from healthy to gravely ill, I was constantly afraid the same would happen to me. In 1987 there was still very little known about AIDS, and even less about HIV. There was only one medication to treat HIV infection - AZT - and it was too expensive if you didn’t have a health care plan that would cover the cost. Very few back then would.

Even though he knew I was HIV positive, (K.B.) refused to use protection when we had anal intercourse. He was always the active (or top) position. Because of a tear in his colon when he worked in asbestos removal years before, he could never take the passive (bottom) role. I tried repeatedly to get him to use condoms, but he refused.

Because every day was another step toward the five years - at most eight - that I was given to live, I didn’t want to push him away by denying him sex. I did, but couldn’t. As he made more decisions for “us” without listening to my opinion, I found myself drowning in our so-called partnership. Every time I said “I love you” to him, I meant it less each time.

When I reached my thirtieth birthday in August 1995, I had to take a pause. Twenty-one plus eight was less than thirty. I should have been deathly ill by now. I should have been dead, even. But I was neither. I still feared it would happen soon, but doubt began to creep in. As did my unhappiness with (K.B.)’s control of my life.

When he and I met in 1987, I was Vice President of Gay Student Services, an officially recognized student group at Texas A&M. I was President for the Summer of that year. In fact, I had calls to the group’s “Gay Line” redirected to our home phone so I could give out information to students who needed advice about coming out or other gay issues. When I had learned that Keith had AIDS and I needed to get tested, I researched the options and wrote an editorial article about the importance of testing and managed to get it published in The Battalion, the Texas A&M student newspaper.

Both those areas of activism which I’d been a part of were silenced by (K.B.). He didn’t want his coworkers or supervisors to know he was gay, so I was pulled back into the closet with him. I was not allowed to refer to him as anything other than my roommate. And I certainly couldn’t speak out on HIV/AIDS issues. His fears of violence from ignorant people in the College Station area overruled any objections I had as to how important it was to speak out and be visible. And because I was afraid of dying alone, I gave in to his demands.

I began to develop stomach issues - ulcers, acid reflux, that sort of thing. I though it was the stress from work that caused it. I was working constantly, with little to no time to use the vacation hours I was accruing. During semesters I had to deal with the day to day of computer problems within the department. Between semesters I had to get our classroom labs refreshed for the next semester as well as configure new computers for incoming faculty and wipe and refresh old computers for staff or graduate assistants. Plenty of reason to blame work.

Now, you’re probably wondering what this has to do with serodiscordant relationships. Just hush up and pay attention. I’m about to make it clear.

On February 14, 2000 our relationship came to a crashing halt. (K.B.) had slept with a coworker of his and decided that the thirteen years we’d had together was over. So much for staying with me to care for me if I got sick. Notice the “if”. I’d already begun to question whether I even would become ill.

Three weeks later I began to notice that my almost addiction to Rolaids and Tums had vanished along with my constant need for them to control my reflux and stomach issues. I then realized that all my problems had come from worrying that his refusal to wear a condom would cause him to become infected. And in the long run, my lack of interest in having sex with him caused him to turn away from me.

I learned my lesson. I was never going to date an HIV-negative man again. Or so I thought.

Six years later, and two years after moving to Austin, I met (J.M.). Okay, so it was a hookup at first. When I told him I was positive before we even met, he found it refreshing that someone could be that honest. He used to live in San Francisco where, as he put it, he felt he was the only HIV-negative man in the entire city. I’m pretty certain he’s wrong about that.

(J.M.) and I had safe sex, which was a welcome change from (K.B.). However, there were other issues outside the bedroom that made me concerned. He had a drinking problem and refused to acknowledge it for what it was. I walked away from that one, once again promising myself no more HIV negative men. And no drinkers, either.

Then in October 2007 I received an odd message on a dating site. They guy said he liked my profile and wanted to meet. I figured I’d check out his to see if it was worth wasting my time. It said he was in India. Great. Another one of these people in another country thinking they can start a relationship or a scammer hoping the get money out of me. I replied that we can’t very easily meet because of the distance.

He responded, “I’m where you are.” I asked if he meant he was in Austin and he said “Yes.” Still doubtful, I pointed out our age difference. I was 42 and he was 27. He knew that, didn’t care, and still wanted to meet. I then pulled out the HIV card. He’d seen that, it didn’t matter either, and suggested we meet downtown at Mother Egan’s. That pretty much clinched that he was in Austin. He didn’t have a photo so I asked if he could email me one. He did, so I agreed to meet.

It was a very cold, very rainy and very windy evening. (A.K.) turned out to be a nice young man, good looking, smart, funny and interesting. We talked a while, then agreed it was best to get out of the cold and wet. He was only in the U.S. for three months for training and his company had put him up in an extended stay hotel a couple of blocks away.

At first we simply messed around, nothing risky. Then one night I stayed over in his hotel room and woke with him wanting to have sex. He didn’t use a condom, though he knew I was HIV positive. While his being a top, and my viral load being undetectable, might mean there could be no transmission, I asked him to always use condoms. I made sure and got some and he did as I requested. I just didn’t want him to take risks, even slight ones, since I knew the HIV care in India was not great.

Before (A.K.) left for home, he recommended an Indian-made film to me. While Netflix had it as an option, it sat in my queue on “long wait” until after (A.K.) had already left. The film is titled “My Brother… Nikhil” and is an AIDS film. He’d seen it himself and wanted to be with me when I watched it. It was beautiful movie and I cried, not just at the story, but that (A.K.) wasn’t at my side.

Jump to February 2010. I arrived early to Oilcan Harry’s - a gay bar - for a march/rally supporting two members of a local gay softball team who’d been victims of a hate crime while walking back to their car at night. I got a glass of water at the bar, since I new we’d probably be chanting as we marched. When the bartender handed me the glass, the guy next to me asked, “Is that water?”

While it was a rhetorical question, I decided to have some fun. “No, it’s vodka. They serve it in tall glasses now - and it's FREE!” He chuckled and told the bartender that he’d have one, too. “Yes, he wants a tall glass of free vodka like mine,” I jokingly told the bartender. She laughed and brought him his water.

And so I met (M.D.). He had a very soft voice, but we talked as we both waited for them to call us out for the march. When we walked the short route, he took my hand in his. We began to grow closer to each other.

(M.D.) isn’t sure of his status. He’s done some risky things in his past, but hasn’t been tested in a while. Nothing since his last test, and it had been at least six weeks since he’d done anything unsafe before then, so I have to believe that his HIV status is negative.

In May, he went with me to the PWA Campout. PWA means “Persons with AIDS,” though it’s probably long past time to rename it HIV Campout, as modern treatments can keep a person from progressing to an AIDS diagnosis. He enjoyed himself thoroughly, despite our tent being flooded out twice.

Now, I’ve been on meds since 2003, though stopped the first treatment I was put on for personal reasons and didn’t begin a new regiment until April or May of 2004 after moving to Austin. My viral load is undetectable, meaning that it’s controlled, but not gone.

