David's POZ Blog

For the last few weeks, Texas Oilman T. Boone Pickens has been busy hyping his “plan” to solve America’s economic crisis by harnessing the wind and drilling for gas. I have no doubt that Mr. Pickens is a patriotic American, but the “Pickens Plan” (http://www.pickensplan.com) is only a stopgap. It isn’t the answer.

Pickens points out that America - a nation that constitutes 4% of the World’s population - consumes 25% of the World’s oil. He proposes building wind facilities in the corridor that stretches from the Texas panhandle to North Dakota that could produce 20% of the electricity for the United States at a cost of $1 trillion. That part of Pickens' proposal makes sense. It will lead to an industrial and revival in the midwest that will benefit all Americans. But it isn’t enough.

According to Pickens, we currently use natural gas to produce 22% of our electricity. He argues that harnessing the power of wind to generate electricity will give us the flexibility to shift natural gas away from electricity generation and put it to use as a transportation fuel — reducing our dependence on foreign oil by more than one-third.

The Pickens plan, and all those that are like it, rests on the assumption that natural gas is the cleanest transportation fuel available today, and that using our abundant natural gas to replace foreign petroleum will lead to lower demand for that foreign petroleum, and that, in turn, will stabilize energy costs and reduce carbon emissions.

The flaw in that argument, and thus the plan, is that natural gas is NOT sustainable, nor will it significantly reduce carbon emissions. What we really need is to completely move away from ALL fossil fuels - and that includes natural gas - to an all hydrogen, solar, nuclear and electric powered economy.

Using natural gas as a “bridge” to the future, when the technology to move to hydrogen and electric powered vehicles is available and we will have built a suitable hydrogen-electric energy grid, makes sense only if we recognize that burning natural gas instead of natural petroleum is in fact, only a stopgap measure. What we really need, as a matter of simple truth, is a complete move. A move away from heating our planet by burning our limited supply of ancient fuels to maintaining it by using the unlimited supplies of energy available from the sunlight that constantly bathes the earth and drives its climate. That move - driven by advances in American technology - is the ultimate answer to the political survival of America and the key to reducing our need to dominate the world by armed force. Natural gas may keep our economy strong for the immediate future, but it won’t be there for the children of our children.

I cannot describe the color of her eyes. The way they change from blue to green in the South Sea light. Her eyes are the only color I see now, when I close my eyes in the New York summer heat.

Cupcake was angry.

“You’re such an asshole. I gave you a new condo. I gave you eternal life even with your f**king HIV. You’ll live forever, and all you can think about is HER!”

I open my eyes in the twilight. The terror of the dream has ended, for now. I am still in New York, waiting for Her.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” she says. “I know what you’ve been doing with that computer, David. I’ve been around for couple of hundred years, you know. I’m not a fool.”

I look her in the eyes. I don’t like drama, but I can’t lie. It just isn’t in my DNA.

“Cupcake, you’re absolutely right. But what did you expect? You’re never around during the day, and let’s face it - our social life sucks. Everything is you, you, you. You and your freaky demonic friends. So yes, I met this woman on the internet, and she lives in the Philippines. She’s flying in next month, OK? That’s the truth.” I said.

“And what, I’m supposed to hang around while you wait here for this woman who may or may not be the love of your life? You told me that I was the love of your life too. I was willing to put up with the ghost of your dead ex-girlfriend living with us, but if you believe for even one minute that I’m going to wait for you to decide whether this other woman is ‘The One’, as you put it, you are one mistaken man.”

Ginger, who had been sprawled across her customary perch on the sofa while trying to finish Thursday’s New York Times crossword puzzle with an ectoplasmic pen, looked up and snickered. I shot her a disapproving glance.

“No, Cupcake, I don’t expect you to wait around. You’ve been patient, but we both know that our arrangement is not working well at all. Undead or not, you’ve good been good to me, but I’m simply unhappy playing Renfield to your Draculette. I’m moving out.”

And that is how it began. How it ended - my body and soul left to rot for eternity in a hellish prison in the Philippines - has yet to be written.

One does not begin to understand the true meaning of the phrase “the reek of humanity” until one has stepped foot into the Bagong Buhay Rehabilitation Center in Cebu City, Philippines. Imagine ten men in a crumbling cell meant for one. Imagine an overwhelming stench of human filth that seeps through your pores. Imagine the smell of shit, sweat and fear that has dried up without escape through any circulation channels. It is a smell that is not forgotten easily. It is the smell that I endure every waking hour. I am here, in this concrete hell, gasping for what little air exists in this thick tropical foulness, because I have HIV and I lied about it.

