FRIDAY NIGHT REVELATIONS

U get to be a man of a certain age, even a relatively well-preserved one, and U learn that taking life's pleasures where U find them is a big part of contentment . . . now when the weekend rolls around U may want to be out hitting all the bars or hooking up on line, but me, i'm glued to the old media precisely at 9 p.m. because i can't wait to see what's up with Tim Riggins, at least so long as the stockpile of Friday Night Lights episodes lasts.



is there anybody more beautiful or more misunderstood at the moment? . . . those are the keys to my heart, they always have been . . . rebels without causes, bad boys like Tim and Jordan Catalano . . . i guess that's why i identify so strongly with Angela Chase . . . i'm living the 54-year-old version of my so called second-hand life, finding so much satisfaction in the melodramatics of Dillon, Texas that it sometimes scares me.

not that Friday Night Lights is anything to be ashamed of . . . the cast as talented as it is attractive . . . the heartfelt scripts tackle contemporary American life even better than the Sopranos so far as i'm concerned (heresy, yes, i know) . . . and the producers totally nail the place . . . U see i grew up in the scrubby deserts of West Texas and i spent every Friday night during football season pretending to cheer on the Andress Eagles while searching the bleachers for Gary Simon, a hood so hot that i got to school ten minutes early so that i could watch him make out with his girlfriend in her Dodge Dart from behind the fence . . . and when he got hauled off to reform school, i replaced him with his brother Steve, who ended up in a shallow grave with his head cut off after double crossing an especially nasty drug dealer . . . if cloning ever becomes a reality, gimme those Simon bad boy genes man!

but i digress . . . basically i love the show because it almost always makes me tear up . . . i guess the tears flow partly because of my lost youth . . . whatever . . . but i appreciated last night's show for a completely different reason . . . Jason Street may have persuaded me to hire a hustler.



U see, Buddy Garrity (how is it that i recall the names of these characters so easily when i barely can remember what i read in this morning's Times?) took pity on Jason and offered him a job selling cars . . . Jason, formerly a star quarterback, now a paraplegic, is well suited for the job because of his small-town stature and all-American good looks, but the hard sell doesn't come quite so easily to him as tossing a football and he gets down on himself when he fails to close a deal with Looky Lou, a tire kicker notorious among the sales crew for wasting their time . . . so naturally, Buddy gives him one of the pep talks that characters in this show deliver so generously, the kind of pep talks that turn lives around on television . . . Buddy tells Jason to focus and of course Looky Lou doesn't know what's about to hit him the next time he walks into the show room.

can i ask U something? what's the problem, exactly? why won't U let yourself have this car? what is it, really? . . . is it that U think if U buy this car you're gonna find another car U like better elsewhere immediately after buying it? or is it that U just think U don't deserve the car?  i'm not insulting U so please don't take it like that, OK?  i'm just trying to understand U. because all these sales people around here? take a look at 'em. they sent me over here because they've given up on U. all right? they sent me, wheel chair guy, rookie, low man on the totem pole to talk to U because none of them believe that U can pull a trigger on actually purchasing a vehicle.  but let me tell U something. i know U love this car.   U love this car so much that U come in two days a week, two days a week to just look at it and then U walk out.   life's too short, life is too short. OK? things change in an instant.  take it from me.  OK? so be a man. take control of your life. be a man. buy this car.  show all these people that they're wrong, that U can make a decision.  no--no more thinking. no more thinking, no more dithering, no more wasting everybody's time, especially your own. cause that's what you're doing, U are wasting your time every time U come in here buy this car. because U love it and because U want this car and U want to drive off this lot, in this car, today.  buy it!

omigod . . . has Jason has been watching me peruse rentboy.com for the past couple of months? . . . i've scrolled through the 300+ profiles for New York City dozens of times, scrutinizing the "boys" i find most attractive: older than 30 with a face pic, bedroom eyes and the unmistakable curve of a bubble butt, versatile, a taste for leather and a smoker (U know how hard that is to find? more guys are willing to admit a fondness for PNP or a tolerance for scat in their stats, but those are both deal breakers for me) . . . these are the flesh trade's equivalents of the features that Jason might use to make be buy a car and drive it right off his lot.



