The Positive Playground

As gay men out “playing,” do we need a coach to help win the game?

By J. Corbett Holmes

“Happy birthday,” he whispers into my ear, between kisses. “I’d love to blow out your birthday candle!” What a perfect birthday present, I think, while the sexy and ravenous hunk nibbles on my neck. All around us men chatter and drink. The lights sprinkled in the pepper trees above my head seem to flicker with magic. Tremors begin to make waves for the tsunami that will surely occur in my pants if he doesn’t stop. He is adorable, sweet, affectionate, interesting and even admiring of the flowered pants I am wearing. All his ingredients keep adding positive points onto the invisible scoreboard in my head. Because of the aforementioned ingredients, along with the fact that it’s my birthday, I decide to break my rule: no one-nighters.

I press myself into his chiseled body; his musty scent permeates into mine.

“I’m 47,” I whisper playfully. “There are a lot of candles to blow out.” This only seemed to provoke him more—applying extra kisses to my neck and shoulder while he fondles my body. This will be the perfect birthday, I thing to myself.

“Do you care that I’m HIV positive?” he purrs into my ear, between bites.

“No, of course not.” I whisper back. But I was lying. All the positives began turning into negatives as I recessed back to my no one-nighters rule. Slowly peeling myself from his passionate digits, I gave him my business card instead of my “candle.”

Later that night, when I got home—alone—I could smell him on my hands and neck, my body still vibrating from his touch. Mentally and physically, he had left his mark. I liked him and he liked me, the rhythm of our mutual attraction was obvious to anyone watching. I hated myself for lying. I hated that I was 47 and that AIDS was still mutating through my life. I hated the uneven equation, and I hated that there was no one to coach me through this (still uncomfortable) social situation. Why? Because nobody still wants to talk about it … unless they have to. Including me.

What if he hadn’t said anything? What if I didn’t know? What if, what if, what if? But he had, and I did. So are we playing on the same team or not?

As I stood in my bathroom, toweling off from a shower—the last of his scent lingering on the terrycloth, I thought of Ray and the “positive playground.”

Several years ago while in Palm Springs for the weekend I’d been invited to join a gaggle of men (I barely knew) for dinner. As we all shuffled up to the long dining table, most of them knew each other and paired off to catch up. Thus I ended up alone at the end of the table—the chair next to me remained empty. Great, I thought. Now who am I going to talk to? Then, without warning, the most adorable, sparkly man plunked himself down next to me.

“Hi, I’m Ray,” he declared through a beaming smile, and immediately, wonderful things began to happen. Over time, and due to location we eventually moved past romance and into friendship. But, as we did so, occasionally he would share his frustration with me about being positive.

“I have to confess,” he began in an e-mail one night, “that recently it occurred to me that dating people who are negative has some inherent problems!”

1.) If I date someone and they become positive, could I live with myself?

2.) Will I feel “broken” when they need a good romp in the hay, and I'm feeling the side effects of the three different potions (not poisons) running through my system?

3.) Couldn't positive people wear those cute little pink triangles that were so trendy in the ’40s—with a positive sign on them so I could know who to chase around the school yard trying to kiss?

All of these were good questions. And questions I never considered or discussed ... unless I had to!

At 47, little by little, date by date, I‘ve become the person I never thought I would: someone who doesn’t date positive guys. For the first half of my life, I’d worked my way toward freedom, toward becoming an openly gay adult. By the time it finally happened—everything around me had begun to close down—the AIDS epidemic was in full swing. For the second half, I started over—trying to find (sexual) freedom amid despair. In conjunction, I worked on fundraisers, did the AIDS ride, answered phones, stuffed envelopes, walked, marched, protested and cried. A lot! Compassion and understanding were always part of my game. Because the way I saw it, there couldn’t be any prejudice among my people. Right? It seemed like things got better, safer. Everyone (it seemed) was playing by the same rules. Then it started to happen. One by one I began to meet guys I liked who were positive. And I was compassionate and understanding ... right? So I went on dates, and entered into a relationship. Some of my negative friends reacted very negatively. But I couldn’t imagine myself like them. I could have no “negative” judgments for other boys on the playground. But while I was out playing, it began to feel like I was playing the same game I did on the blacktop in sixth grade: dodge ball. I started hearing all these variations of the game: “If they don’t ask, then I don’t tell,” “I just assume everyone is positive,” “I’ve never been tested—I don’t want to know,” “If it’s just sex, then I never say. I don’t want the rejection,” “If I like them, and I want to see them again, I wait until the third date, and before I sleep with them I tell them I’m positive” and “I’ll wait until he falls in love with me, and then I’ll tell him!”

Where was the team spirit? I wondered, and I took myself out of the game for a while. I just sat on the bench watching. This is what I saw: Instead of a unified team, I saw opposite sides (covertly) playing against each other, all by different rules. And worst of all, there was no one talking about how to talk about the differences, concerns and fears of balancing a negative with a positive. Why? Because (like me) no gay man wants to be seen as someone who discriminates. And no gay man wants to be rejected. So we make up our own rules. And (sometimes) we lie.

Just like one of those trick birthday candles—the ones that never burn out—and because I had lied (pretending we were playing on the same team) “candle” man reappeared. And because, like Ray, he had talked about “it”—igniting all of my observations (not to mention my desires)—I had to rethink my game plan. Why? Because as I enter into another season of play-offs, (my 47th year) to win, or to (at least) improve my game, I had to be honest! Otherwise … my (team) spirit would die and my life would just add up to one big negative!

Eventually I called “candle” man. I had to. And even though all of my concerns about the playground haven’t been extinguished … my candle was ... and I made a wish. But I can’t tell you, or it won’t come true. But let’s just say everybody wins.

For your shaving graces, e-mail me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.