It began innocently enough. We met online on a dating site for men and women living with the virus. It was love at first email, each exchange more intimate than the next. We wrote about our lives, our loves and the losses that we lived through. We wrote about the losses that we did not, and the hope that we both shared that we could spend the rest of our lives togther, in peace and love and comfort, on her paradise island in the Philippine Sea.

She came to me the next month. August of that year. From the other side of the world, she flew into my arms. She was The One I’d been waiting for.

We made love in her hotel room. We talked for hours about her family in Spain, and my family - or what was left of it - back in Ohio. We made plans.

At the end of the week I drove her back to JFK for the long flight back to her home. We kissed and cried as we waited for the boarding call.

“It may take a month to put all of my affairs in order”, I said, “ but I’ll do whatever I have to do. I’ll sell my things. I’ll see if my doctor will send me whatever I need. Whatever it takes.”

She turned away and left.

I went to the Philippine consulate, on the west side of Fifth Avenue between 45th and 46th Streets. I rode the elevator to the third floor, where a consular official told me what documents I would need to visit the Philippines for more than 59 days: proof that I could afford to live there; my last tax returns.

“For those intending to stay more than 60 days”, the visa application form read, “ you must require a medical certification.”

A medical certification?

The form was ominous. “State whether the applicant has any of the following dangerous contageous diseases: Chancroid, Gonorrhea, Leprosy (infectious stage), Tuberculosis (active), AIDS”

AIDS?

Screw the form. I decided to lie.

And so lie I did. Instead of declaring the truth on the paper form, I flew to my island love and entered the country on a 21 day tourist visa - no application required. At the end of those 21 days, I travelled by boat to Manilla, where I extended my “temporary” stay for another 59 days. And another after that. Until they came for me.

There were two of them. They tore through our beach house in the dawn light. Two Filipino customs officers looking for me - the American “tourist” with HIV who had lied on a paper form so that he could spend his days on their island.

She begged and cried as they dragged me outside in the early morning sunlight.

“Please, please, I have money” she said, “ I can pay you.”

But they didn’t care. I was a criminal, they said. A dangerous criminal with an infectious disease. I did not belong on their beautiful island. They threw me into the lorry, my arms twisted behind me and chained to an iron rail. For the lie that I had told...

I never imagined that I would someday say this, but living with HIV is as much of a gift as it is a curse.

We all know why HIV is a curse - the fact of the matter is that it just plain sucks having to worry about whether every unusual ache, pain, cough or cold is a symptom or a sign that we are in decline or whether that immeasurably small cut on our index finger may invite some exotic infection that cannot be cured. We worry about who will pay for the cost of our care, and whether the care that we will someday need will be there for us at all. We worry about those we love, and when and how we should tell them that we are infected with a pathogen like no other in human history.

But there IS an upside to living with HIV. Those same worries, those same fears of discrimination and the stigmatization that can be so emotionally paralyzing, allow us to understand the true nature of life: that in the grand scheme of things, we are all little more than parasites on a dust mote, as likely to be wiped off the scrim of existence by some intergalactic squeegee man as we are to endure as part of a greater god. And when we consider that fact, when we tune out the worries and fears of daily life and tune into the wondrous imperfection of the world around us, it brings us closer to understanding that happiness is never measurable by the steel and stone monuments we may leave behind or whatever wealth we may have accumulated, but only by our own memories while we are alive to enjoy them.

This Friday, the 4th of July, will mark the 232nd anniversary of the day that we Americans declared our independence from a foreign nation that was then our common oppressor but is now our nation's greatest ally. But just as we declared our political independence so many years ago, let us all declare our independence from the oppression and unhappiness that those of us who live with HIV still endure today, and from our common viral enemy.

It isn’t often that my workday starts with an email from God.

The message was at the bottom of the screen, just under an email from “RussianSweetGirls.com” (I didn’t open that one.)

“David”, it said, “meet me at 29th Street and Lexington Avenue - on the Northeast corner, at noon.”

Ordinarily, I would have ignored the message. I mean really! An email? From God? Two weeks ago I was receiving spam from an outfit trying to sell me a penis enlargement pill, and now this?

But there was something different about this message. Something compelling. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I leaned forward in my chair, cradling my head in my left hand, my chin resting on the palm, and looked at it again.

