Chapter 13 - Guilt

Chapter 13 – Guilt

I was originally going to write this chapter as a 6 month review of where I was after diagnosis but that time has come and gone. It was a point where I thought I had beaten the depression I was suffering after being told I was HIV positive but I now know, at 9 months that I’m not there yet. I also intended on writing a post on a more interesting and (for me) a more fun topic, drugs, but that will have to wait.

I had my first session with my clinical psychologist yesterday, he gets paid a lot of money to say very little. I talked for an hour, he talked for 2 minutes but some truths came out that I now have to face. I don’t know exactly how he expects me to deal with these issues but I think if I record them I may be able to let them go when I hit the POST button so here goes.

I was at the World Aids Day candle light vigil last week. It is a ceremony that I hold dearer than Christmas. It is a time that I remember those guys who I have lost, men who taught me so much before they were taken away by AIDS. Taken when still young and full of life, never given a chance to really savor the life they could have had. I burn a candle for them each year and think that by keeping their memory alive, at least with me then their deaths were not in vain. This year I also burnt that candle for me, an attempt to extinguish the control HIV has taken of my life. Symbolic, yes, but important as a way for me to move forward, or so I thought…..

I sat at a ceremony in Brisbane where the MC was too young to have any memory of the horror we faced on a daily basis during the 80’s and 90’s, yet there he stood conducting a ceremony that he barely understood. Beside me sat two young guys eating rice crackers while the ceremony took place and I thought, “How lucky you are to live in a time when you don’t have to face the terror that we had to endure day after day”.  I remember a time when I would walk into a gay bar to catch up with friends and the first thing you would notice was a group at the end of the bar quietly having a drink. They would have just arrived from a funeral service for a friend lost, someone who had to rely on the friends who had stuck around to organise a funeral because the family didn’t want to claim their son. It was such a regular occurrence that it was barely worth noticing by the mid-nineties. I would look around the group to see if I recognized anyone, just in case I knew the friend they had lost. We grew strong together in the face of so much death, so much loss, so much rejection and hate. We supported each other as a community to try and survive the constant onslaught of grief and despair. We partied hard, played harder, anything in an attempt to forget, even if only for a moment, the destruction that was going on around us.

It was during this time that I became involved with many of the guys that I celebrate each year during the candle light vigil. I was never a hero, others can take that accolade, and many more deserve it, but I did step forward to offer help where I could. My first loss was Roy, I’ve spoken of him and his partner Stuart before, the image of Roy in those last moments will never leave me. He was my mentor into gay culture, he passed onto me an understanding of what it was to be gay and proud in a culture that had turned its back on us hoping we would all get infected and die. He was strong to the end. Never losing his joy or his love of life. When I was asked by Stuart to be a pall bearer I was both honored and distraught. Roy was part of the leather community and although many have a different impression of this culture they were always loyal, supportive and at the forefront in fighting for the dignity and respect for the fallen. So there I am at the front of Roy’s coffin surrounded by men in leather trying to do Roy proud in carrying him to his rest. He was surrounded by family, although no one present shared the same blood, there was a complete absence of any biological family. This was not surprising or unusual nor was it necessary because the chapel was full, full of people who accepted Roy for who he was, people who did not care that he had died because a virus had destroyed him, people who did not care that he loved Stuart and had made a life with him until the end, in fact they were proud of him for all those reasons. After the ceremony we became ‘that group’ at the end of the bar that I had seen too often, drinking and remembering times spent in happier days. Days when death and fear were not foremost in our minds. Roy died peacefully at home, with his two dogs lying quietly beside him on the bed and his lover by his side. Painlessly due to the morphine but needlessly, undeservedly and at a time when politicians were publically stating that we deserved what we got because of the lifestyle we chose. Is it any wonder I felt anger.

