"Sex Schmex" (or, "An Unintended Positive Side Effect of HIV")
The guys at the Wednesday meeting suggested I check out "First Friday" at the Vibe in Oakland as a place to meet other queers. I stood there alone, as I'm getting used to doing, nursing a gin & tonic, and decided to just watch everyone else have a good time. Ultimately, probably the only other person there alone approached me and we talked.
He was surprisingly upfront about his age (64) and his HIV status (poz). I thought he was rather good looking for his age, thoroughly a gentleman, and, well, he was Asian. He bought me a drink, we talked more, then he invited me to dinner so we eventually left the Vibe, first perusing the Oakland Art Murmur just next door. I ran into several people I knew there from school and KALX, which I later realized made me appear somewhat "well connected," despite the truth. We made it to Rudy's Can't Fail Cafe despite the alcohol. We talked more. A couple calls came in on my cell concerning the Good Asian Drivers house party I was planning to go to that same night, furthering the appearance of being well connected. We ate, he paid, we exchanged numbers.
I eventually decided that I wasn't all that physically attracted to him, but he was a really nice guy, and that his openness about his serostatus provided me with an opportunity. As I now identify with a "high-risk" group, I realized that I know surprisingly little about HIV and it's consequences. So, I called him back on Sunday, and told him that I wanted to know more about it.
The gist of the information I garnered on Monday is here. But I learned something even more important.
When I went to his place, I had it set in my mind that there was absolutely not going to be any sex, not even kissing, because I wasn't totally into him, and also because I'm still dealing with the "yuck" factor of HIV that was so effectively drilled into my head during adolescence. That mindset totally changed everything. I got to know him. I grilled him like a library. He told me of his two marriages, the breast cancer death of his second wife, how he thinks he became infected, his son. We walked his dog together at Joachim Miller park, went to dinner at a Cambodian restaurant, came back to his place, and overlooking his Piedmont bay window view of the East Bay at night, listening to Bach, sipping a perfectly brewed cup of tea in the relaxed lighting, we cuddled. (Damn, as I'm writing this, I'm having second thoughts about him. A guy that knows, really knows, how to brew a cup of tea is very rare.) Just cuddled. That's when it hit me: I don't want sex.
More precisely: I need to cuddle. It's just so... savory. Like a good cup of tea: it's a high that doesn't fuck you up. The sex... meh. If I was a bit more into him and he not HIV poz, sex would most likely have happened, but it would have been organic, spontaneous, present, and free.
Then I realized: shit, I don't even want to cuddle-- because then that becomes the new goal, the new milestone that'll never happen because it has to happen.
Then the clincher hit me this morning: I've been going about this entire summer all wrong.
In May, while Alicia was in India over this coming summer, I was to lose my gay virginity. She departs, July rolls around and I realize and accept, quite dishearteningly, that that's not going to happen just over the course of one summer. I've essentially an entire adolescence, or lack thereof, to make up for. I somewhat resigned myself to the fact, tiredly fearful of such a time-waster, that I simply needed to go about my life making aquaintences just doing the things I do, which everyone told me was what I should do, but never really understood why.
I now realize that I need to meet people to know people. Not to make friends, not to have sex, not to cuddle, not to oggle their fabulously sculpted pecs or wonderfully wide noses. That stuff can happen, but who cares, or rather, why care?
For me, even that's tough-- I've always been too goal oriented, too methodical. A friend reminded me this weekend that it's OK to skip like a little girl around the kitchen if the little girl feels like it.
I've been getting mixed messages from Mr Ten Ren over the past few weeks. Well, the messages probably weren't mixed, just my interpretation of them were. One day, after he finally started recognizing me, knowing my order and the condition of my stamp card, our eyes locked for what seemed an eternity and not long enough at the same time. The next day, I realized he's a bit more fobby than I originally suspected, and that what I'm picking up on as gay is probably just fobby politeness and retail servitude.
But fuck it, so what? He's intriguing nonetheless. I went there this morning, knowing full well that he doesn't work on Tuesdays.
"Nǐ hǎo."
"Nǐ hǎo," said his boss/supervisor/hot sister.
"Hóng chá."
"Méi yǒu táng?" she knows my usual too.
"Yep. Er, where's the big guy that's usually here? The guy that was here yesterday?" I asked, not caring whether or not his boss/supervisor/hot sister thought I was some kind of creepy stalker, which I suspect she may.
"Oh, he's off today."
"When does he work anyway?"
"Er, Mondays. Weekends and Mondays."
I'm going to come next Friday anyway, because he's worked Fridays too all summer, except last Friday, and it may make me seem a bit less creepy and truly interested in actually getting a boba tea. "What's his name?"
"His name? Steve."
"Steve. Oh." I nodded in cognizance, not thinking he looked like a "Steve" at all. Of course, I realized almost immediately that his name probably isn't really "Steve," that's just his way of dealing with ignorant Americans who butcher his real name horribly like I will when I find it out.
There's a new rock climbing place that just opened right across the street; that would be fun.
"He does a good job making the tea."
"You like when he's makes your drinks?" she said in a suddenly broken manner. Strange.
"Yea, not sure why. Er, no offense."