The message header had no return address. No sender name. Just the signature at the bottom.

I called in our tech guy, Sammy Padilla.

“Okay Sammy”, I said, “what’s the joke? April fools day was seven weeks ago. Is there a point to this?”

Sammy shook his head. “No”, he said, “I swear, it’s not from me. I didn’t send it.”

“Okay Sammy, thanks. I’ll handle it”.

I waived Sammy off, and hit the delete key. Nothing happened. The email was still there. I couldn’t erase it.

I tried to ignore it. I returned a few calls and did some paper work. I looked out my window. My office is on the 40th floor. The building stands on the corner of Madison Avenue and 26th Street, straddling Manhattan, with the Hudson River on the west and the East River on the left side. My windows face south, and even on the worst days, the view is spectacular. It’s a nice place to work. I like it here. Sometimes I even manage to get my work done.

I looked back at the computer screen. Other than the blank message header, and the fact that it was signed “God”, there was nothing technically unusual about the email. Standard Outlook 2003 format. Black on white. Standard font.

But I couldn’t remove it.

I rebooted the computer. The Windows XP (professional!) logo appeared. The usual firewall, anti-virus, pop-up and spyware blockers all loaded, doing whatever it is that they do. I clicked on Outlook. The message was still there. The same email. From God.

I like to believe that I have a reasonably good sense of humor. I had no idea what this joker was about, but what the hell, I’d go along with it. I wrote back.

“Okay”, I typed in, “I’ll see you there at noon, but how will I know it’s you?”

Almost instantly, I received a reply.

“You’ll know,” it said, “trust me.”

Although 29th and Lexington is only a few blocks from my office, I don’t usually meet people, much less God, on the corner there. It’s a transitional block, with Indian restaurants lining the avenue and narrow side streets between midtown Manhattan and Gramercy Park. The last time I walked over there was for an appointment with a masseuse, who promised me a “deep massage with a happy ending.” It wouldn’t be the first time that someone jerked me off there.

At ten minutes to twelve, I put the computer into “hibernate” and walked out past our receptionist, Gloria.

“Gloria, I’m going out to meet God,” I said, “if anyone calls, tell them I’m in court.”

“Will you be coming back?” she said.

“Probably,” I answered, “but if I’m not back by three o’clock, I’ll call in and let you know.”

I wasn’t really dressed properly to meet the Big Guy. I’d been working on an appeal brief for one of my clients, and I was wearing jeans and a white shirt. No necktie. Nonetheless, when God calls, you go, but if he doesn’t approve of your attire, too bad.

As I crossed Park Avenue, I wondered what I’d say: “Hey bro, what’s up?” didn’t seem quite right. And then there’s the matter of physical contact. Do you shake hands? Offer a high five? Tap fists? I decided I’d let him play it his way. After all, he’s The Man.

But there was no man. When I reached the appointed destination, the only person around was decidedly NOT a male.

She nodded at me as I approached. God was a seriously hot babe.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, “I’m famished.”

“Uh, no,” I answered, “I had a late breakfast, and it’s a little early for lunch, but if you’re hungry, that’s fine. Where do you want to eat?”

“How about that place over there?” she said.

“You mean Curry In a Hurry?” I replied. “Whatever. You’re God, we’ll eat whatever you want.”

We crossed over and walked into the restaurant. I ordered a mild lamb curry. God ordered some chicken vindaloo. “I like it spicy,” she winked.

The server dished out our orders onto a couple of trays, and I followed God upstairs to the dining area. She had terrific buns.

We sat across from each other at one of the tables, and I looked into her eyes. She was stunning. Blonde hair, perfect teeth, great smile.

“So, er, ah, what should I call you?” I asked.

“Mary Jane”, she said, “but you can just call me Mary.”

“So why me?” I asked her. “I’m just a lawyer. Do you need legal advice?”

“David”, what the hell is the matter with you? I’m God. I make the rules. Why would I need legal advice?”

“Okay, so what’s up? Why did you email me?”

“I need a reason? Okay, if you must know, I was a little bored, and I chose you because I dig older guys.”

“You chose me for what?” I answered timidly.

“My, you aren’t as bright as I thought, are you?” She said.

“How on earth should I know what God would want with me? Sex? You picked me for sex? I’m well into my fifties and I’ve been living with HIV for 29 years. Why the hell would you want to have sex with me?”