Roy was my first loss but he was in no way my last. Some I can’t name because we lived at a time when we were desperate and no help was at hand. A time when we were left to support each other without any sign of relief or hope. I am not ashamed to admit that I was scared during this period, I was in my mid-twenties. I was fucking anything that moved, a double take was enough for me to get it on with anyone, anywhere. But so much of the sex we had back then was frantic and fraught with danger. There was a need to show that we were still alive among so much death. A need to proclaim our place in the world because the signs were all around us that it could all change in an instance. I’ve sat beside guys who were sick, knowing that help was not going to come, I’ve said my farewells, lent over and embraced them with all my might before moving pills within arm’s reach because they were too sick to get out of bed, so that they could self-administer medications. Knowing that it would be the last time I would see them in this world. Having to walk away and leave the house so that I couldn’t be implicated in anything they chose to do after I had left. How do I live with those decision? I had seen the path these guys were on, I knew the long drawn out suffering they were heading towards. Doctors couldn’t offer a solution, the government wasn’t racing to our aid, the wider community hadn’t taken 2 steps back they had run to make sure there was distance between us while they watched us suffer alone. We had to make awful decisions, decisions that were all we had left at the time but that now haunt me and that I need to deal with if I am going to get on with my life.

I have been diagnosed at a time when HIV is no longer a death sentence, with treatment the virus can be controlled so it is now classified as a chronic condition. Guys that I meet and talk to who did not live through those plague years seem to handle this new situation better than I am. Many of the younger guys I meet or talk to appear to take this diagnosis in their stride and I didn’t understand why I was having such internal turmoil coming to grips with it myself.  

The first thing I did when I was given my diagnosis was plan my funeral, I started giving away my possessions because I knew they would no longer be needed by me. I contacted funeral homes to discuss options, I started looking into my financial situation to plan for the end. I know I don’t need to do any of those things but there is an emotion that has driven me into this frame of mind and I need to release it somehow.

Guilt, guilt that I will survive this virus, guilt that I will survive knowing those who didn’t, guilt for the actions I have taken in allowing others to end their lives in the only way they felt they had control over, guilt for actions and decisions I have taken that I shouldn’t have had to make but now have to live with. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

When I burn that candle every year I burn it in memory of those I lost, I burn it to ask forgiveness for still being alive. I know that sounds strange but if you have read any of the proceeding pages then it is surely obvious that I have always been promiscuous and hungry for sex. The mere fact that I escaped the 90’s without becoming positive while being surrounded by the turmoil that was going on is quite simply miraculous. By the time I left Sydney I was burnt out, not by the city, not by the gay community but by the fight for justice, too many funerals, too many groups of men in bars drinking farewell, too many messages of hate, by the need to pronounce my right to be who I was, the need to openly announce to the greater community that I was here, I was queer and I wasn’t going to die to keep them happy.

So now I realise that old ghosts have risen. I know that Roy and Stuart, Alex and Thomas and all the others don’t hate me for living. They live through my memory of them but the guilt I feel for surviving when they have gone is real, it is strong and it is holding me back. My therapist tells me that I need to separate their journey from mine but how do I do that. Our stories are so intertwined into who I am, where I have come from. They have shaped my thought, my ideals my very being that I fear that separating them will somehow take away something precious within me. 

My therapist calls this homework, I call it a nightmare. He calls it survivors’ guilt and post-traumatic stress, I call it the life I have had to lead, the decisions I have had to make, and the memories I need to keep. Because I realised on Saturday night while that young couple ate rice crackers and listened to the speakers that they were attending a gay event because it was, a gay event. I am the last generation left that can remember why this event exists first hand. I’m not ready for the holocaust that I witnessed to be forgotten, for the deaths to become names in a book, for my memories to fade into the past. 

But…

I somehow have to let go of something in order for me to move forward. I’ve met someone who may be part of that journey, I hope, but I fear that this baggage I carry may be holding me back. He is old enough to understand, but too young to have experienced what I am going through right now. He flies out tomorrow to spend Christmas with family in England and doesn’t return until the 6^th Jan. That gives me a month to try and work out how to forgive myself for surviving while those around me didn’t, how to forgive myself for the choices I’ve made in helping other make choices about how their stories ended, to forgive myself for being in this situation at all.

