Craig Stewart's Blog - Posts Tagged "dc"
When Whispers Become Shouts...
Prologue
The first man I developed real feelings for contracted HIV from the relationship he had prior to us meeting, but he found out two months after we met. It was October 1, 1999 to be exact. I’ll never forget that date because that day also marks my youngest nephew’s birthday. In truth, Saleem didn’t know if he contracted the virus from his ex or a stranger because he and his boyfriend did whatever with whomever while in that arrangement. It was dysfunction from the onset. That relationship was indicative of all the fears I harbored about being with another man intimately—consistent heartache, one after another, fueled by a series of love triangles, cheating, and of course HIV. After all, haven’t we all been programmed to believe the gay community is the breeding ground for this disease? I imagined to be gay would mean being lonely because it meant isolation from family, a life fraught with short-lived relationships ending prematurely because men are believed to be incapable of monogamy in heterosexual relationships. So the idea of two men living happily ever after was inconceivable for me. Thus, I didn’t want anything to do with being gay and I prayed for years that I wouldn’t grow up to be.
Saleem and Wayne never determined who was responsible for bringing the disease into their lives. All he knew was that during an argument that lasted until 4 a.m., his ex told him he needed to be tested. I had just begun exploring my sexuality the year before, so for me dating someone HIV positive was the equivalent of a girl getting pregnant during her first sexual encounter—a nightmare realized.
I had an idea of what being gay and the life entailed long before acting on the feelings that followed me through childhood because family members teased me—calling me sissy, fag or punk when upset with me—and seeing Paris is Burning for the first time cringing, yet, identifying with the people in the documentary.
The sneers and taunts from family were packed with enough power to shatter the best self-esteem, and confirmation that gay was wrong. It’s the reason many of us grow up despising other gay men, refusing to date those with feminine qualities.
I know a great deal of men who struggle with their sexuality because they were molested as children. And a percentage of those men are confused with whether or not they are gay because they were victims of molestation. The answer to that question is deeply personal and specific to each individual. I wasn’t molested and I know I was born gay. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t a decision nor was it learned. I knew at an early age, but chose to avoid it.
From what I knew about gay people, all were interested in becoming women, wearing women’s clothes, flamboyant or destined for hell. I wasn’t. I concealed my feelings and innermost thoughts from puberty through my college years. I actually believed if I never acted on that which I was avoiding then I wasn’t really gay, and I would somehow escape being gay. It was denial at best, and quite possibly how some men slip into double lives. I thought suppressing the feelings was the remedy for not being gay as an adult, and the route around all the labels that came with it. As a teenager, I was never attracted to any male in particular. I was simply intrigued by the male physique in gym classes and porn if my friends and I happened to watch.
My first sexual experience was with one of my childhood friends. His family had a motor home parked in their backyard, and from time to time his mother used it to watch the soaps or to nap. We climbed in one day when it was unoccupied, and took turns humping each other on the bed with our pants around our ankles and our penises pressed against each other. For years, I chalked it up as kids experimenting. I pushed the experience so far to the edge of my memory that I almost forgot it happened.
It was difficult denying to myself that I was gay when my wet dreams were no longer about girls, but boys. Dreams aren’t planned. I couldn’t control them. Then there were trips to Owings Mills in Maryland to sneak peeks at Black Inches magazine. This magazine wasn’t as tasteful or artistic as Playgirl in the way they photographed their models. These men were Black, completely naked, erect and posed in a sleazy, leave nothing to the imagination kind of way. My heart raced, and my palms sweat as I carefully removed the magazine from the plastic cover while keeping an eye on the unassuming store clerk. I would stuff the plastic somewhere on the bookshelf, grab a copy of Fishing and Hunting magazine to conceal the smut then find a corner in the store to enjoy. It would have been easier to buy the magazine, but I could only imagine the puzzled look on the store clerk’s face when I appeared at the counter to purchase a magazine full of naked men. Not to mention, all I needed was for my mother to find it stashed someplace in my room because she happened to find it. She’s the mother that believes it’s your room, but that room is in her house.
After years of concealing feelings and thoughts, I finally drummed up the courage to go to a gay bar back home in Baltimore after I moved away for school at Hampton University in Virginia. I don’t think I could have gone to a gay bar in Baltimore had I not moved away because I never considered venturing to one in Virginia for fear of running into someone from campus. I was home visiting one weekend and decided to go to Club Bunns. Paranoia convinced me that someone would recognize my car or had even memorized my license plate number, so I parked a street or two away from the club. The mind has a wonderful way of convincing us our fears are fact and what isn’t, is.