“Why not?” she answered, “I’m not worried about catching HIV, but if you’re concerned about it for some reason, we can use a condom. Besides, your viral load has been undetectable since your doctor put you on Atripla two years ago, so you probably aren't very infectious anyway right now.”

“Okay, okay, I get it, Mary. You’re God and you don’t have to worry about HIV, but that still doesn’t answer my question. Why me?”

“Look, silly. You’ve been writing your blog for Poz since last December, and while I think you’re kind of cute, you’ve been neglecting it lately. I figured I’d give you something interesting to write about.”

“That’s it? I said? You want to have sex with me so that I can blog about it?”

“Jesus!”, she answered, “the last thing I want you to write about is my sex life. Just tell the freakin' story and let them know I exist. That’s all I want you to do....mostly,” she winked.

“Aha! Okay, now I get it. You’re really one of the people from the Poz site, and this is your way of getting me to put some time into your blog.”

“You really are dense, aren’t you?” she said, “no, I’m not from Poz, I really am God, and I really do want to have sex with you.”

“Whatever,” I said, “just don’t expect me to pay for the room.”

And off we went.

--------------------------------
Notice: The events depicted above are mostly fictitious. Any resemblance to anyone living, dead, or immortal is wholly coincidental.

We’re having a heat wave. The sound of air conditioners fills the night. I can’t sleep.

There’s nothing unusual about heat waves; we have them every summer.

But it isn’t summer. It’s late spring.

The Planet is running a fever.

We caused it.

Let’s fix it.

Now?

Tomorrow, June 7, 2008, will mark the fifteenth anniversary of the day that the artist presently known as Prince changed his name to an unpronounceable glyph. More significantly (!) it will mark the six month that I’ve been blogging here on Poz/AIDSMEDS.com. In those six months, I’ve ranted about right-wing republicans, polemicized about sex-crazed politicians, vented about vampires, blustered on about disclosure and the law, and subjected you to my grim prognosis for mankind in general. It’s been a lot of fun for me, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it.

Some of you may have noticed that I haven’t been writing as frequently lately. There are good reasons for that, not the least of which is that I’ve been busy. Between working my day job and trying to Cupcake and Ginger from tearing up the place with their incessant squabbling, I just haven't had the time. Mea Culpa.

Over the next few months, as time permits, rest assured that I’ll be here, making my contributions, as it were, to the great Blog Smog. They may not always be pretty, and I will undoubtedly offend a few folks, but I’ll do my best...

It figures. I've been so busy with work (!) lately that I haven't been able to devote much time to blogging, and the only comment I've received in weeks came this morning from an outfit called "penisenlargementz@gmail.com"

While I ordinarily would have simply erased the comment (I did) and gone back to whatever it was that I was doing when I received the comment notification, I was intrigued. Could it be true? Could I really enlarge my penis by using a product from penisenlargementz.com? Would this be the answer to whatever problems might ail me? Could I really enjoy the benefits of a larger penis simply by using their product?

I sent them a reply, requesting information: "Dear penisenlargementz", I wrote, "send me your product. Tell me how to make my penis grow."

I didn't really really expect to hear from them, but within minutes there appeared on my screen a message telling me that "for only $69" I could make my penis grow. "Well", I thought, "69 bucks isn't all that much money, what the heck, why not?" I logged onto their web site, which explained that if I sent my check to their address in Michigan, they would send me their "potent" herbal product, with complete instructions on how to make my johnson magic. Now I don't know about you folks out there, but the last thing I need at this point in my life is advice on how to make my penis grow. We all know how that works.

But I needed a good laugh - living with HIV is no joke.

Not wanting to invest my hard-earned money on such an obvious scam, I looked up the owners of penisenlargementz.com using Whois, a service that provides information about web site owners. Surprisingly, there was a telephone number listed, so I picked up the phone and called them. I didn't expect anyone to answer, but I dialed the listed number anyway. A woman (I think) with a deep, sexy voice answered the phone:

"Good morning, Phallic Pharmacy, this is Betty speaking", she cooed.

"Hi Betty", I said, "my name is David, and I'm interested in your product."

"Hello David", she answered, "would you like a larger penis?"

"Well, Betty", I replied, "frankly, my penis is already quite large, but you never can get enough of a good thing."

"Really?" she said, "you have a big one?"

"Oh yes", I answered, "my penis is ENORMOUS."