A number of research studies are now showing that if a person with HIV is currently on treatment, has had an undetectable viral load for over six months, and has no other STI, then the odds of transmitting HIV to their partner becomes almost zero. A lot of it is based on CD4 counts, too. Mine are above 500 (despite being at just 38 in 2004).

(M.D.) & I haven’t had sex yet. It’s something for us to discuss and decide for ourselves. As it should be for any two (or more) persons engaging in sexual activities. Oddly, I seem more afraid of the risk than he is. I believe those studies are accurate, but after those thirteen years with (K.B.) it’s not easy to let another choose a risk for themselves, even if (M.D.)’s would be far less of one than (K.B.)’s was.

I suppose the point of this was that you don’t have to limit yourself to another person of the same status if you both agree to being safe or to what risks you are both willing to accept. If there’s love, it’s possible that the negative partner would take more risks for that reason, while the positive partner would balk. Work it out, talk about how you both feel, and find a way to handle things.

They say opposites attract, and opposite charges of a magnet are perhaps one of the strongest attractions in existence. All in good pun of course, get your poles in alignment and enjoy life!

Don’t Let Sex Ruin Your Life - Revisited 2010

Note: This is an update to a column I wrote for the Texas A&M University student newspaper, The Battalion, originally published Thursday, April 9, 1987 on the inside front page. It seemed like the only day the students actually read the editorials. It's been over 23 years since I wrote the original; I'd been living with HIV for six months by then. With thirty years of AIDS rapidly approaching, the message hasn't changed much, just perspective.




Good. Now that I have your attention, it's time to talk about a very grave matter – quite literally. By now you have all heard of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, or AIDS. You know basically what it is, what it does and how it is spread. But do you know how to avoid it?

You may be saying, "What, me worry? I'm not gay, and I don't use needles, so I won't get it." Wrong. A common misconception is that you must be in a high-risk group to get AIDS. While the gay community was the first and hardest hit in America, it is not and never was a “gay disease.”

If you are having sex, regardless of who you are with, you are in a high-risk group. It's as simple as that. While gay men are no longer the fastest-growing group of new HIV infections, it doesn’t mean our community isn’t still hurting.

Gay youth are a rapidly increasing category. This is due mainly to lack of education about having "safe sex." Primarily, if there is sexual health education in the public schools, it’s limited to abstinence before marriage - meaning heterosexual marriage, of course.

AIDS is caused by the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV), which is spread through the exchange of body fluids such as blood, semen, vaginal secretions and breast milk. Non-infectious fluids are saliva, tears, sweat, urine and feces. And no, despite what you may have heard from Donny Darko, feces are not baby mice.



HIV does not discriminate about who it infects. It doesn’t care about your sex, age, sexual orientation or shoe size. You are at risk unless you follow safe sex practices. This primarily means you should USE A CONDOM. No, Dr. Ruth hasn't taken over this column. If you aren't going to follow Reagan's advice (as mimicked by George W. Bush) – complete abstinence from sex – then a condom is necessary equipment.

"Why?" you ask. Remember Mom's wise words, "Don't touch that, you don't know where it's been." Can you be certain that whoever you're in bed with is healthy? Sure, he said you were his first as he threw the feather boa on the bed. Or maybe he told you that he's been saving himself for just the right man. You can trust them, can't you?

NO. Absolutely not. It has been said that nowadays when you take someone to bed, you're also sleeping with everyone they've had sex with. Ever. And vice versa. How can you be sure that you haven't been exposed already?

Many places in Texas perform blood or oral swab tests for the HIV antibody. This is not a test for HIV or AIDS. It can only detect the presence of antibodies that indicate infection from the virus sometime in the past. You need to be aware that it can take six weeks to six months for those antibodies to develop. If you may have been exposed, it’s not going to show up the next day. Testing negative doesn’t mean you definitively are, unless it’s been at least six weeks since your last sexual contact.

Of course a positive result does not mean you have or will contract AIDS. In fact, with early detection and treatment, you can live for a long time without ever developing AIDS-related symptoms. The darkest days of this storm are behind us –people are living much longer – but complacency and poor prevention education may herald the thundering return as infection rates continue to rise unabated.

To find a testing location near you, just go to http://www.hivtest.org/ and enter the zip code. There may be others (listed under LABORATORIES, MEDICAL in the phone book), but I’d recommend using those listed online.

The question now is, how do you talk to a potential sex partner about practicing safe sex? What if it scares them away? Or if they tell you not to worry about it, what should you do? First, you should ask yourself, "is sleeping with him really worth dying?" If your answer is "yes," you had better start digging. This isn’t Romeo and Julio.

The best way to handle the situation is to simply express your concern about HIV/AIDS, and discuss the ways to decrease your chances of contracting it, i.e., safe sex. Remember, both of you must follow the safe sex guidelines if they are to do any good. Don't let your partner convince you not to bother "just this once." This is your health they are risking, and possibly even their own.

Many people believe that talking about AIDS or using a condom takes the romance out of love-making. Yes, perhaps it does a little, but how romantic is the tale of the man who killed his partner with his love? Actually, safe sex need not detract from the romance. The general rule is to use your imagination, as long as you keep your fluids to yourself. I know, mommy always told you to share, but there are limits after you reach puberty. Sorry. We can’t be children forever. Well, maybe Michael Jackson can…

Just what is safe? Basically, there are four categories of safety. "Safe" sex includes dry kissing, mutual masturbation, oral sex with a condom, massage and fantasy. Vaginal and anal intercourse with a condom are "possibly safe." Sorry about dropping the V-bomb, boys, but there may be bisexual men reading this. Stop clutching the pearls and read on.

Those practices classed as "risky" include oral sex without a condom (aka barebacking), cunnilingus, and use of drugs or alcohol. Drugs and alcohol decrease judgement ability and also lower your immune system defenses. Unprotected vaginal or anal sex, intravenous drugs, sharing needles and rimming are considered "dangerous" and should be avoided.

Some numbers you can call for more information on AIDS and safe sex are:

• CDC National AIDS Hotline (Recording) 800-342-AIDS


• National AIDS Hotline (Live Operators): 800-447-AIDS

Despite the occasional jokes, this is a serious subject. You should not only learn safe sex, but use it. You may think, "I can't change my habits." You can, and you had better. All it takes is one night to ruin the rest of your life. Protect yourself – and the one you're with. Play it safe and live.

If you do test positive, don’t panic. There are many resources for counseling, support (individual or groups), medical assistance and more. The testing sites should be able to provide you with information for your region. You aren’t alone. Don’t isolate yourself from those who are there to help.



Remember, there is still no cure. No “morning-after” pill. But think on this: I’ve been living with HIV since September 1986. I was diagnosed with AIDS in November 1999. I’ve never been sick from this disease in twenty-four years of being positive. Nobody can give you hope, because that’s something we have to search for within ourselves. Perhaps my advice may help you find what you are needing.