I know I have to, that’s why I’ve sought out help but I have no idea how I’m going to do this. Maybe I should have talked about drugs: that at least I would have enjoyed.

Chapter 12 - Love & Sex part 3

Chapter 12 – Love & Sex part 3

The trouble with being a romantic is the difference between the joy and exhilaration of being in love finds its counterpoint in the despair and misery of love lost. Anthony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, the passion of their romance only matched by the romance of their demise. The euphoria of being in love and being loved reaching heights you never thought were possible while the sorrows of love lost reaching depths unfathomable.

But, this chapter is titled part 3 and I am not going to talk about love but about sex. I was contemplating not writing this chapter, the impetus that led me to begin this series has waned. Much has happened since I began talking about love and the chapters discussing some of my experiences with men I have loved, but it somehow feel that it would not be fair on anyone who reads this blog to not deliver as promised. So the things that are on my mind now will need to wait, simmering in the back of my head, waiting for another opportunity to come to the fore and move onto the page. Not that I think this particular subject is of such a significant importance that it needs to be discussed, far from it as will become apparent, but it has been mentioned in earlier episodes and would appear as a missing chapter in the sequence of my narrative if I don’t complete it.  

Sex has played such an important part in my life that to dedicate a whole chapter to discussing it seems appropriate, although it is going to be a short one. 

So on with the show as they say.

I think I need to explore what my motivation was in starting this discussion on love & sex to begin with. As I have openly announced through this blog I am a gay man who now finds himself to be HIV positive. I am not an intravenous drug user (I’ll discuss drugs later), I have also never received a blood transfusion, this leaves the most obvious infection source on the table, sex, specifically man on man action involving penetration and thereby, exposure. Today marks the 6 month anniversary of my GP telling me that my body was now host to a retrovirus, something so small that it can’t be seen but so powerful that it has change my whole life in ways I could never have imagined. Since that moment in time the mere thought of being close to someone, the idea of physical contact with another human being has been closed off. The fear that I could possibly pass this invader onto someone else scares me into abstinence. The thought of rejection if I was to discuss my status with a possible partner has driven me to close down social contact and avoid placing myself into a situation where someone I might be interested in will turn their backs. I have discussed the rejection I received from the partners that I contacted when I was first diagnosed. The fact that I had been socializing with many of them for 1 or 2 years so that we had moved well beyond a casual relationship into friendship yet they were all able to discard me the moment they found out, does not give me hope that a stranger will be any different when faced by my new reality.

I don’t intend for this discussion to appear, or read like soft porn, I don’t plan on focusing on the details of my sex life although if relevant to my point I will. I really want to talk more about the role of sex, the function of sex and dynamics of sex as a social tool within the framework of my life.

As a young teenager, going through puberty and coming into the realisation of who and what I was, sex, as a concept began to take hold. This is the period when we as humans begin to discover the true sense of self, when we begin to understand who we are. The problem for me, and I suppose most other gay youth, was the fact that any education we did receive on sex was conducted within the arena of a biology class. This would inevitably revolve around an understanding of the female/male sex organs and how the two of these interacted for reproduction. Although I could understand the theory and purpose of this process it did not provide me with any tools to use in exploring the feelings I was developing. My sex education began when I was 13, with men I would meet in parks or any other public venue that I discovered. I was a good student and eager to learn, many of these men may have felt that they were taking advantage of my youth but I was hungry for knowledge and with each new experience my repertoire increased. I discovered how to make someone experience the pleasure of sex in ways they hadn’t thought of. Some may think that due to my age at the time that this was a bad experience and those I had sex with at that time should be punished but nothing could be further from the truth.  I was a willing and eager participant and was soon enticing men into my embrace so that I could increase my experience. I was never interested in getting to know these men, nor did they have any desire to continue a relationship with me, but I grew because of them. 