i've even gone so far as writing down Rafael Alencar's cell phone number but worry that if i did arrange for him to "spend some time" with me he'd expect to be worshipped . . . for $300 bucks i want some interactivity . . . and then there's "gregarious" David, the tattooed Latino in Hells' Kitchen who somehow always seems to be at head of the line but whose come on is just a little too accommodating . . . does that mean he's desperate or just better at marketing himself? and if that's the case, how come he's AWOL from Daddy's Reviews? . . . pierced Gino, who looks like he won the Colt stable's wet t-shirt contest, might be a contender if he had a head . . . and then there's Rob Ramos who, hands down, is the guy that most fulfills my bad boy fantasy . . . too bad i blame him for introducing the Blue Light Special to Tina.



excuses, excuses i know and what strikes me as most persuasive about Jason's hard sell is how much of MY time i've been wasting . . . go ahead: pull that trigger

I HATE DEWEY COX

not the thick fleshy kind just before they gush into orgasm, that fuckin' new movie starring John C. Reilly.

how can a sweet movie spoof inspire such ire, U ask? . . . because the poster that's plastered all over bus stops in Manhattan robs my erotic memory bank every time I ride past it on my bike . . . U see I grew up in a time and place when U were more likely to find a picture of a bare chested man in news magazine review of an Andy Warhol movie than in any other media . . . just the other night I was watching Marnie, that overwrought and underrated Hitchcock movie starring a seriously disturbed Tippi Hedren yes, yes, i'm like some caged bird to u aren't I and couldn't believe it when the camera turned away from Sean Connery as he got out of bed wearing only his pajama bottoms . . . today it would have lingered on his pecs and a jpeg would have found its way onto the internet where i would grab it and use it as my screen saver until some other image du jour replaced him . . . sorry, Daniel Craig but as much as I loved you in Casino Royale, in a world saturated with beefcake the bulge in your light blue boxer swimming trunks lacks the frisson that a split second glimpse of Sean's nips would have offered in 1964 (hey girls check out Gapar Ulliel in the Gus Van Sant segment of Paris, je t'aime . . . his hotness is such that i paused the DVD to focus in the thumbnail shot of him that appears in the opening credits and even added the dreadfully reviewed Hannibal Rising to my Netflix queue).

but back to Dewey Cox . . . thank U Columbia Pictures for parodying the iconic image of Jim Morrison . . . i gotta hand it to the marketing department: they got the hair and the beaded necklace exactly right . . . it has been burned into my mind since 1968 when i would go to sleep and jerk off at least twice a night, awakening with jammies crusty from jism . . . in truth Morrison's sulky pout did more to bust my nut than what now appears to be a woefully undeveloped and unshaved torso because i was still at that stage in my sexual development when i tried to pretend he was hovering in my consciousness like an exhibitionistic angel because i wanted to be him . . . when Morrison was arrested in Miami for exposing himself i tried really, really hard to banish him . . . i didn't want to be a pervert, after all . . . of course now i realize now that my fondness for black leather probably dates to that very same period and hey, isn't just about the whole world nowadays guilty of indecent exposure? . . . times have changed, bois, times have changed.

U want more proof? . . . then rent Flesh, released in 1968, and starring Joe Dallesandro as the archetypal male hustler and living embodiment of Adonis . . . now in a world where pornography of the most explicit and rarefied kind is just a mouse click away from the wired bedroom of any teenage boy confused about his sexuality this underground film may seem tame and excruciatingly boring but believe me, Andy Warhol movies, even the ones directed by Paul Morrissey, never made it to the local theatres in El Paso . . . I probably would have had to hitchhike to Los Angeles to see what may very well have been the first film with male frontal nudity.




Little Joe, immortalized by Lou Reed in "Walk on the Wild Side", is, hands down, the hunkiest guy ever to have paraded through my masturbatory fantasies but he earned that title without exposing much of himself . . . maybe that explains why whenever i visit Xtube or Rentboy i scroll past all the dick shots and keep looking for the same combination of face, chest and attitude that fueled my kidnapping fantasies as a kid and got me off hundreds of time during my adolescence.