I wore a wool newsboy hat pulled down over my eyes to avoid eye contact, and a teak colored pea coat with the collar popped to make it difficult to see my face. What I failed to realize, my attire created mystery that drew attention to me in the tiny, dark, sparsely furnished bar. I sat in a corner looking and observing. I didn’t have enough sense to order a drink to appear normal. Instead, I gave a good impression of a recluse. One of the other patrons came over and asked if he could buy me a drink. I declined and he retreated to his place at the bar.
The club was dead with the exception of the bartender, dj and 2-3 patrons who appeared to be regulars, so I left. I returned months later on a night the club hosted strippers because I liked the idea of men being comfortable naked with other men looking and touching them. I got in the habit of taking the forty-five minute drive to DC during my visits home for the sake of seeing the strippers at The Edge and Club Wet. For the first time, I got the chance to actually touch another naked man. I got a rush from fingering the dancers’ asses, and holding, feeling and caressing another man’s dick. I rarely tipped. I just touched for the experience and the satisfaction of knowing what it felt like without being judged—for wanting to look and touch without shame.
Moving to Atlanta after college cemented my ambition to become a writer, but encouraged apprehension about having sex with men. Although my first boyfriend was HIV positive, I wasn’t concerned about my health because I wasn’t in the practice of having random, wanton sex. I prided myself on having self-restraint. Saleem and I hadn’t done anything more than kiss. In fact, there was no sexual contact of any sort with anyone if I didn’t think we’d graduate to a relationship. Jerking off was even excluded. My friends teased me, calling me “Mother Theresa,” but I didn’t care because they were all recovering drug addicts who were ten years my senior and all HIV positive. They grew up in a generation that had sex first and got to know the person later, so I wasn’t concerned with what they thought. It seemed to me they should have encouraged me to continue being selective to avoid following in their footsteps. They were in the practice of sleeping with whomever they were attracted to, including strangers. Personal safety didn’t seem to be of any concern to them.
One of the things I said I would never do was date someone HIV positive, until I was faced with that reality with Saleem. I consistently spoke in absolutes, saying what I would never do and what I always did. I learned as a result of that relationship not to speak in absolutes because we often find ourselves doing the very things we say we’ll never do only to wonder how and why it happened to us. That relationship changed the trajectory of my life and it set the tone for my work, and a few of my relationships that stared HIV in the face.
*This excerpt is adapted from my memoir, Words Never Spoken. Download now or purchase from Amazon.com
The first man I developed real feelings for contracted HIV from the relationship he had prior to us meeting, but he found out two months after we met. It was October 1, 1999 to be exact. I’ll never forget that date because that day also marks my youngest nephew’s birthday. In truth, Saleem didn’t know if he contracted the virus from his ex or a stranger because he and his boyfriend did whatever with whomever while in that arrangement. It was dysfunction from the onset. That relationship was indicative of all the fears I harbored about being with another man intimately—consistent heartache, one after another, fueled by a series of love triangles, cheating, and of course HIV. After all, haven’t we all been programmed to believe the gay community is the breeding ground for this disease? I imagined to be gay would mean being lonely because it meant isolation from family, a life fraught with short-lived relationships ending prematurely because men are believed to be incapable of monogamy in heterosexual relationships. So the idea of two men living happily ever after was inconceivable for me. Thus, I didn’t want anything to do with being gay and I prayed for years that I wouldn’t grow up to be.
Saleem and Wayne never determined who was responsible for bringing the disease into their lives. All he knew was that during an argument that lasted until 4 a.m., his ex told him he needed to be tested. I had just begun exploring my sexuality the year before, so for me dating someone HIV positive was the equivalent of a girl getting pregnant during her first sexual encounter—a nightmare realized.
I had an idea of what being gay and the life entailed long before acting on the feelings that followed me through childhood because family members teased me—calling me sissy, fag or punk when upset with me—and seeing Paris is Burning for the first time cringing, yet, identifying with the people in the documentary.
The sneers and taunts from family were packed with enough power to shatter the best self-esteem, and confirmation that gay was wrong. It’s the reason many of us grow up despising other gay men, refusing to date those with feminine qualities.
I know a great deal of men who struggle with their sexuality because they were molested as children. And a percentage of those men are confused with whether or not they are gay because they were victims of molestation. The answer to that question is deeply personal and specific to each individual. I wasn’t molested and I know I was born gay. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t a decision nor was it learned. I knew at an early age, but chose to avoid it.