Thirty Years

As the chair of the HIV Speakers Bureau, I tell people that we are going “old school” by having speakers living openly with HIV tell their stories. In using that term I am referring to those in the early days of this disease who spoke to Congress (such as Michael Callen, Roger Lyon and Anthony Ferrara in 1983/1984) or at public schools (Pedro Zamara 1990-1993). Pedro also lived out his life as an openly-positive gay man on MTV’s The Real World San Francisco in 1993-94.

These people knew that until one faces this issue head-on, with honesty and without deceit, the stigma will continue to grow and with it fear and ignorance.

But as I thought of the way things were, a new realization came to me.

The first medical cases which would ultimately be the first indicators of AIDS in America were identified in May/June of 1981. I was fifteen years old at the time, just finished with my sophomore year of high school. Next year will be thirty years of AIDS.

It’s actually many more years, as the understanding that there could be a very long incubation period before major symptoms appeared, but also discoveries of stored blood samples from 1959. But 1981 was when the world first became aware of this disease.

Some thoughts on how far things haven’t come in thirty years…

Thirty years… and there is still no cure.
Thirty years… and there’s no viable vaccine.
Thirty years… and there are still people who believe AIDS is a gay disease.
Thirty years… and the stigma born alongside AIDS lingers on.
Thirty years… and there’s only one generic form of an HIV medication.
Thirty years… and the meds can still cause dangerous side effect.
Thirty years… and the rate of infection is climbing again, especially among youth, more especially among gay youth.
Thirty years… and there are no regular HIV+ characters on television.
Thirty years… and the red ribbons have disappeared from awards shows.
Thirty years… and people are still dying from AIDS - even in America.
Thirty years… and the cost of medication has not gone down.
Thirty years… and there hasn’t been one apology for not doing enough in the early years.
Thirty years… and some politicians still believe people with HIV/AIDS should be quarantined.
Thirty years… and the names of those who first spoke out about this disease have been lost to the winds.
Thirty years… and funding for research has not advanced.
Thirty years… and the money for support services has not kept up with the need.
Thirty years… and the churches are still preaching abstinence and ignoring protection, despite all research proving that abstinence programs are a failure.
Thirty years… and the churches have not apologized for turning their backs on those in need.
Thirty years… and those of us living with HIV have no voice, no say, no control.
Thirty years… and the blame game and finger pointing continues.
Thirty years… and we still don’t know how it all began.
Thirty years… and the only real winners are the pharmaceutical companies, profiteering off this illness…

There are more items which should be on this list. It’s just too heartbreaking to think of them all right now. As somebody who witnessed AIDS from the beginning, and contracted HIV five years into this now-pandemic, I’ve seen all the above and more.

How I hope that next year, the list hasn’t grown longer. How I wish that in thirty more years, AIDS and HIV are things of the past. This disease hasn’t taken me after nearly twenty-four years. I won’t die of AIDS, but I just might die of frustration as I count off the years behind.

Art Erotica!

[caption id="attachment_228" align="aligncenter" width="512" caption="Art Erotica 2009"][/caption]

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Art Erotica 2010 is just around the corner. If you've never been to this most amazing of the Octopus Club fundraisers, this it the time to start. It's bigger and longer than ever before!
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First, the particulars.

Date: April 17, 2010

Time: 8:30 pm - Midnight

Where: Pine Street Station (1101 E. 5th Street) [MAP]

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Tickets can be purchased at the door for $65, online in advance for $50, or at pre-AE Events for $45. They can also be purchased at:
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TapeLenders	Book People	Tabu Lingerie
114 W. 5th Street 512-472-0844	603 N. Lamar Blvd. 512-472-5050	9070 Research Blvd. 512-452-8228

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The evening includes loads of erotic art, complimentary food and drinks, underwear models, live nude art, That Damn Band and more. If that alone doesn't convince you, check out these photos from Art Erotica 2009!
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[slideshow]

Nearly ready…

For over four years a film concept has been brewing, fermenting and growing in my mind. It no longer resembles the story I began with - and that's good. Actually, it's beyond good. As any good writer does, I listened to the voices in my head. They tore apart what I had, selected the portions they liked, then built something more wonderful.

This will be an AIDS film unlike anything before. It takes place between 1985 and 1987, when testing positive was still seen as certain death and the only hope - AZT - was financially out of reach of most people affected by AIDS. I, personally, was infected with HIV on September 13, 1986 and tested positive in March 1987.

Many of the characters in my film have a basis in real people.

"Richard" and "Keith" - the two main characters - are named for my first partner, Richard Keith Harris. I contracted HIV from him, though neither of us was aware of his status at the time. Keith passed from AIDS in February 1990. Other than the names, neither has much else in common with the man they are named for.

"Silver Flame"/"Robert" was a drag queen I'd become friends with. He died of AIDS around 1990. I've given more life to Silver than I knew of her namesake. The real Silver lip-synced. My version will sing for herself.

"Gregory" and his sister "Cynthia" is a nod to Cyndi Lauper's song "True Colors" and the reason Cyndi sings that song. Her good friend Gregory died of AIDS in the earliest days of the epidemic. Some things can't be changed, but one important thing will. A song will finally be sung to the one it was chosen for.

Shaun is in memory of my close, dear friend Shane, who passed from AIDS. Shaun's last words to Keith are the same as Shane's to me.

"Michael See" is in honor of Michael Callen, one of the first AIDS activists, a singer/songwriter, and more. With luck I can get the rights to have one of his songs performed in my film.

There are eighteen songs, all of which I can see in my mind. The minutest details of each scene plays out, from camera angles to timing of the song. Most songs are re-imagined and/or mash-ups to make them unique and to fit the film. There are a few that will be written specifically for the film.

All the music but one will be sung a cappella. Only the music for the opening credits will have instruments. The score to set the mood for the scenes will also be a cappella.

I hear it all in my head, and see each scene as it would play out. Every camera angle, every note, every laugh and every tear are all there. If I could only sell tickets to see what I see, it would make it much easier.

To be honest, I realized that my dilemma is the same as Keith's in the film. What he sees is beyond description, and the enormity of it all freezes his tongue when he tries to figure out where to begin. It's good that I can empathize with my character, even if it doesn't help me to write things out.

But, it's almost time to try.

Sad News

I got an email from an old friend of mine. I met him after my long-term relationship with Kenneth ended in 2000. A.S. and I went on a date to see Moulin Rouge at the theater. I as still living in College Station at the time. It was only the one date, but we remained friends. He later moved away, but we reconnected after I moved to Austin.

A. wanted to let me know that, while his doctors were attempting to diagnose some issues he was having with his health, they discovered that he was HIV-positive, and the sores on his legs were Kaposi Sarcoma, or KS.

The sudden prevalence of KS in young men in 1981 was what alerted the medical world that something strange was going on. In the nearly thirty years since then, KS has been extremely rare in HIV/AIDS cases in America.