Fuck U Dewey Cox for trashing my sexual nostalgia!

FLYING WITH THE FRENCH ELVIS

Going to bed at 3:30 a.m. isn't conducive to getting up the next morning to sightsee no matter how high the thread count of the sheets. The Sun Queen suggested that we go to the underground mall which permits comfortable shopping during Montreal's subzero winters. But by the time he emerged from a coughing fit in the bathroom I had consulted Fodor's and suggested that we visit the botanical gardens instead.



We didn't get out the door until after 11 a.m. Fortunately, the Sun Queen agreed to his first-ever metro ride. The train whisked us from the nearby Peel Street station to the Pie-IX for just $2.75. The Olympic stadium, known as the "Big O" (or "Big Owe," for its enormous cost overruns) hovered over the metro station like something out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Oh yeah said the Sun Queen I heard that huge arm was supposed to retract the top of the stadium but they never could get it to work very well.

It did seem like a French folly--very interesting visually but not very practical. Now it's mostly used as a sightseeing spot and a restaurant. We could see a funicular reach the top in just 90 seconds as we walked to the entrance of the gardens. The short line to pay admission moved as slowly as the line at the Imax theatre the day before, once again severely testing a New Yorker's patience.

When one of the girls came down from Montreal last year and we were standing in line at a deli I had to tell her to make up her mind before we got to the front said the Sun Queen. Here they all think that ordering is a perfect time for chit chat.

Our ticket included admission to the Insectarium, our first stop. We found more than a dozen live insect displays in addition to hundreds of mounted butterflies from all over the world. An ant colony swarmed all over a decaying plant, carrying colorful pieces of leaves in their pinchers like flags. I learned that my body weight is equal to that of 3.5 million ants. I'd like to shed about 200,000. The other displays relied more on creepiness than activity to capture the fancy of children and adults alike: huge scorpions, cockroaches and walking sticks make you very thankful for the glass that encloses them.





The gardens themselves were just a day shy of when the price of admission changes for peak season. Even so, the roses weren't due to bloom for several more weeks. Fortunately, the exquisite landscaping of the Japanese Garden compensated for the lack of late spring blossoms. The Chinese Garden is the biggest outside of Asia and it offered several interesting structures, including a pagoda. Our leisurely visit was the perfect activity after an abbreviated sleep. The cool, sunny weather made everything sparkle.

By the time we got back to Peel Street, the Sun Queen was in the mood for a salami sandwich. He found it in the basement restaurant at Ogilvy's, a high-end department store whose Anglophilic name recalls a pre-separatist Montreal. I felt like we were a couple of ladies who lunched. My baklava was scrumptious.

During check out, I realized that the hotel bill for Saturday night was on his dime and avoided asking him how much it had cost. On the flight up to Montreal I overheard how hotels used to be a bargain when the American dollar was stronger.

A night at the Ritz Carlton would cost you only $150 US said one member of Project Latte to the other.

I can't imagine that the Sun Queen paid less than $500 Canadian, which works out to slight more than $450 US.

At the Air Canada check-in counter the chatty clerk excitedly informed us that we had a celebrity aboard our flight, Johnny Hallyday.

Who? asked the Sun Queen, clueless.

The French Elvis I answered.

See your friend is cultured teased the sexy clerk.

Hallyday wasn't hard to spot in the first class lounge. With his streaked hair, smoked skin and tight jeans, he looked like someone you would find lurking in the darkest corners of a leather bar. He earned my admiration, however, when he waited in line patiently with the other passengers instead of trying to cut it.

As soon as we were airborne, the chief steward, who surely ranked as one of the world's sexiest flight attendants (now there's a gay calendar!), asked Hallyday to pose with him for a cell phone picture. Hallyday graciously agreed to what could only be described as a Beauty and the Beast set-up.

Our late afternoon landing at LaGuardia afforded us gorgeous views of a sun-dappled Manhattan, taking us over Central Park and closer to the Empire State Building than I thought was possible in the post-9/11 era. The Sun Queen insisted I take the car service he ordered instead of the bus into the city.