By the time I left school I was well and truly a sexually active teenager. I had played with enough men to discover the many different approaches to sex but more importantly I was discovering what it was that drove my sexual desires. To anybody that knows me this revelation I was going through may not come as a surprise, I think it forms one of the strongest components of my personality make-up. My greatest desire was to make the other person happy. As simple as that. I do not deal well with anybody near me displaying negative emotions, anger, aggression or even disappointment results in me collapsing internally. I have never been able to deal with situation where I find these negative emotion displayed and if confronted with them I do not deal well. 

Once I realised this, sex became like a philanthropic activity. It was no longer necessary for me to be ‘horny’ to be drawn to a sexual experience I simply had to come into contact with another male who was. I discovered that all the euphoric feelings that accompany the orgasmic rush I could receive almost through osmosis with my partner. My orgasm, although welcomed and enjoyed was not necessary for my pleasure as long as I could experience the pleasure I gave others. 

This ability to separate my body and mind and to recognize that what I do physically does not need to actually involve my conscious mind, has led me into some amazing situations. It has led me into being very free and easy when it comes to sex. I just realised that I used the word ‘free’ in that last sentence but as I have said before in the chapter on ‘touch’ my ass has not always been ‘free’. I think talking about the period when I was working the streets being paid for sex may be a good place to explore my discussion. Some people may find the topic of prostitution distasteful, and that is fine, it’s a personal judgement, but much of that distaste, I think, stems from the relationship that person has with their bodies and the value they place on the act of sex. Unlike going to a bar and picking someone up whom you fancy, as a sex worker your personal tastes were not involved, a client chooses you because you appealed to their taste. This interaction really appealed to me sexually, the dynamic of it all thrilled me. Here was a profession that revolved around the very concept that was so ingrained into my sexual persona that we were really a match. Remembering that I was also working in a well-paid position at this time so the monetary value of working the streets was of no consequence I was simple given a new and exciting way to have sex. Giving the person I was being paid by an experience they would fell was ‘worth the money’ was easy. If I was playing a passive role, which was the majority of the time I didn’t need to orgasm to be satisfied and although they didn’t realise it, the guys I was with would be giving me all the pleasure I needed, simply by enjoying themselves. 

And so the story goes.

As I look back at my life I realise that the vast majority of relationships I have had, whether a single encounter or one that lasts for years all began with sex. I have used it as a tool to meet people, as a way of avoiding unnecessary small talk or as a way to feel wanted. Sad isn’t it. I will say that the conversations I have had with people after sex seem more genuine than those I have had before sex. The need to impress is over, we have each seen each other at our most vulnerable and it feels like there is nowhere to hide so the real person is exposed. 

Throughout my whole adult life my social life has revolved around sex. It has been the primary, and at times only method I have used to connect with anyone. But now I feel damaged, infected, undesirable and worthless. I feel like a medieval leper who rings a bell to warn people of their presence. My social skills have always revolved around the casual flirt and now I feel I have nothing to offer. This is part of the reason I rarely socialize outside of a gay venue or event. Flirting is so instinctive that even when straight guys are present I will be thinking about bedding them and when I realise what I am doing I back off through fear of their anger should they realise my thoughts.

So my blood results tell me that I have a viral load in my blood which is so low that it can’t be detected. Health/HIV organisations around the world confirm that an undetectable viral load equates to an untransmitable situation. As long as I remain on the treatment I can’t pass the virus onto anyone else. I see that, I understand that, I accept that as a truth, but, it’s in my head. 