It saddens me to learn another friend has this. He seems to have accepted it, but I know even with the modern medicines things are still a long way from perfect. He's already concerned as to how it will affect his ability to find a good man to date.

I did point out to him that all three of the relationships I've had since becoming positive have been with HIV-negative men who were aware of my status. I also told him that anybody that would reject him for being HIV-positive wasn't worth wasting time on anyway.

As he put it, he's still his same old "bubbly, goofy self."

And that's at least a great attitude to have. Guess now I need to make a list of required films for him to watch that put it all into perspective:

Longtime Companion. It's My Party. Love! Valour! Compassion!. And the Band Played On... and many more...

Twenty Years

Twenty years. Hard to believe it’s been that long. And yet, no matter the years that have gone, or the years yet to come, Keith will always be a part of my life. Part of me.

On February 10, 1990 Keith Harris, my first lover, died in Austin from AIDS related symptoms. I had last seen him nearly three years prior, around the 20th of February 1987.

He’d shown up at my door looking extremely ill. His arms were like sticks, his face sunken and pale. He was sobbing heavily, body heaving and shaking as tears ran down his face. I tried to deny to myself what I was seeing. A word that I refused to accept kept pushing itself into my thoughts, and I kept pushing back.

Then Keith forced himself to speak through whatever agony was wracking his body, tormenting his soul. “Nobody will come near me,” he choked out. “Nobody will even give me a hug. Everyone keeps telling me I have AIDS but I don’t.” His voice strained with the torture of his own words. “I can’t.” A wave of agonizing gasps made him pause. “I don’t have AIDS.” The tears and spasms overtook him, and he couldn’t say anything else.

But he’d said enough. He’s spoken the word I tried to ignore. Now the truth was apparent, even if I wished it wasn’t.

Without thought, my arms opened up. Keith fell into them, wrapping his arms around me as though I was a life preserver tossed to a drowning man. I now felt every quiver, every quake that ran through his body. Felt the wetness of his tears run down my neck, soaking the shoulder of my shirt. My arms embraced him and pulled him tight against me.

As I held Keith in my arms, I thought briefly about what it meant for me. We hadn’t used protection; I never thought to ask him to, despite having witnessed the eruption of AIDS in the world. He looked healthy back in September. I was certain that I would face what Keith was going through myself soon enough.

I then wondered if the other men that Keith had slept with knew. If they were aware that Keith’s condition was a harbinger of what faced them. But I didn’t waste much time on them. They weren’t here at my door, in my arms. Keith was. He needed me to comfort him, to say that he didn’t have AIDS, that everything would be alright.

To be honest, I could have easily justified pushing him away, slamming the door in his face. Telling him he had AIDS. Blaming him for cheating on me and infecting me with a terminal and fatal disease. The thought never crossed my mind.

A little backstory. Keith and I were seeing each other for a month, from mid-September through mid-October. We met at The Crossing, the only gay bar in the Bryan/College Station area. He told me his name was Richard Keith Harris III. I thought we were dating; he didn’t, at least not exclusively. I was unaware of that when I wrote a letter to him on October 11th ending our relationship. His life outside of work was at the bar; I believed that gays shouldn’t have to hide in the shadows, that we could have an honest and open life.

So, before I wrote that letter, I wrote myself a poem. Reminding myself why I had to walk away from my first relationship, my first lover, my first time. My first love.

Breathless

To catch a gentle wind,
Breath of the Earth;
To feel the soft wet kiss
Of sweet rain on lips,
For even a brief part
Of the shortest eternity
Is as divinely impossible
As touching the fiery heart
Of the most distant star.

But I have done this.

And perhaps again,
In a different world,
I will do so once more.

And yet will I release the breeze
When my heart dares not continue
To bind the dying wind.

For happy am I in heart and soul
To have caught the wind,
And happier yet
That I could return its freedom.

I did return to the bar three weeks after the letter. It was Halloween, and I couldn’t miss celebrating my first one as an out gay man. To be honest, I wanted to see Keith again, even if just as friends. As I sat at the bar, looking toward where Keith was talking with some other guys, Silver Flame came over and followed my gaze. Silver was a drag queen I’d become friends with during that month with Keith.

Silver put her hand on my shoulder and told me, point blank, as her eyes followed my gaze. “Keith never wanted a lover. He’s young and just wants to have fun. You were just a new face that he enjoyed spending time with, but you weren’t the only one. He spent time with a lot of guys.”

I suddenly felt betrayed. Hurt. I could sense the anger rising inside me. I politely thanked Silver for letting me know, then left the bar. It was before midnight on All Hallows Eve. I held back my tears as I drove back to my apartment. When I got home, I went to my room, closed the door then fell on my bed, crying.

After a short time, I got out of bed and started writing my feelings out in a poem to Keith. Every stroke of the pen bled my emotions out on the page. So intense were they that to this day, one can feel the anger, hate and pain.

It was long, but here is the first stanza of what I named Black Cat:

Panther prowls hungrily
Through the deepest shadows
Of the sun-forsaken jungle.
Hiding silently among the trees
Waiting, Waiting.
Ready to pounce
When least expected.

If you can’t figure out, the panther is me. Keith is the prey. The last stanza gives it a finality. Or rather, a fatality.

Until my heart has fed deeply
Upon your pain,
And my eyes have seen
Your heart
Broken at my feet

Speak not to me,
For the Panther prowls...

Satisfied with what I’d written, I typed it up, then drove to Keith’s house. I put the printed page in his mailbox and drove away, thinking that he was out of my life forever. Forever is such a fickle word. As you read above, the threads of our lives would be woven together once again.

Eventually Keith calmed enough that I could draw is both inside and closed the door. I continued to hold him, but loosened my embrace as his weakened. I kissed his neck, told him it would be okay. That word never came up, was never spoken by him or me. I pulled back so I could see his face. The brilliant emerald green eyes I loved were darkened, muddy. My hand brushed away some of his tears and I kissed him on the lips, cautiously at first, then with more passion as he responded.

I suggested he stay the night. He was exhausted and could use a friend. He agreed. We headed to my bedroom, both of us removing our clothes before climbing in my bed. That night we made love. The sort of desperate passion that we both needed to express. No condoms, because I knew they weren’t necessary any more. I had seen my fate in his eyes and accepted it for what it was.

In the morning Keith told me that he had to go to work. I told him to call me or just drop by afterward if he wanted to talk. He said okay, then walked out the door and my life. I would never see or hear from him again.

When Keith didn’t contact me, I decided to call him at work the next day. His manager told me that Keith had not been in, hadn’t given a reason. I went by his place, but his car wasn’t there. That night I dropped by the bar and asked Silver if she’d seen him. She said the last time she’d noticed him there he looked pretty sick. I then asked his roommate, the emcee for the drag show, if he knew where Keith was. He informed me that all of Keith’s things were gone. No note, nothing to indicate where he went.