As much as I enjoyed the trip, I can't say that I envy the life of a fashion designer. After awhile, all the expensive restaurants and hotels must become routine. Luxury is better appreciated by those who experience it only occasionally, I think.

JE ME SOUVIENS, INDEED

I didn't mind sleeping in even though we had gone to bed well before midnight because I knew we had a long day ahead of us, particularly if we were to hit one of the saunas on my list that I had cut and pasted from the Montreal Fun Guide. The Sun Queen hadn't recovered nearly as well from colds we had developed around the same time which meant that he spent a long time in his bathroom coughing before we went to breakfast at MB, a nearby cafe, following room service delivery of coffee and orange juice.

When I pulled out my wallet to pay for my pastry and coffee, the Sun Queen assured me that his expense account would cover it.

I thought you already owed them a few grand for overspending your account I said, uncomfortable as always with him picking up my tab.

Don't worry this comes out of another account he answered.

I believed him only because he asked for a receipt but announced that I was paying for tonight's meal come hell or high water.

The cute young concierge had mapped out a route to the Saint-Joseph Oratoire, a church that Fodor's suggested visiting only if you had a lot of time but one that had been recommended by one of the Sun Queen's colleagues.

It's really four churches in one explained the concierge after showing the Sun Queen photos of his renovated kitchen.

Many people will be praying he added, almost in warning.

Perhaps he thought the American infidels would be shocked by the sight of pilgrims ascending the middle steps in front of the church on their knees, no easy feat given its mammoth size. The church stands taller than either St. John the Divine or Notre Dame on Montreal's highest point.



Frere Andre, a sickly penance freak who reputedly healed hundreds of people, began building it in the early 20th century with funds raised mostly from rich American Catholics. Nearly a century later, he's still just one step shy of achieving sainthood. That must be a little bit like the limbo the church recently abolished.

Rather than rely on the Vatican to elevate him to sainthood on the grounds of his good works, Frere Andre decided to go the construction route. No surprise that the bottom-level church also serves as his final resting place or that he lived in humble, ascetic conditions above a nearby chapel. What better way to advertise your piety, especially with dozens of crutches, presumably left behind by the pilgrims he healed, lining the modest altar. Frere Andre never entered the priesthood and the St. Joseph-Oratoire looks to me like a monument to overcompensation or guilt about what he really did to the troubled youths who sought his healing touch.

It's all about Frere Andre he observed the Sun Queen as we climbed into a cab and headed for O'Blahnik's house in a neighborhood southwest of downtown.

She lived in a lovely renovated Victorian cluttered with what may very well have been her parent's antique furniture. I didn't understand how a paralegal placement business could maintain her lifestyle especially when I was introduced to her teenage son, mad for rap and basketball, upstairs.

Plus she never goes to work whispered the Sun Queen as we sunned ourselves in the narrow back yard. A patio and oval swimming pool filled almost all the available space.

A Polish neighbor who belly danced when she wasn't teaching joined us for the extravagant brunch. In addition to serving the simple Spanish omelet she had promised the night before but delivered as scrambled eggs, O'Blahnik put out salmon, pate, a selection of cheeses and pastries in addition to a delicious homemade fruit pie. Her son, who by this time had ridden off on his bicycle and returned with a black friend in tow, got the leftovers.

O'Blahnik kept barking orders at her extremely hunky hired hand. As he installed a new trellis on her second floor she kept soliciting the Sun Queen's opinion on her redecorating efforts. She had offered to drive us to old Montreal after brunch but when Jakob didn't finish the job in time, she enlisted the belly dancer. O'Blahnik seemed profoundly dissatisfied with the way her life had turned out. Did she and the Sun Queen share a bond of misery?

We began our tour of Old Montreal at the Notre Dame Basilica where the Sun Queen wanted to see what he heard were gold statues of saints. I implemented my strategy of paying for all the sightseeing costs. It cost me $8 for a five minute-visit, with no sighting of any gold statues although the linden wood altar was ornately decorated and quite beautiful.