I’ve moved in the last 6 months from having 3-4 partners a week to zero. 3-4 partners a week may seem like a lot but this was, for me, quiet. I only dropped to this number a couple of years ago, previously through my 20’s, 30’s and 40’s this would be an average day on the weekend with a few more thrown in through the week, now to zero. The physical contact that provided me with a continual stream of endorphins, which kept my mind and body uplifted has gone. And like a drug, for drug it is, I am now going through the depression of withdrawal, but unlike a drug it has taken with it my self-confidence, my desire to meet people, my desire to connect and even my desire to be around people.  I know that sex is not who I am, but it has been such a large component of my life I’m feeling at a loss without it. Sex is no longer going to be an easy thing for me to be involved with, it’s now a serious and scary conversation that I will have to have before I actually get to know someone. With the experiences I have already gone through with those that I knew before I found out I was positive I don’t think I am ready to face further rejection. The trouble is that I sit here looking out of my window watching the ‘beautiful people’ walk by and I realise that I am re-enacting the classic image of isolation and depression on some doctors office wall poster.

Sex, sex, sex, I can’t give it up, can’t live without it, or rather wonder, is it worth living without it. The damage that the last 6 months has done to my mental health is immense. It has destroyed my ability to be open to or even responsive to the idea of sex. I flirt with guys because it’s instinctive but when I realise that they are flirting back I withdraw in case they propose to progress beyond the flirt. Or more often I realise that someone is flirting with me and I hold back my response which would be to return the flirt because I can’t let it progress, for fear of being hurt.

Until I can get my mental health into some kind of order I don’t think I am going to be able to allow myself to be open to people. I recognize that what I am going through is my own internalised stigma but that’s not even half the battle, merely the first volley over the trenches, it may be a war with many battles.

Chapter 11 - Love & Sex part 2

Chapter 11 – Love & Sex part 2

Am I a romantic? I like to tell myself that I’m not but if I’m honest I’m really the worst type of romantic there is. The very idea of having someone who would slay dragons to protect me, or someone that I would slay the dragon to rescue, someone who could stare into my eyes and not need to say a word to express how they feel just makes my heart skip a beat. Images of being part of a couple fill my mind, strolling in each other’s arms, lying in each other’s arms on a lazy Sunday morning. Having coffee at our favourite café, he smiles at me over the brim of his cappuccino, his eyes expressing the joy of being together, simply having favourite places to go or things to do as a couple. 

Was Andrew a romantic? The answer is a simple yes. We’d send each other little love notes even if we were seeing each other that night. Notes left on pillows or placed in a jacket pocket to be discovered at some later time. Little snippets of poetry or quotes from our favourite authors. Because this was a regular feature of our lives, to make small romantic gestures to each other I don’t recall them all, which is heartbreaking as I sit here remembering the experience but not the details. It is this that makes my remembrance of that final note I was to receive from Andrew, the Longfellow quote I placed in part 1, all the more powerful to me. Why do I have to remember the end so clearly while the fine details of our time together fades?

I know what my problem is, I have always known what my problem is when it comes to romance and love. I’m a hopeless romantic. This seems like the perfect place to be, a hopeless romantic will see the romance in everything, will create romance even when none is present, will love the object of their affections unconditionally and forever. You only need to think about my discussion of Andrew to know the truth of that statement. My problem doesn’t lie in my ability to love, my ability to find joy and contentment in the arms of someone I love, my problem is sex.

I’m going to talk about sex a little later because it plays such a large part of my life experience, my past, present and future but I want to move back to the current topic of Love.

So as I said before, the end for Andrew and I occurred when he walked into my apartment to discover me entertaining two other guys. Who were they and what were we up to? Well the first to arrive was Daniel, he was an aboriginal boy who had moved into the apartment below me with another friend. Shortly after their arrival there was a knock on my door and when I opened it I discovered Daniels flat mate on my doorstep. “Hi, my flat mate thinks your cute and would like to get to know you.” Was his plain and to the point statement. “Great, tell him to come up and say hi.” This he promptly did and we soon began to spend the occasional afternoon rolling around my apartment satisfying our carnal lust for each other. There was never any thoughts of this relationship developing any further than spontaneous sex, Daniel knew I was in a relationship, he often ran into Andrew and I together in the building. This is the fault in me that I was talking about, I have always separated love and sex so seeing Daniel was never cheating in my mind because there was only physical attachment never emotional. The other guy who was present that fateful day was Jorge, our relationship was in much the same vein as that with Daniel although it was becoming dangerous because I was beginning to develop feelings towards him. But I will say in my defense that Andrew came into the apartment to find the 3 of us in my lounge room, fully clothed, sitting apart and not post coitus. I just felt that I needed to set the record straight so that no one thinks Andrew walked in to find me wrapped around two guys performing the pages of the Karma Sutra.