Boba tea at the mall isn't really tea, nor a good yardstick of character, but Steve's bobas really do taste subtler and fresher, though I'm probably biased. I suspect, though, he knows how to brew a real cup of tea, gay or not.
He was surprisingly upfront about his age (64) and his HIV status (poz). I thought he was rather good looking for his age, thoroughly a gentleman, and, well, he was Asian. He bought me a drink, we talked more, then he invited me to dinner so we eventually left the Vibe, first perusing the Oakland Art Murmur just next door. I ran into several people I knew there from school and KALX, which I later realized made me appear somewhat "well connected," despite the truth. We made it to Rudy's Can't Fail Cafe despite the alcohol. We talked more. A couple calls came in on my cell concerning the Good Asian Drivers house party I was planning to go to that same night, furthering the appearance of being well connected. We ate, he paid, we exchanged numbers.
I eventually decided that I wasn't all that physically attracted to him, but he was a really nice guy, and that his openness about his serostatus provided me with an opportunity. As I now identify with a "high-risk" group, I realized that I know surprisingly little about HIV and it's consequences. So, I called him back on Sunday, and told him that I wanted to know more about it.
The gist of the information I garnered on Monday is here. But I learned something even more important.
When I went to his place, I had it set in my mind that there was absolutely not going to be any sex, not even kissing, because I wasn't totally into him, and also because I'm still dealing with the "yuck" factor of HIV that was so effectively drilled into my head during adolescence. That mindset totally changed everything. I got to know him. I grilled him like a library. He told me of his two marriages, the breast cancer death of his second wife, how he thinks he became infected, his son. We walked his dog together at Joachim Miller park, went to dinner at a Cambodian restaurant, came back to his place, and overlooking his Piedmont bay window view of the East Bay at night, listening to Bach, sipping a perfectly brewed cup of tea in the relaxed lighting, we cuddled. (Damn, as I'm writing this, I'm having second thoughts about him. A guy that knows, really knows, how to brew a cup of tea is very rare.) Just cuddled. That's when it hit me: I don't want sex.
More precisely: I need to cuddle. It's just so... savory. Like a good cup of tea: it's a high that doesn't fuck you up. The sex... meh. If I was a bit more into him and he not HIV poz, sex would most likely have happened, but it would have been organic, spontaneous, present, and free.
Then I realized: shit, I don't even want to cuddle-- because then that becomes the new goal, the new milestone that'll never happen because it has to happen.
Then the clincher hit me this morning: I've been going about this entire summer all wrong.
In May, while Alicia was in India over this coming summer, I was to lose my gay virginity. She departs, July rolls around and I realize and accept, quite dishearteningly, that that's not going to happen just over the course of one summer. I've essentially an entire adolescence, or lack thereof, to make up for. I somewhat resigned myself to the fact, tiredly fearful of such a time-waster, that I simply needed to go about my life making aquaintences just doing the things I do, which everyone told me was what I should do, but never really understood why.
I now realize that I need to meet people to know people. Not to make friends, not to have sex, not to cuddle, not to oggle their fabulously sculpted pecs or wonderfully wide noses. That stuff can happen, but who cares, or rather, why care?
For me, even that's tough-- I've always been too goal oriented, too methodical. A friend reminded me this weekend that it's OK to skip like a little girl around the kitchen if the little girl feels like it.
I've been getting mixed messages from Mr Ten Ren over the past few weeks. Well, the messages probably weren't mixed, just my interpretation of them were. One day, after he finally started recognizing me, knowing my order and the condition of my stamp card, our eyes locked for what seemed an eternity and not long enough at the same time. The next day, I realized he's a bit more fobby than I originally suspected, and that what I'm picking up on as gay is probably just fobby politeness and retail servitude.
But fuck it, so what? He's intriguing nonetheless. I went there this morning, knowing full well that he doesn't work on Tuesdays.
"Nǐ hǎo."
"Nǐ hǎo," said his boss/supervisor/hot sister.
"Hóng chá."
"Méi yǒu táng?" she knows my usual too.
"Yep. Er, where's the big guy that's usually here? The guy that was here yesterday?" I asked, not caring whether or not his boss/supervisor/hot sister thought I was some kind of creepy stalker, which I suspect she may.
"Oh, he's off today."
"When does he work anyway?"
"Er, Mondays. Weekends and Mondays."
I'm going to come next Friday anyway, because he's worked Fridays too all summer, except last Friday, and it may make me seem a bit less creepy and truly interested in actually getting a boba tea. "What's his name?"
"His name? Steve."
"Steve. Oh." I nodded in cognizance, not thinking he looked like a "Steve" at all. Of course, I realized almost immediately that his name probably isn't really "Steve," that's just his way of dealing with ignorant Americans who butcher his real name horribly like I will when I find it out.
There's a new rock climbing place that just opened right across the street; that would be fun.
"He does a good job making the tea."
"You like when he's makes your drinks?" she said in a suddenly broken manner. Strange.
"Yea, not sure why. Er, no offense."
Boba tea at the mall isn't really tea, nor a good yardstick of character, but Steve's bobas really do taste subtler and fresher, though I'm probably biased. I suspect, though, he knows how to brew a real cup of tea, gay or not.