City Hall where we saw the second wedding of many that day despite the Sun Queen's assertion that French Canadians don't put much stock in marriage. They do, however, believe in renting white Rolls Royces when they tie the knot. At Jacques Cartier Quai, which juts out into the harbor, he pointed out an architectural marvel on the island opposite. We later learned from pictures in a real estate office window that it was Habitat '67, a luxury development that resembled a honeycomb built by bees who, like everyone else, had dropped acid during the Summer of Love. I think it's the only site in Montreal that impressed the Sun Queen. He hates the city even more than his job.

We dutifully walked along rue St. Paul, gazing at the lovely old stone architecture. The Sun Queen pointed out all the fancy restaurants where he had dined and muttered about the lack of luxury shopping or excitement. I can't say that I was all that thrilled either, although there were plenty of interesting photo ops.







More out of guilt over declining to see Cirque de Soleil in their hometown, I agreed to go to an Imax documentary about the Alps that had been enthusiastically recommended by one of his co-workers. We stood in line for nearly an hour with hundreds of unbelievably patient people waiting to buy tickets for the Bodies exhibit that I have avoided in both New York and Chicago on ethical grounds. Did the people whose organs and muscles are on display give their permission?

There couldn't have been more than 25 people in the theatre which made the long wait particularly galling in retrospect. The account of an American mountain climber's determination to ascend the treacherous Eiger, the peak that had killed his father, combined Oprah and National Geographic with blinding visuals but I fell asleep anyway and missed the climactic helicopter evacuation of one of the mountaineers. Oh well.



The nap replenished the energy I needed for a night in the Village, a city-branded length of rue St. Catherine that is longer than the Eighth Avenue strip in Chelsea. It also has a much higher density of bars, strip clubs, sex clubs and saunas. At the Sky club the bartender warned the Sun Queen that a cosmo would cost $10. We ascended several flights to enjoy his cocktail and my Bleu beer on the roof deck. The chilly weather prevented us from jumping in the hot tub but we did have a great view of the gay strip and the Oscar Wilde Pub, surely the largest and tackiest gay bar in Canada.

After treating the Sun Queen to a prix fixe tapas dinner at Sasha that set me back $150--which included the most expensive bottle of wine I ever have paid for--I insisted that we go to the Campus strip club. I bought my first lap dance to celebrate my new well-paying job even if I don't have a start date. Actually I bought two in a purely sociological--or do I mean anthropological?--quest to explore dirty-old-man behavior.

The dancers mingled aggressively with the bar patrons in between performances, a big difference from my long-ago experience at the Gaeity. There, I avoided going into the room where the deals for private dances were made preferring instead to try my luck with a hot customer.

Quite by chance, I ended up standing next to a shirtless young guy with a lithe body, beaky nose and just enough facial hair to camouflage his essential androgyny. He seemed to be occupied with an unattractive customer around his own age but he kept looking at me through heavy lidded blue eyes and smiling. I thought it was odd that he purchased a beer for the other guy and was crushed when they left together for what turned out to be only a cigarette break.

He's my ride explained Matthew upon returning and gently caressing my back. We play hockey together. He has a wife and kids at home.

Then he told me how "nice" I seemed and explained how things worked.

For $10 a song I will take you into a private booth and dance for you will all my clothes off. For $20 I will do the same and you can touch me everywhere.

His teeth were too good for me to believe the hockey story but I asked the Sun Queen to lend me $10. Matthew grabbed me by the hand and led me to an concealed area at the side of the stage where another dirty old man was emerging with another dancer. He pulled back a black velvet curtain, revealing a carpetted banquette, and told me to sit down.

Treating the experience as an experiment (!) didn't diminish my enjoyment of Matthew's lean, hairless body and firm, round butt. Who cared if he didn't have an erection when he pulled down his pants. His face, butt and body were turn-ons enough and he got hard as soon as I began touching him during the second song. When it ended, I stood up in mid-grope and announced in no-uncertain-terms that I was ready to pay up.

If it hadn't been for his refusal to kiss or his heavy use of deodorant I might have been persuaded to put another $20 in the meter. Fortunately, even when he wiggled his naked butt back and forth against my crotch I maintained my self control.

I could tell he was a little disappointed.

Will you be taking good memories with you back to New York? he asked when he returned to my spot at the bar. Did you like my dick?

I prefer your eyes I answered. For me, sex is all about the connection with another person and the way you connect is through your eyes and your kiss.