The problem was that both of the guys sitting in my lounge that day knew about Andrew, both were happy to play with me behind his back, I think that this was part of the thrill they received in playing with me. But when confronted by his presence their guilt shone through and it was this that Andrew picked up on that infamous day. The disappointing thing about that day, and I’m going to appear shallow but I didn’t get any sex that day both Daniel and Jorge left shortly after Andrew’s departure. I never got together with Daniel again after that day, Jorge on the other hand was a little more resilient, so let’s move on.

Jorge was very different from Andrew in many ways. To start with Andrew was a little shorter than me but only just, Jorge came up to my shoulders, he was heavy built compared to Andrew’s slim frame. Solid and muscular he was quite capable of lifting me up like a pebble and carrying me to wherever he wanted. He was dark and handsome, with his dark hair and olive skin a polar opposite to Andrew’s Anglo appearance. He was also endowed with the thickest largest Latin cock I have ever had to contend with. Nature had well and truly blessed his smaller stature with equipment that would put most other men to shame, which combined with his ingrained South American machismo made our love-making intense forceful and tonsil ticklingly satisfying, if I’d still had tonsils. I met Jorge in Centennial Park in Sydney, one lustful afternoon. As usual whenever I was out and about I was cruising. I don’t mean that I was constantly out specifically looking for sex but rather I was, and am, always checking guys out and where possible flirting, I can’t help it. I was just thinking that this ability to flirt even when in the company of others may have developed while I was working as a prostitute but that’s not true, I think it was a skill that allowed me to be reasonable successful in that role but one that I already had in my arsenal. Anyway Jorge and I got each other’s attention without a word being said and before you know it the karma sutra comes out and we lose the rest of the day. That should have been it, we should have gone our separate ways and most likely never seen each other again, but Jorge’s pillow talk. 

English was not Jorge’s first language and it showed, his errors in word choice or grammar simply made me laugh, his mistakes were endearing. He would revert to Spanish in frustration which made me laugh all the harder but at the same time was making my heart melt. If you have never had a South American boy lie beside you after frenzied love making talking to you in Spanish, I highly recommend it, it’s like strawberries and champagne, sunsets and moonlit nights and slow dancing until dawn. His Latin maleness, the ease and confidence with which he carried himself made me swoon, and so began our affair. So on the rare day that I wasn’t seeing Andrew I began to spend time with Jorge. They were polar opposites not just in appearance but in personalities, Andrew was gentle, soft and placid whereas Jorge was strong, forceful and in charge. Jorge was most definitely trapped in the Latin views regarding gender roles and he knew where he sat in regards to his and my roles in the relationship. We discussed machismo a lot because it oozed from every pore. He was always in charge and I was his, but he was so fucking hot! 

So I want to talk about machismo for a little bit because it was such a fundamental aspect of Jorge’s personality and, thinking about it, part of why we were together for almost four years. The idea of gender specific roles where the man is boss and the woman is subservient seems strange and outdated to most of us, but in Latin countries it’s still a dominant force. Jorge was influenced by this growing up in Chile like everyone else.