I cried more when I got home. I knew where he would have gone - back home to his family in Georgetown. He must have accepted the truth of his illness and hoped they would help him through it. I wrote the following, that night. February 22, 1987. One day before Keith’s 24th birthday.

Forget the Rainbows

Oh, how oft have I reached out
To touch the distant stars?
And what number the times that I
Have watched the dreams drift by,
Or chased the pretty rainbows
That lead one to bountiful gold?

Well, forget the rainbows,
Look not upon their false beauty,
And grasp not for hopes
That slide between fingers
Like the fading fog they are.

Turn away from the heavens,
And the lies they cast down
To taunt our mortal lives.

Oh, how can I forget the rainbows,
When they are all I have,
Though I have them not?

You guessed it. I cried some more. A lot more. I hoped he’d come back, that he’d let me care for him. Again, I wasn’t important. He was. I had seen and read enough about AIDS to know what he - and I - would be up against. If I could ease his suffering by being at his side, it’s what I’d do for him.

In the meantime, I got tested and verified that I had been infected. Two days before I got the results, I met Kenneth. Very long story short, he and I were together for almost thirteen years. When the web was born in 1993, and as search engines became prominent, I started looking for anything about Keith. No luck. Of course, the amount of information was nothing like it is today. But every once in a while I’d see if there was anything at all. Anything. Even if it was an obituary. As the futility became apparent, I looked less frequently.

In 2000, the relationship with Kenneth ended abruptly. Ironically, it was February, though not quite thirteen years after that last night with Keith. A few months earlier I had been diagnosed with AIDS, still not on meds, still not sick.

In March, I finally found Keith, or at least learned that he was no longer alive. The social security death index does not list people who died less than ten years prior. Kenneth’s departure from my life was timely. I was more saddened to learn that Keith had passed away just three years after that night than I was with the breakup.

Three years later I finally found an obituary, part of a list of obits from the Gatesville Messenger posted to a genealogy site. From it I learned that he’d been born in Waco and his life ended in Austin. I also learned that he wasn’t “the Third” - his father’s name was Al. I’d met his mother Wanda and his younger brother Michael one weekend when he and I made a trip up to Austin in 1986. His ashes were interred in a cemetery near Turnersville, Texas.

My sister Nicole had taken over doing our family genealogy. I called her to see if she could possibly find Keith’s parents. She asked me to email her the names. Three and a half hours later she emailed back: mailing address and phone number for Alwin Harris in Georgetown, TX.

I sat on that information for two months, pondering whether I should call. Keith had been gone for fourteen years a that point. Would his father or mother still be alive? Would they want to be reminded of their gay son who died of AIDS?

January 2004 I had left my long-term job at Texas A&M. I decided to call. A woman answered - I didn’t know if it was his mother, Wanda, or somebody else. I identified myself, then said that I knew Keith many years ago. She pointed out that he had passed away in 1990; I told her I was aware of that. I just wanted his family to know he was a good man at heart. I asked how he died, since the obituary didn’t state that. She told me flat out “He died of AIDS. I was sitting by his side, holding his hand when he passed. How could I do anything else - he was my son.”

So it was Wanda that I’d spoken with. I told her that I’d visit his grave when I could, and thanked her. I tried to strongly imply that I wanted to get a photograph of Keith, since I had none, but to no avail.

I was busy packing not only for a trip to Italy but to move to Austin immediately after I returned to the states. I didn’t have time to go find the cemetery that year, but made a promise to myself to do so in 2005.

Well, February 23, 2005 came. It would have been Keith’s 42nd birthday. Ironic that I’d last seen him just before his 24th - a transposition of the numbers.

Weather reports all stated 75% chance of sever thunderstorms all day between Austin and Turnersville. Great. The thought of trudging through a cemetery in the rain, mud everywhere, had visions of corpses dancing in my head. Not of the corpses dancing, mind you, just popping up through the mud like in Poltergeist. But I promised I’d do it for Keith.

I drove, eyes wary of dark clouds. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Blue skies, light wispy clouds, temperature in the low 70’s the entire drive. Very surreal. So much for the meteorologist’s predictions.

I find the cemetery and start searching for Keith’s tombstone. It’s a rather small cemetery and within half an hour I’d seen all the graves - but not Keith’s. I stop and - feeling silly being all alone on such a beautiful day with nothing but the dead to keep me company - vocalize my thought. “Alright, Keith. Where are you? Show yourself - wait, you don’t have to do that, just give me a sign so I can find you.”

Just then I heard a bird squawking at me to my left. I turned to see a mocking bird flapping its wings in the dirt, glaring at me like I had offended it somehow. “Go away, dumb bird. There’s nothing over there. Let me look again.”

Half an hour later I was back to that same spot. Exasperated, I once again spoke my thoughts out loud. “Keith, please don’t make me go into Turnersville to ask the hicks where you are. It’s none of their business.”

There had been no wind, not even a slight one, the entire time I was out there, but after I spoke, a gentle breeze blew aside a fake Poinsettia in a plant holder for a stone marker. I saw the letters “ITH” exposed. I walked over, stunned at the coincidence, and removed the plastic bouquet. There it was - Keith’s grave. I laughed - I’d been standing right next to it when the mockingbird mocked me. I had to chuckle more - if Keith were to come back as anything, that bird would have fit him perfectly.

I finally had the chance to say things that I hadn’t been able to before. I apologized for that hateful poem. I forgave him for infecting me and for sleeping around. And I told him I loved him, missed him, and was sad that he was gone.

I drove home with the sun still shining, not a drop of rain in sight. In fact, the weather almanac shows there was, at most, a slight drizzle in both Austin and Turnersville that day.

The mockingbird and the breeze and the sunshine were all just coincidences. We all know you can’t trust the weatherman, right? Maybe I hadn’t noticed the wind before because I was so focused on finding Keith’s grave. And the bird might have been arguing with a worm. But for me, I prefer to think that it was all because Keith was happy that I had finally come to see him, and did whatever he could to help me find where his ashes lay. That’s the curse of being a romantic.

Everything I do for the AIDS community I do for him. Because of him. The person I am today was born the moment I opened my arms in his hour of need. When I transformed from a selfish child to a selfless man.

I still miss you, Keith. And yet, no matter the years that have gone, or the years yet to come, you will always be a part of my life. Part of me.

The Red Masque

"The 'Red Death' had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal -- the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour."

So begins Edgar Allan Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death". While not a precise metaphor for AIDS, the similarities are too much to overlook. Blood is the primary carrier of HIV. Red is the color of the awareness ribbon. The early victims of AIDS had lesions on the body and the face, and were wasting away to ghoulish forms. While death was not as quick, the horrors which ultimately led to the fatal end seemed quick and merciless. And, like with the Red Death, those with AIDS were shut out "from the aid and sympathy of his fellow-men."

“But the Prince [...] summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. [...] The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. [...] there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the ‘Red Death.’”

That was the other corollary, not commonly known. Groups of gay men in San Francisco, New York City and other metropolitan areas sought to protect themselves from this plague with a pact that they would only have sex with members of their group. Whatever this thing was, they would be safe if they kept to the oath and never strayed.

