October #95 : Butch And Moan - by M.C. Mars

POZ - Health, Life and HIV
Subscribe to:
POZ magazine
Join POZ: Facebook MySpace Twitter Pinterest
Tumblr Google+ Flickr MySpace
POZ Personals
Sign In / Join

Back to home » Archives » POZ Magazine issues

Table of Contents

The Clock Watchers

After Ibn Zuhur

Stayin’ Alive: A Game Plan

I Wanna New Drug!

In Cold Blood

Unfine China

Maine Idea

Bayer's BIG Headache

Neg & Pos

Gone Shopping

The Bug Stops Here



For Pete's Sake

Wake-Up Call

Heavenly & Hazardous

Shock and Blah

Publisher's Letter


O Lady Liberate:

O Cash up Front:

Tastes Great! Less Filling!

Tat Caveat

Only A Test


New Meds On The Shelf

Book Report

60% of HIVers Now Survive Lymphoma

Zip Your Lipids

Tea Cells

Paris When It Sizzled

Playing It Safe And Sexy


The Soprano


Butch And Moan

Toxic Avengers

Most Popular Lessons

The HIV Life Cycle


Herpes Simplex Virus

Syphilis & Neurosyphilis

Treatments for Opportunistic Infections (OIs)

What is AIDS & HIV?

Hepatitis & HIV

email print

October 2003

Butch And Moan

by M.C. Mars

Love don’t come easy to middle-aged cabbies with HIV. M. C. Mars drives the point home

Three Years! I haven’t gotten laid in over three years,” I complain to Konrad, my chiropractor, while he’s working on a lower lumbar strain I got a few days earlier when some asshole rear-ended the taxi I drive in San Francisco.

“Don’t feel bad,” he says. “I haven’t gotten laid in eight years—and I don’t even have AIDS.”

“Eight years?” Although he can’t get my back to crack, this snaps me to attention.

“It’s not that bad. At our age, it makes life simpler.” (We’re both 50.) “How about some ultrasound to loosen things up?” he asks while I’m horizontal drooling into some paper. “Sex is a big fucking hassle. Second-chakra energy. You don’t need it.”

“You don’t need it,” I say.

He rubs this cold gooey gel into my vertebrae, then, switching on what looks like a shower nozzle, starts ironing me as if I were a wrinkled aloha shirt.

My whiplash is a joke compared to the blindside hit I took in ’88 when I tested positive. It fell upon me like an apparitional raven that croaked “Nevermore.” Just like that—WHAM!—my sex life, my style with the ladies, my relations with women changed forever. My DNA bore the mark of the beast. And I felt ashamed to confide in my friends—because it was a gay disease and I’m straight.

A few days later, after the initial shock, I made the rounds to tell each of my recent partners—starting with V***. A few hours before my diagnosis, we’d had intense sex in the doorway of my apartment. A fuck for the ages. I’ll never forget it. Now I stood in the lobby of her building, with no idea how to say what I had to say. Baby, guess what....

But I’d showed up unannounced, “violating her space,” and she was pissed off. Bad timing. Her date would be there any minute. She wore her hair up—and looked forbiddingly beautiful in a tight green dress, sleeveless and cut low in the back to show off her curves and flawless skin.

I just stood there, unable to speak. Meanwhile she was thinking I’m jealous. So I blurted out the facts and watched as tears filled her eyes. “How could you do this to me?” she said—and gently pushed closed forever in my face.

And thus began a series of confessions at the altar of My Lady of Withering Hope. Confessions made in darkened bedrooms and in bright kitchens with the garbage men rattling cans outside. At the Cliff House restaurant at sunset, looking out at the vast metallic stillness of ocean. Wave bye-bye to the playful energy of desire, gone forever. Replace it with confessions made in cars, bars, strip joints….

Fifteen years of them. And it’s never sexy: the hurdle of telling, the waiting for the response. But back in ’88, those reactions stung me to the quick.

One woman cried out, “I’ve got a 2-year-old daughter.” One wept and held me in her arms like Mary Magdalene. One freaked out: “Que? Tienes SIDA!” One told me she was immune because she surrounded herself with the healing light of crystals. One was a prostitute I told before we had sex. “That’s why we use these,” she said, producing a condom. “And no, I don’t give blowjobs on credit. But I’m willing to trade. You drive a cab, right?”

Over the years since then I’ve had relationships—but the specter of HIV always remained, sapping her confidence. A broken condom, a streak of paranoia spurred by just about anything.

Konrad shuts off the ultrasound, still bitching about broads. “Money, status, power—no matter what they say, that’s what they want! Tell ’em you’re a doctor, they wanna blow you right on the spot. When they find out I’ve been living in a rent-controlled apartment for 15 years, I’m king of the shit-heels. This chick I took to dinner last night? What a bitch! She was insulted I took her to the Olive Garden. What does she want, the Waldorf? It’s our first date, for Chrissakes!”

While he’s yakking, I’m cruising his thick, flirty secretary. Tonight, alone with my hand, I’ll place her in an orgy of my choosing.

[Go to top]

Facebook Twitter Google+ MySpace YouTube Tumblr Flickr Instagram
Quick Links
Current Issue

HIV Testing
Safer Sex
Find a Date
Newly Diagnosed
HIV 101
Disclosing Your Status
Starting Treatment
Help Paying for Meds
Search for the Cure
POZ Stories
POZ Opinion
POZ Exclusives
Read the Blogs
Visit the Forums
Job Listings
Events Calendar
POZ on Twitter

Ask POZ Pharmacist

Talk to Us
Did you participate in an event for National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day 2016?


more surveys
Contact Us
We welcome your comments!
[ about Smart + Strong | about POZ | POZ advisory board | partner links | advertising policy | advertise/contact us | site map]
© 2016 Smart + Strong. All Rights Reserved. Terms of use and Your privacy.
Smart + Strong® is a registered trademark of CDM Publishing, LLC.