 I think when he discovered that he was gay it only reinforced his need to prove to himself that he still fitted into his societies construct, that he was a man, so his machismo simply grew stronger to the point that it was the dominant feature in all his decision making. I was automatically assigned the female role within this Latin relationship so decisions on where we were going, what we were doing, how and when we would make love were all controlled by him. To some this may sound like a dominating, abusive type of relationship but I want to show that it never was. The contrast between Andrew and Jorge was profound and it was this that drew me to Jorge. Andrew offered and gave me a relationship between to equal partners, mutual decisions and mutual choices and with all that there was always going to be those times when choices or preferences were in conflict. That was fine we discuss options, come to an agreement and proceed. With Jorge that process did not exist, once he had made a decision, or made plans it was assumed that I would be ready and prepared to accept the choices made for me. There were rare occasions where I was asked what I wanted to do and if I had something in mind he was happy to comply with my wishes, but I think that by the time this option was ever offered I had already been so encased in the choices he would make I would select something that would appeal to him anyway. It was a beautiful thing to be treated this way. Really who doesn’t want to be treated this way, loved, pampered, taken care of, protected and cherished?

This makes it sound like an abusive kind of relationship but it was nothing of the sort, I’m not stupid and could see what was happening around me and so could Jorge. He was fiery, yes, but never violent, forceful but never hurtful, dominant but never domineering. He allowed my nurturing traits to come out when it came to language. With English as a second language I was constantly correcting his word choice or syntax, it was inevitable that he would constantly revert to Spanish when trying to convey and idea and would usually attempt a straight word for word translation as best he could, sometimes with hilarious results. And that boy did he have hips, you have not been dancing until you have danced with a Latin man, the steam that would rise as the music took control, be still my beating heart. When we were on the dance floor there was no one else around, he would just draw me in, let me know that I was his partner and let the beat take control, I swear to any god you people used to give us space once we got going, which is quite an achievement in a gay nightclub.

His energy was contagious, he loved life, wanted to savor it all, constantly chasing excitement and thrills and as his partner I was along for the ride. Life with Jorge was exhausting, he lived like there was no tomorrow, never leave for tomorrow an experience that could be lived today. His energy was boundless and exuded from every pour being as close to him as I was it was impossible not to absorb the energy from him, and he had enough to feed everyone around. The reason for this boundless love of life became very clear the moment Australia allowed Chilean dictator Pinochet to step foot onto our shore. Jorge loved Chile, his cousin with whom he shared an apartment loved Chile, their families, what remained, loved Chile but everyone hated Pinochet. The only reason I met Jorge at all was the fact that escaped from Chile with his cousin, if he hadn’t escaped to Australia he may not have been around for me to meet and fall in love with at all. The Pinochet regime was brutal to the gay community in Chile, most of Jorge’s friend had been arrested and disappeared under the policies of Pinochet. Family had been arrested, imprisoned and killed. When we discovered that Pinochet was to be received at Sydney Town Hall I was to see the full force of the hatred Jorge had for this man, the anger, the ability to kill someone that rose to the surface at the very mention of his name. We went to Town Hall that day to protest his presence, how could we not. As far as I know ASIO still have Jorge and my pictures on file because we saw them there photographing events and us. I think that if I hadn’t been present beside Jorge that day I would have lost him forever because although we threw rocks and abuse tried to smash the windows of the car Jorge would not have been satisfied with that and would have sacrificed his life to get his hands onto Pinochet’s throat. Don’t think I held him back, there would have been no way for me to even try if the opportunity had arisen but I think my presence was enough to stem the rage a little. I saw a side of Jorge that day that I had never seen before. To watch someone’s blood boil so fiercely that it is like a nuclear bomb about to explode and is capable of wiping out anything in its path that was Jorge. How can we as a society allow someone into this country when we know what they are doing to their people at home? How can we as Australians accept our governments interacting with regimes that still persecute minorities and perform atrocities onto their own people? 