From what I knew about gay people, all were interested in becoming women, wearing women’s clothes, flamboyant or destined for hell. I wasn’t. I concealed my feelings and innermost thoughts from puberty through my college years. I actually believed if I never acted on that which I was avoiding then I wasn’t really gay, and I would somehow escape being gay. It was denial at best, and quite possibly how some men slip into double lives. I thought suppressing the feelings was the remedy for not being gay as an adult, and the route around all the labels that came with it. As a teenager, I was never attracted to any male in particular. I was simply intrigued by the male physique in gym classes and porn if my friends and I happened to watch.
My first sexual experience was with one of my childhood friends. His family had a motor home parked in their backyard, and from time to time his mother used it to watch the soaps or to nap. We climbed in one day when it was unoccupied, and took turns humping each other on the bed with our pants around our ankles and our penises pressed against each other. For years, I chalked it up as kids experimenting. I pushed the experience so far to the edge of my memory that I almost forgot it happened.
It was difficult denying to myself that I was gay when my wet dreams were no longer about girls, but boys. Dreams aren’t planned. I couldn’t control them. Then there were trips to Owings Mills in Maryland to sneak peeks at Black Inches magazine. This magazine wasn’t as tasteful or artistic as Playgirl in the way they photographed their models. These men were Black, completely naked, erect and posed in a sleazy, leave nothing to the imagination kind of way. My heart raced, and my palms sweat as I carefully removed the magazine from the plastic cover while keeping an eye on the unassuming store clerk. I would stuff the plastic somewhere on the bookshelf, grab a copy of Fishing and Hunting magazine to conceal the smut then find a corner in the store to enjoy. It would have been easier to buy the magazine, but I could only imagine the puzzled look on the store clerk’s face when I appeared at the counter to purchase a magazine full of naked men. Not to mention, all I needed was for my mother to find it stashed someplace in my room because she happened to find it. She’s the mother that believes it’s your room, but that room is in her house.
After years of concealing feelings and thoughts, I finally drummed up the courage to go to a gay bar back home in Baltimore after I moved away for school at Hampton University in Virginia. I don’t think I could have gone to a gay bar in Baltimore had I not moved away because I never considered venturing to one in Virginia for fear of running into someone from campus. I was home visiting one weekend and decided to go to Club Bunns. Paranoia convinced me that someone would recognize my car or had even memorized my license plate number, so I parked a street or two away from the club. The mind has a wonderful way of convincing us our fears are fact and what isn’t, is.
I wore a wool newsboy hat pulled down over my eyes to avoid eye contact, and a teak colored pea coat with the collar popped to make it difficult to see my face. What I failed to realize, my attire created mystery that drew attention to me in the tiny, dark, sparsely furnished bar. I sat in a corner looking and observing. I didn’t have enough sense to order a drink to appear normal. Instead, I gave a good impression of a recluse. One of the other patrons came over and asked if he could buy me a drink. I declined and he retreated to his place at the bar.
The club was dead with the exception of the bartender, dj and 2-3 patrons who appeared to be regulars, so I left. I returned months later on a night the club hosted strippers because I liked the idea of men being comfortable naked with other men looking and touching them. I got in the habit of taking the forty-five minute drive to DC during my visits home for the sake of seeing the strippers at The Edge and Club Wet. For the first time, I got the chance to actually touch another naked man. I got a rush from fingering the dancers’ asses, and holding, feeling and caressing another man’s dick. I rarely tipped. I just touched for the experience and the satisfaction of knowing what it felt like without being judged—for wanting to look and touch without shame.
Moving to Atlanta after college cemented my ambition to become a writer, but encouraged apprehension about having sex with men. Although my first boyfriend was HIV positive, I wasn’t concerned about my health because I wasn’t in the practice of having random, wanton sex. I prided myself on having self-restraint. Saleem and I hadn’t done anything more than kiss. In fact, there was no sexual contact of any sort with anyone if I didn’t think we’d graduate to a relationship. Jerking off was even excluded. My friends teased me, calling me “Mother Theresa,” but I didn’t care because they were all recovering drug addicts who were ten years my senior and all HIV positive. They grew up in a generation that had sex first and got to know the person later, so I wasn’t concerned with what they thought. It seemed to me they should have encouraged me to continue being selective to avoid following in their footsteps. They were in the practice of sleeping with whomever they were attracted to, including strangers. Personal safety didn’t seem to be of any concern to them.
One of the things I said I would never do was date someone HIV positive, until I was faced with that reality with Saleem. I consistently spoke in absolutes, saying what I would never do and what I always did. I learned as a result of that relationship not to speak in absolutes because we often find ourselves doing the very things we say we’ll never do only to wonder how and why it happened to us. That relationship changed the trajectory of my life and it set the tone for my work, and a few of my relationships that stared HIV in the face.
*This excerpt is adapted from my memoir, Words Never Spoken. Download now or purchase from Amazon.com