Matthew seemed a little confused, perhaps even insecure about the size of his curved dick which wasn't nearly as large as those of the other dancers. I may be buying into the dirty-old-man mentality, but I think my comments had the desired effect of intriguing him.

And what would you be doing if you weren't dancing here? I asked.

I had to explain that I didn't mean the question literally, eliciting the information that he worked in a civil service job at a local military base and that he would love to spend a year in Paris, "the place we come from."

With that he and his friend excused themselves for another cigarette. A dancer whom I had ignored earlier when he began rubbing my back without so much as eye contact approached me again.

I guess I'm not your type he said when I finally turned to look at him.

No, you're not. I replied.

Well, you're not mine either he said, leaving angrily.

The Sun Queen asked if I was ready to go. Just as we were about to go downstairs, he pointed out Matthew. He and his friend were waving goodbye. I regret only that I didn't think to take his picture and then insisting that we head to the 456 Sauna instead of calling it a night.

Here's how to make your lap dance seem like a bargain: Pad around in your bare feet on a cum-stained carpet in a near-empty warehouse for several hours, finally succumbing, however briefly, to a hungry mouth at a glory hole. And make sure that your companion, who says he looks like a skinny Ben Franklin when he wears his glasses and lets his hair down, has sex with the only other attractive patron.

Je me souviens, indeed.

FREE TRIP TO MONTREAL

Thanks to the Sun Queen, who commutes to his job as an evening wear designer in Canada, I got a free trip to Montreal this weekend. Handsome young investment bankers carrying binders marked "Project Latte" surrounded me in the departure lounge, shooting the breeze about the flooding that delayed their taxis (and my city bus) to LaGuardia and their residential migration to the Upper East Side so that their children could more conveniently attend private elementary schools.



Students protesting the Quebec's government lifting of a tuition freeze clogged rue Saint Catherine, snarling traffic downtown. A trip that should have taken less than half an hour on the shuttle bus lasted twice that long. I finally reached the central bus station a little after noon. The surrounding blocks recalled Times Square of the 70s, with lots of sex shops, strip clubs and single-room occupancy hotels. In fact, the city doesn't appear to have done much sprucing up since Expo '67 and the '76 Olympics, perhaps because those events exhausted city planners and drained their coffers. The Quebecois separatist movement can't have helped, either. Why should the federal government invest in a province that keeps wanting to secede?

A poster advertising a production of Alfred Jarry's Ubu Roi caught my eye as I walked east toward the hotel. The Blue Light Special played a much cuter (and younger) King Wenceslas in a student production at HB Studio so I took a picture for him, sorry that he wasn't with me.

I arrived at Loew's Hotel Vogue shortly before 1 p.m. where I was given a key to the Sun Queen's posh suite and immediately chowed down on the fruit and biscotti that the hospitality staff had left for him the night before. After giving him a call at work, I decided to go to Mount Royal Park, one of the few sights he already had seen, and one at the top of my to do list because it had been designed by Frederick Law Olmsted. I entered on the western side of the park because it wasn't too far from the Notre Dame Des Neiges Cemetery , giving me a convenient opportunity to indulge my obsession for photographing cemetery tombstones.



A hive of activity awaited me inside the cemetery gates. With Mother's Day on Sunday, a lot of loving or guilty children were busy clearing away the detritus of their Christmas visits and decorating the graves with fresh or fake flowers. The French Canadians apparently go all out when burying their dead but as in life, you definitely get what you pay for. Some sections reminded me of the hotel were we were staying, immaculately tended and landscaped with the afterlife equivalent of 300 thread count sheets, while others offered no-frills accommodations, marked by a single wooden cross.



I don't know what it is about these places but I find them very relaxing and take great delight in their random collisions of elegance, tackiness and sentiment. Owen McGarvey, furniture maker for Montreal's 19th century middle class, built for himself alone a mausoleum high atop a hill, all but forgotten except for its size and location. Nevertheless, these were enough to make me Google his name a century later so maybe he knew exactly how to assure a kind posterity with no direct descendants (he could not have imagined, however, that a local labor union protest vehicle, postered with day glow CSN signs, would roam throughout his final resting place). Other more recent and much more modest burial sites revealed the passions of the deceased or sentiments of living family members with charming little details such as a miniature Boston Red Sox cap sculpted in marble or a row of stuffed animals that still looked cuddly despite their exposure to their elements.