I get so angry when someone mentions that they are going to Bali for a holiday, does no one think about who they are giving their money to? Do we as Australians care more about a cheap holiday that the lives of our fellow man? How can it be acceptable for someone to travel to Bali, Indonesia and give their money and by their presence, support to a government that still thinks it’s okay to walk young men into a forest and shoot them through the heart for a drug offense, real or not, which did not harm anyone else? Why do we accept that it’s okay for a neighbor to break into the house of two young men  20 and 23 years old because he suspects that they are gay and for his testimony that he saw them having sex to be enough for both of them to receive 84 lashes in a public display of homophobia? Don’t tell me you are going to Indonesia because I have loved someone who has had to escape a society that would have murdered him for being gay, I have seen the damage done to someone because they have had to live through that experience. If we travel to countries that are still prepared to treat it’s population without humanity, that specifically are prepared to treat my fellow gay brothers like dogs that can be punished and put down then we are saying that we accept that nations choices and I for one DO NOT. 

So I learnt a lot from Jorge, my politics grew, my focus widened and my attitudes changed.

His energy stemmed from the fact that he survived, that he had found somewhere where he could be alive. He lived like there was no tomorrow because he had spent the majority of his life in a place where no tomorrow was always a possibility. He loved fiercely because the joy of being free to love let loose a desire to experience love with such a passion that at times it felt we would burst into flames.

Our love reminds me of a book and film that I could not recommend more strongly, “Like Water for Chocolate” by Laura Esquivel. If you haven’t read or seen it then please search and find it, if you have a romantic soul in your body it is going to be forever grateful for the experience. I didn’t see this film with Jorge but with Andrew and by the end we were both so on fire that there were two things on our minds that had to be satisfied, we needed something decadent to eat and we had to find a bed straight away. Luckily we saw the film in the evening because if we had passed a bedding store that would have been our destination and no one could possibly have stopped us. Thank god I didn’t see it with Jorge I think I would have ended up in a wheelchair once the passion the film creates had abated and he didn’t need the assistance, he never needed a spark for his flame to be at full roar.

So how did this romance end? Well his fiery passion knew no bounds, he was hungry and feasted. On Christmas morning I gathered my parcels and headed over to Jorge’s apartment to spend the afternoon with him, his cousin and flat mate as we had done for the previous 3 years. When I arrived his cousin answered the door and I could see her face drop at the sight of me. When I entered Jorge was on the balcony his arms around another guy, one that I had introduced him to through my volunteer work. Although this new guy was six foot something and solid when he saw me he actually cowered at the edge of the balcony, not a smart move to be so close to the edge I thought. Jorge’s cousin was furious that Jorge hadn’t spoken to me about the situation and offered for me to stay for lunch as I was already here. But that would have been uncomfortable for everyone so I left my gift and departed from Jorge’s life. I have always wondered what the trigger was and I keep coming back to the same moment. Over all the time we were together Jorge always took the dominant role in our love making, this was fine with me as I am what is generally referred to as a ‘versatile bottom’, but just before Christmas that year I forced Jorge into reversing roles for once. Was that my mistake? Had I broken the dynamic of our roles through his machismo eyes and made him less of a man by taking that dominant role? Was this just me being shown what it felt like for Andrew when he discovered Jorge and me together, it felt like it? Again there was no argument, no screaming or histrionics, simply a parting of the ways.

It is a bit like when I was writing about Andrew in the last page I am feeling emotions that I haven’t felt for a long time as I reminisce about Jorge and the live we had. I once again find my eyes welling up with the memories. I think with everything that has happened to me this year so far I am feeling sentimental about the past, and a little sad thinking about what I might not get the opportunity to live through again in the future.

 Love, it changes your life, you can feel your heart swell when it finds you, you can sense the glow that comes from someone in love and there is nothing more beautiful in the world. I have been blessed by finding love twice, with two very different but equally beautiful men. They influenced my thoughts, my values and my life. I know I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it wasn’t for them being in my life and I am so thankful that they were. 

Once again I find myself not wanting to continue with the subjects I listed in the title, so there needs to be a part 3 to this blog if I am going to discuss sex.