"Wow", she moaned, "it's been a long time since I've had such a real man on the phone."

"Really? I'm surprised. After all, your product sounds like something that would raise a lot of interest."

"Well, David, to be perfectly candid, we don't get that many calls, and most of the men who call don't sound particularly bright. After all, penisenlargementz.com is a spam site that sells worthless products to desperate men."

"No kidding?" I replied, "most of your callers are losers?"

"Yes, oh yes", she said, "the last person who called us was John McCain."

"McCain?" I said, "you mean the John McCain who is running for president?"

"Oooh yes. He told me that he wanted a REALLY big penis so that he could screw all of the voters."

"He actually admitted that?" I said.

"Uh huh. He wants to stick it to all of us for another four years." she replied.

"Well", I said, "that's not surprising. After all, he is a republican."

It's amazing what you can learn on the web.

Gravitas. Wikipedia defines it as the sense of dignity, seriousness, and duty that is one of the several virtues that ancient Roman society expected men to possess, along with pietas and dignitas.

The Wiki entry goes on to explain that Gravitas should not be confused with "gravity" in the sense of importance.

It also reminds us that "Gravitas" was frequently used by news media outlets during the 2000 United States Presidential race to describe the addition of Dick Cheney to the George W. Bush. campaign. Cheney, an experienced politician and member of President George H. W. Bush's cabinet, according to many media outlets, added "gravitas" to the campaign. What that got us is, well, history. We’ve now been through six and a half years of what has arguably been the worst administration in U.S. history.

Despite what we’ve all experienced together since the Redpublicans stole the election in 2000, this month’s rap on Barack Obama is that he lacks the Gravitas to win the November election. The Reds - who believe that Obama would be tougher to beat than Hillary - are also heating up the old “he’s an elitist” rhetoric that Spiro Agnew used to bludgeon us blind with back in the 1970's. Both of those tags are meritless. I see in Obama a man who has the ability to lead us, and while Barack may be different from many of us in troubling ways, he is by far the best of the three candidates, in my opinion. McCain - whose humorous put-down of the Woodstock generation revealed his own elitism - is out of the question. McCain will keep walking us down the same path to economic and cultural marginalization that we all been have walking with Mr. Bush and his friends. If Barack isn’t a perfect human being, I’ll take his flaws over those of Hillary and John. It’s about time we stopped paying attention to the pins on our lapels and the labels we pin on others, and paid attention to the truth. That’s the only Gravitas I’m interested in.

SEX. It may be the most complicated three letter word in the English language. Sex, and the pursuit of it, causes more people more problems than any other human need besides food, shelter and a reliable broadband connection. That fact is not, as they say, rocket science.

Having any STD complicates sex. It brings another, dark dimension into doing what comes naturally. We seek out others who have the same STD because it means that we won’t have to won’t have to worry about what’s behind door number one.

But while sharing the same STD is a terrific sexual lubricant, it isn’t the basis for a lasting bond, and too many of us ignore this obvious truism. We peruse the personals here at Poz Personals and on other internet dating sites, hoping that we’ll find someone else with HIV (or whatever other viral acronym,) to connect with. Well, take it from me, that ‘aint the answer.

I’ve been married to a wonderful woman for more than twenty years. She happens to be HIV negative, and while our sero-discordancy has certainly caused issues, our marriage has endured in spite of them. Sex may get you into a relationship, but it won’t keep you in one that has any meaning to it.

What keeps two human beings in a long-term relationship are common goals and interests. For most of us, those goals and interests are simple enough to understand; for others, it may be more complex, but ultimately, any meaningful LTR is always based on compatible goals and interests, and not just a few hours of physical pleasure.

As I said, none of this is rocket science. We all understand it. But too often, we forget. We forget, or choose not to think about it, because our sexual needs can overwhelm us.

HIV has certainly complicated my sex life over the years, and because matters of sexual intimacy (in my humble opinion, anyway) shouldn’t be shared with the general public, you won’t be reading any salacious details in this post. Suffice it to say that some of us do what we have to do in order to maintain the emotional health that HIV all often too eats away at, and therein lies the rub: when two people have the kind of sexual intimacy that leaves both of them feeling joyful in the moment, we usually wind up wanting more. So if you are going to fool around with someone, make sure that you both know the risks. Talk about it. Set boundaries. Make sure you both understand exactly what it is you are looking for before you jump in, or someone will get hurt.

And tell them Dr. Phil did NOT send you.