Yet as with Masque’s Prince Prospero, the folly of this quickly became clear: they had locked themselves in, not knowing the enemy was already amongst them. The idea that it could take years from infection to the first sign of symptoms was yet unknown. And by practicing unprotected sex with multiple partners, and with no treatment, the virus found itself able to mutate and mix with other strains.

This is the superinfection that has been paraded in the news media in recent years, long before such issues were discussed. By passing the virus between so many partners, having it mutate then passed back created a strain that was more deadly than a single infection could become.

To say that Poe was prophetic is a bit much to believe. But one has to wonder at it all. Perhaps Edgar’s drug-induced visions had given him a glimpse at what was, or what would be. Or both.

Yet who could doubt the coincidence held in the chambers of Prince Prospero’s “castellated abbeys”, described by Poe in such intimate detail?

“That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue --and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange --the fifth with white --the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet --a deep blood color.”

Other than white, these are the colors of the modern gay pride flag. A black bar is often used to represent those lost to AIDS. A black room hued with the light from the crimson-stained glass. Poe’s Red Death has a corollary with AIDS.

“...there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise — then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.”

I imagine this is how those revelers of our world, believing themselves to have escaped the plague, must have felt when the first indication of AIDS had revealed itself to them. Whether he appearance of a Kaposi Sarcoma (KS) lesion, as seen on Tom Hank’s character Andrew Beckett’s torso in the 1993 film Philadelphia, or one of their members hospitalized due to pneumocystis carinii pneumonia (PCP), cytomegalovirus (CMV) or progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy (PML).

It must have seemed to them as though the mummer from Poe’s tale had crashed the party, its attendance noticed too late to escape the horror:

"And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

And so ends Poe’s tale. It is for the reader to decide if the comparisons made are worthy of thought, discussion or consideration. Or perhaps, one should ask Edgar for his opinion...

Back to the Basics

It's been over 28 years since the first AIDS cases hit America. HIV infections in this country continue to rise. Nationwide, black men and women represent the greatest rate of increase in new infections, yet here in Austin, Texas that is currently held by young gay men 24 years old and younger.

With Texas being a deep red state, and our Governor, George W. Bush II (oops, that's Rick Perry), standing firm on so-called "Christian" values by not allowing proper sex education to be taught to the children of this state, things can only get worse.

Me and a few others have been tossing around an idea of late. We are planning to start an Austin area HIV Speakers Bureau. It will be comprised of men and women living openly with HIV/AIDS who want to put faces on this disease. By being honest about our status, we hope to educate, raise awareness, encourage safer sex, put out a message of prevention while also standing up to the stigma which has surrounded this illness from the beginning.

We already have a heterosexual man who was infected through a cut in his hand while rescuing an HIV-positive woman from a car accident. Soon we will start recruiting a diverse group of people to join us.

In advance of our actually going forward, a preliminary website has been built. Feel free to visit and bookmark it, especially if you are in the Austin, Texas area. We hope to have a good group of speakers who can talk at public schools, colleges & universities, businesses, community events and more.

http://austin-hiv-speakers.us/

Dawn of Darkness

It was 1981. July. The first indications of what was to come began to appear. Eight young gay men had died, all exhibiting signs of having a malignant form of a cancer previously only seen in very old Italian men. The lesions were due to Kaposi Sarcoma. There was also a drastic increase in cases of the rare Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia (PCP) in both California and New York.

This was the dawn of AIDS. But unlike the rising of the sun, this signaled a darkness that still hangs over this nation and the world like a heavy cloak. Death’s black cape.

I remember I was on summer break during High School when the first reports began to trickle in. There was no information, but they were all certain that this was a gay cancer. Nobody else need worry. As a young man still questioning his sexuality - though knowing in my heart the answer full well - this news terrified me. I had no idea that the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan.

The news erupted from every pulpit like a volcano. Ignorance fueled fear, fear begat anger, arrogance begat condemnation and damnation. Anger became hatred became verbal and physical attacks on the entire gay community. Religion had found it's holy sword and would help God wipe every faggot off the face of the earth with glee.

Vesuvius could not have destroyed as many lives as the Christians did. They didn't turn the other cheek - they turned their backs. They did not show the compassion of Christ, they drove us out like lepers on the streets of Nazareth. Not a one called for reason to prevail, or for hearts to open up to those who were suffering.

They made a bad situation much worse.

Gays were hunted down like wolves, blamed for all that was wrong in America. This disease was "God's punishment" for the sins against nature, a statement affirmed by then-President Ronald Reagan. Thank you, Bonzo, for your rational assessment of a health crisis. People were dying and there was celebrations in the churches, pleased with what was happening to the 'homosexuals.'

Even though I didn't yet identify as gay, I saw no rational way that a cancer could target gay men unless being gay was genetic. What an outrageous contradiction for those who believe any disease could attach to a select group to turn around and say gay people "choose" the lifestyle. I knew in my heart that one day the proof would appear. It would begin to show up in the non-gays, too. Then the hate would disappear and compassion would return.

I thought too soon. In 1982, after "gay cancer" and "gay plague" segued to GRID and then AIDS, a classmate of mine came to school wearing a t-shirt dripping with hate. The image burned itself into my memories so deeply that I have forgotten the face of the guy who wore it. Emblazoned on the front was a log reminiscent of the old RAID bug spray. Only it didn't say RAID, it read AIDS. And the catchy slogan was replaced with one far more repulsive: "Kills fags dead!"

I felt like the roaches running away from the can in the commercials. But I couldn't run. I couldn't speak. I just stood there, closing my eyes wishing it would all go away. But while the shirt was gone when I reopened my eyes, the trail of laughter that followed it still rang in my ears. That people found the shirt amusing was as abhorrent as the shirt itself. That the school administrators didn't send the boy home with a suspension or even expulsion is beyond belief.

More people were dying, 'experts' were talking, but still no real facts. The only thing one could be sure of was that nothing was sure. Fear that close contact, drinking from the same glass, kissing - even sitting on a toilet seat or breathing the same air - could pass this disease on to another person continued to rise. People became afraid to touch because they might catch whatever this thing was. And touch is the most important thing to a person who is suffering from an unknown and untreatable ailment.

If the world sat in fear, how much more afraid were those who faced certain death? Or knew they would have to face it alone?

The silence was deafening. The roar of the mob mentality even more so.

A Face of AIDS

Since leaving a bad relationship in 2000, I've been wanting to do more to raise awareness about HIV/AIDS. My long-term partner had practically silenced me for thirteen long years, so I had a lot of catching up to do. He also pushed me back in the closet as a gay man; to our friends and coworkers, we were nothing more than 'roommates.'

I'm glad that is over. Never make the mistake I did by letting somebody tell you they love you while smothering your passions.

In August 2000, I founded the GLBT Professional Network at Texas A&M University. Most of the queers in the Bryan/College Station and Texas A&M community thought it was futile. I wasn't willing to accept defeat before at least trying.