In comparison, the metal cross that towers above Montreal in Mount Royal Park seemed decidedly ho hum. Aside from the spectacular views of downtown and the St. Lawrence Seaway from the summit, where I learned that Montreal is a French contraction of Mount Royal, the park itself disappointed me perhaps because only the gently curving road, built for horse carriages, was built according to Olmsted's specifications. Oddly enough, I spotted more wildlife in the cemetery, including a red fox and a disoriented raccoon.

Two hundred steep wooden steps helped me to descend quickly from the Park. My route back to the hotel took me down the steep hill on which McGill University sits. Surely a goat must be the school mascot with all the climbing flip-flopped students must have to do. I found the Sun Queen watching Dr. Phil. We spent 90 minutes or so catching up but the afternoon's exertions, the feat and the familiarity of my host's whine about not being adequately compensated left me nodding off more than once.

How rude! as the Encyclopedia of Camp, the Sun Queen's first choice for a weekend companion, might say if he weren't in Italy.

I perked up in time for dinner. It gave me some real insight into the Sun Queen's life away from New York. Our evening began just like the Cheers theme song in the hotel bar where everyone, including Francine, the bartender with curly blond ringlets and stylish eyeglasses, greeted the Sun Queen by name.

O'Blahnik, a zaftig woman whose long hair recently had been streaked in a way that recalled Farrah Fawcett, and the Misogynist, an emigre from Holland, were engaged with another woman who soon vacated her seat after giving me a look that I interpreted as No point of sticking around with these two homos.

A tall gin and tonic assisted me in making some excruciatingly dull small talk with the Misogynist who kept referring to the women he was dating as "bitches" as if he were a rap star instead of a balding, middle-aged white guy with a stutter. Although he claimed his father had been a member of the Dutch Resistance he never had heard of Black Book or Paul Verhoeven. Fortunately he went out for a smoke after that conversational dead end.

Meanwhile O'Blahnik seemed to be crying on the Sun Queen's shoulder. She cheered up when he invited her to dinner without telling the Misogynist although he must have known what was up when the three of us left together. O'Blahnik drove us to Joe Beef, the restaurant where the Sun Queen had made reservations for two lobsters. Lobster is right at the bottom of my preferred dish list so I was glad O'Blahnik had accompanied us if only because her taste for it left me free to order steak frites, the meal I had been craving ever since the Sun Queen invited me along for the trip.

The selection of a suitable wine from a blackboard dinner menu consumed most of the pre-dinner conversation once one of the restaurant's partners, an attractive young blond woman who thrust her breasts forward as expertly as she made our mouths water with a description of the day's specials. These included oysters that must have had a travel agent before they were consumed by us. Born in New England, but flown to Washington State where they were happily raised in clean, temperate waters, they had made their way northeast for our delectation. My fries were too big but I enjoyed the savory gravy on the hanger steak and cleansed my palate afterwards with the pannacote citron, topped with lemon sorbet.

O'Blahnik returned from a trip to the bathroom to report the fat, tattooed chef had warned her that he just had taken a dump. Imagine that happening at Per Se. She had the restaurant's artist-in-residence in tow who used a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer as a conversation prop with what he probably thought were a couple of American cash cows. He enchanted us with his easy masculinity and didn't seem to care which team we played for. Think Aaron Eckhart in Erin Brockovitch when he played Julia Roberts's sensitive biker boyfriend. Flirtation in combination with a $65 bottle of wine can be a powerful sales tool. If it hadn't been too dark to see the installation hanging above us, I just might have played along.

I didn't offer to help with the tab, which came to $375, figuring it only would complicate the Sun Queen's laissez-faire negotiations with O'Blahnik.

You are the most generous person I know she said, handing over some cash and insisting that we come to her house for brunch the next day. The Sun Queen threw the invitation into my court.

I definitely believe the only way you get a true feeling for another country is to see a native in their home I said when I realized there was no polite way to refuse.