I managed to get almost immediate approval from then Dean of Faculties Janis Stout. She wasn't sure how to get the organization recognized officially, but told us to act as if we were. Anybody complained could talk to her. Of course, I knew Janis when she was a Professor in the English Department where I worked as computer IT support, so knew I could talk with her as a friend.

On March 12, 2001 we received official recognition as a Texas A&M faculty & staff organization from then-President Ray Bowen. A new milestone had been reached for the gay community, and this time without taking ten years in court.

It had already been decided by the group that, as founder, I would serve as first President, a role I knew I was not yet ready for. In May I was elected in that same role for another year. I know I made mistakes, but the transition had begun. I did my best to lead the organization in recruitment of members through social events and what we dubbed "hot topics".

In June 2002 I spoke to members of the GLBT Professional Network as well as anybody from A&M and the community that were interested about my life. It was titled "A Decade and a Half: Living with HIV/AIDS". I had made note cards with the exact words I wanted to say printed on them. I read them in a stilted, nervous manner. Rarely did my eyes leave the cards. Obviously, I was not ready to speak in public, but by forcing myself, was on the right path.

I was later invited to speak to a sorority group about the same topic. I was becoming known. As the only "out" positive person on campus, people wanted to hear what I had to say.

As I was planning my departure from B/CS, I attended a screening of the AIDS documentary film "A Closer Walk" at A&M. There were not that many in attendance, but more than I expected there to be. At the end, the moderator took questions from the audience. I sat and listened, wanting to see if there were any ignorant or tasteless ones. To my amazement and pleasure, there were none, but nothing hard-hitting, either. All the questions were asked by people who remained seated.

I decided it was time for me to say something. When I was called upon, I stood. With a load, clear voice I said, "I stand because somebody has to, and I suppose that somebody is me, because I have AIDS." I felt every set of eyes fixated on me, and every ear turned to listen. I talked about how important it was to be heard and seen, how we who are living with this can look no different from anybody else. The entire audience listened, and applauded when I was done.

At the end, a young woman approached me. "That was very brave of you." she told me. I looked at her and replied, "Was it bravery, or necessity? Because I believe it's more the latter than the former." She nodded in silent agreement and took that thought with her.

In 2006 I was invited to participate as a panelist for a World AIDS Day symposium at Texas A&M. I was also interviewed by the Bryan television station KBTX earlier that day. While it was mangled a bit by the reporter, taking some parts out of context, my grandmother approved. That alone meant the world to me.

The next year I did a phone interview for the Bryan Eagle, the paper back in B/CS. Mind you, I'd been in Austin since late March 2004, and was in Italy the first half of the month. Yet I was still being asked to be a voice and a face for HIV/AIDS in the Brazos Valley.

One thing I have been doing since moving to Austin is trying to become a face for AIDS here. Every year since I got to this city I've worn a t-shirt of my own design for AIDS Walk. The first year was a design I already had. But then I decided to put my face on the shirts.



I'm already planning my new shirt for 2009.


I hope that by being more visible and more vocal I can raise awareness and reduce the stigma that has surrounded this disease from the beginning. As the stigma fades, the fear will no longer keep those of us living with it in hiding. And then we can work together to put a stop to this disease for good.

Ignorance is Not Justice

When I read the news item below out of Dallas, it made me very angry. How is it that after 27 years of HIV/AIDS, ignorance is still so prevalent? That fear (which is the source of most ignorance) is allowed to drive people to make rash judgments.

Read the article for my factual argument below.

HIV-positive man sentenced 35 years for spitting at officer


Thu May 15, 6:32 AM ET

DALLAS - An HIV-positive man convicted of spitting into the eye and mouth of a Dallas police officer has been sentenced to 35 years in prison.

Because a jury found that Willie Campbell used his saliva as a deadly weapon, the 42-year-old will have to serve half his sentence before becoming eligible for parole. He was sentenced Wednesday.

Campbell was being arrested in May 2006 for public intoxication when he began resisting and kicking inside the patrol car, Dallas police office Dan Waller testified.

Campbell was convicted of harassment of a public servant.


It is a well-known fact that HIV is not transmitted by saliva. Thus, the officer's life or health were never in danger, thus Mr. Campbell's saliva was not "a deadly weapon."

Which body fluids transmit HIV?


These body fluids have been shown to contain high concentrations of HIV:

blood
semen
vaginal fluid
breast milk
other body fluids containing blood

The following are additional body fluids that may transmit the virus that health care workers may come into contact with:
fluid surrounding the brain and the spinal cord
fluid surrounding bone joints
fluid surrounding an unborn baby

HIV has been found in the saliva and tears of some persons living with HIV, but in very low quantities. It is important to understand that finding a small amount of HIV in a body fluid does not necessarily mean that HIV can be transmittedby that body fluid. HIV has not been recovered from the sweat of HIV-infected persons. Contact with saliva, tears, or sweat has never been shown to result in transmission of HIV.


I am going to try and get ACLU and other rights organizations to fight for Mr. Cambpell's sentence to reduced to jail time only for a month or two. Not this fear and ignorance-driven sentence. When people are put in prison for 40 years on murder charges, this is shameful and discriminatory.

I'm ashamed that this happened in my state. Or in my country. Almost three decades after this disease was discovered, and the pandemic of ignorance rages on.

Donating to Those Needier

I have been in Austin for over four years now. I wish I could love it, but for most of this time I've been without work, and when I have managed to get hired, it's so far beneath my experience level it's depressing.

After seventeen years working at Texas A&M in a variety of fields - from graphic design to IT support to server admin to database development and database server admin - I have yet to find those jobs. If I do, I rarely get the interview, and those very few for which I have, there's always a "better candidate" that's selected.

I had to sell my car, my laptop, my iPod, my Palm, my TiVo, my DVD player, and my TV. All my CDs and DVDs and books are gone as well.

I started a job last week, but it won't pay me near what I'm worth.

But this isn't about that at all.

My second night in Austin - with quite a bit of money after cashing in my retirement account with the state - I attended a fundraiser for AIDS Services of Austin. A friend had told me about it just hours before it began.

I found myself putting $1 and $5 bills in the baskets during and after each performer. When the emcee announced that Rainbow Cattle Company had made a sizable donation, as had an anonymous donor, I knew I had to do the same. It's one reason I moved from College Station to Austin - for the opportunity to help those for whom HIV/AIDS had been far more devastating than it had been for me (after a little over seventeen years).

If I had known that two years later I'd be needing the services I had come here to support, and that every penny I gave was money that could have helped me stand on my own a bit longer, I'd still give.

I can't be selfish. I won't be selfish, despite many friends writing me off as insane for putting others before myself.

Money I make from selling AIDS awareness designs on my Cafepress shops does not go to me. I purchase art pieces from my other online stores to be donated to silent auctions. Again, I can't justify making money off a cause as important as this. I've lost my cousin, a good friend and my first partner to this disease. I'm still here so I can continue to fight for all who have died, all who are sick, and those yet to come.

I recently donated an art piece of mine to the Octopus Club's ArtErotica fundraiser for the Paul Kirbey Emergency Fund at AIDS Services of Austin. I had donated two art pieces last year, so felt it was a good event to support.

Imagine my excitement when my work sold at a high bid that was $70 over the value! I won't get that money, of course. It goes to the cause.

So, while I continue to scrape up every last thing of value to sell in order to survive - and trust me, the barrel is pretty much empty now - I will still refuse to return to the selfish man I used to be.

Give a little, give a lot. Give until it hurts. Help raise awareness, help to educate, help fight the stigma of this disease, and just as importantly, help those who are living with HIV/AIDS.

It's not just in Africa: it's everywhere. It's in America, in Texas, in Travis County, in Austin. it's in your neighborhood whether you know it or not.

I DON'T Heart Huckabee

The revelation that Republican presidential candidate Mike Huckabee had stated back in 1992 that he believed that AIDS patients should be "isolated" (in other words, quarantined) does not surprise me. He also thought that the federal government should stop funding research toward a cure. Between his blatant ignorance, Ronald Reagan's infamous long silence, George W. Bush's asinine abstinence first HIV prevention plan and every other ridiculous idea coming from Republicans, it's no wonder HIV/AIDS cases are once again rising rapidly.

Huckabee also stated in that 1992 Associated Press candidate questionnaire that "I feel homosexuality is an aberrant, unnatural, and sinful lifestyle, and we now know it can pose a dangerous public health risk." Well, I think people like Huckabee pose a dangerous public health risk, a hazard to liberty, and an insult to our nation.

But let me pose some open questions to Mr. Huckabee.

1) So, Mike. How do you propose to find all the people living with HIV/AIDS? Raid the private medical records? Might be a good (if highly unethical) start. But what of those who are not receiving treatment? What of those who have never been tested? So, will you spend billions forcing EVERY American to be tested? What about non-Americans that are here (legally or not)? What test would you use? The standard antibody test will return a negative result for about six weeks to six MONTHS after infection. How frequently would you force people to be tested to ensure you didn't miss anybody? A viral load test would show a positive result immediately, but is more costly. That's why it's not done, even though the sooner it's known, the quicker the person can get into care.

2) Huckster. May I call you Huckster? Oh well, I'll do it anyway. Where would you put us all? The CDC estimated about 1.2 MILLION people in the U.S. were living with HIV -- at the end of 2003. Recently, the CDC announced that they may have drastically underestimated the number of people who are positive and don't know it. Duh. But to keep up with the rate of new infections (about 40,000/year reported), we will need space for at least 2 million persons. Probably closer to three or four. We don't want to be crowded. And don't think you can do to us what was done to the natives of this land. We don't want to go to Santa Fe or Phoenix.

3) What about our jobs, our friends and families? What about our HIV-negative partners who are quite familiar with safe sex practices? What about our homes? Would they be fumigated and sold at auction, or just burnt to the ground?

4) Who will pay for all of this? The testing, the relocation, building our condos, the Ikea furnishings?

Sure, some of what I wrote here was tongue-in-cheek, but it's a serious topic overall. It scares me that this man is running. It scares me even more that people will vote for him.

Don't Let Sex Ruin Your Life

Good. Now that I have your attention, it's time to talk about a very grave matter--literally. By now you have all heard of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS). You know basically what it is, what it does and how it is spread. But do you know how to avoid it?

You may be saying, "What, me worry? I'm not gay, and I don't use needles, so I won't get it." Wrong. A common misconception is that you must be in a high-risk group to get AIDS. If you are having sex, regardless of who you are with, you are in a high-risk group. It's as simple as that. [While the number of cases of gay males with AIDS is higher than the number of heterosexuals with the disease--males and females--heterosexual cases rapidly are increasing.] This is due mainly to lack of education about having "safe sex."

AIDS is caused by the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV), which is spread through the exchange of body fluids such as blood, semen, urine and possibly saliva. It does not discriminate about who it affects. No matter your sex, age, sexual orientation or shoe size, you are at risk unless you follow safe sex practices. This primarily means you should USE A CONDOM. No, Dr. Ruth hasn't taken over The Battalion. If you aren't going to follow Reagan's advice--complete abstinence from sex--then a condom is necessary equipment.

"Why?" you ask. Remember Mom's wise words, "Don't touch that, you don't know where it's been." Can you be certain that whoever you're in bed with is healthy? Sure, she said you were her first as she threw off the feather boa. Or maybe he told you that he's been saving himself for just the right girl. You can trust them, can't you? No. It has been said that nowadays when you take someone to bed, you're also sleeping with everyone they've had sex with in the past five years. And vice versa. How can you be sure that you haven't been exposed already?

Many places in the Bryan-College Station area perform blood tests for the HIV antibody. This is not a test for AIDS. It can only detect the presence of antibodies that indicate infection from the virus sometime in the past. A positive result does not mean you have or will contract AIDS.

Some of the labs that offer these tests are:
[list of labs removed since outdated.]

The question now is, how do you talk to a potential sleeping partner about practicing safe sex? What if it scare them away? Or if they tell you not to worry about it, what should you do? First, you should ask yourself, "is sleeping with him or her really worth dying?" If your answer is "yes," you had better start digging.

The best way to handle the situation is to simply express your concern about AIDS, and discuss the ways to decrease your chances of contracting it, i.e.--safe sex. Remember, you must both follow the safe sex guidelines if they are to do any good. Don't let your partner convince you not to bother "just this once." This is your health they are risking, and possibly even their own.

Many people believe that talking about AIDS or using a condom takes the romance out of love-making. Yes, perhaps it does a little, but how romantic is the tale of the man who killed his lady with his love? Actually, safe sex need not detract from the romance. The general rule is to use your imagination, as long as you keep your fluids to yourself.

Just what is safe? Basically, there are four categories of safety. "Safe" sex includes dry kissing, mutual masturbation, oral sex with a condom, massage and fantasy. Vaginal and anal intercourse with a condom are "possibly safe."

Those practices classed as "risky" include oral sex without a condom, cunnilingus, wet kissing, and use of drugs or alcohol. Drugs and alcohol decrease judgement ability and also lower your immune system defenses. Unprotected vaginal or anal sex, intravenous drugs, sharing needles and rimming are considered "dangerous" and should be avoided.

Some numbers you can call for more information on AIDS and safe sex are:
National AIDS Hotline 1-800-342-AIDS (4-minute recording);
1-800-447-AIDS (Live Operators);
KS/AIDS Foundation, 1-713-523-AIDS (Houston);

Despite the occasional jokes, this is a serious subject. You should not only learn safe sex, but use it. You may think, "I can't change my habits." You can, and you had better. All it takes is one night to ruin the rest of your life. Protect yourself--and the one you're with. Play it safe and live.