As we left, O'Blahnik whipped up some drama when the chef, greeting new customers at the door of the nearly empty restaurant, declined her offer of a peck on the lips.

Don't be silly we chorused, getting into her car for a lift back to the hotel. Now that we've paid our bill, he's simply moved on.

O'Blahnik didn't stop complaining, however, a characteristic that came to define her by the time brunch was over on Saturday.

Ten minutes after returning to the room, I fell asleep on the couch, fully dressed. I awoke to find the Sun Queen already in bed with a radio softly playing what sounded like a combination of baroque and new age music. I climbed into the far side of the bed that we shared despite having separate bathrooms, marveling at the cocoon-like softness of the sheets.

HOLLYWOOD'S FIRST HIV POSITIVE MOVIE STAR



Sometimes it's the little things that make you lose it. After I finished packing this morning, I noticed the Blue Light Special's empty red Adidas sneakers placed on the white wall-to-wall carpeting at one end of the white leather sofa where I love to lay, gazing out at the Merchandise Mart and Sears Tower. I recalled how they looked in my apartment when he still lived in Jersey City. He'd just told me about a dream he'd had on our last night together.

I was in Herborn. A big jumbo jet had landed on the roof of my mother's house. I called to my brother downstairs to ask if he could help me get it off.

Yes, the Blue Light Special tested positive for HIV.



We found out definitively a little after noon, yesterday, a Monday so warm that we rode to the Lakeview STD clinic in our t-shirts. The woman who had shown up at his front door the week before wasn't there. No matter. They don't keep you waiting long for bad news.

A kind, if ineffectual African American woman with straighened hair, asked the Blue Light Special to accompany her into a private counseling room. The Civil Servant didn't want me to come until I played the New York card.

But I flew here to be with him today I said when she said that she hadn't established "a relationship" with me.

It's OK the Blue Light Special said.

The Civil Servant assumed he already had been informed of his status and that he was there to get counseling about next steps. I told her that he hadn't been, officially, and asked to see the paper that she had handed to him. In tiny print, it indicated by both name and number that he had tested reactive (to antibodies in the blood) previously, a result now confirmed by the laboratory analysis of the blood sample he had given two weeks earlier.

How are you doing? she asked.

OK he said with his solemn Teutonic face.

All our doctors have full caseloads she began but I have a book here that lists HIV specialists all over the city so we can make some calls together. The Civil Servant seemed relieved when I told her that he already had an appointment scheduled at the Core Center. Then she asked me to leave the room.

I went to pee and sat in the hallway staring at the public health brochures and copies of Poz magazine, unsure if I was feeling sorrier for him or for me.

The door opened and the Civil Servant called me back into the room by name.

Have you and the Blue Light Special had sex recently? she asked.

Until two nights before, the answer to that question would have been not in almost a year. But after we'd returned from a late-night visit to Touche, an inconveniently located leather bar he'd last visited with Gonzo, the Blue Light Special had aggressively initiated sex by grabbing my dick--which still gets hard whenever we're in close proximity--and gently pushing me down on his own. Not my idea of a seduction, more an expression of animal need, but I felt like any objections would be interpreted as a rejection based on what we both believed was his new HIV status.

Clumsily and without much passion, I sucked him off knowing from past experience he was unlikely to ejaculate that way. He got up to get a condom when he realized that even a dose of poppers was not going to get me to deep throat him. Then while fucking him and looking down at his drawn face, the face of the incubus that used to scare me with its sexual intensity, I realized once again how much he always puts his needs before mine.

Why, exactly, was I putting my definition of safe sex--everything goes for me except getting penetrated anally without a condom--to the ultimate test?

Needless to say, these thoughts inhibited my orgasm but didn't affect my performance. He came with a great shudder. Duty done, I rolled over to go to sleep even though I could tell he was ready to go a second round. I made it clear that I wasn't. Eventually, he fell asleep, lightly snoring on his back.

The Civil Servant asked me if I wanted to take an HIV test. I told her I had tested negative and would wait until I returned to New York and had a regular check-up. She didn't press me.

We left the Lakeview clinic with a legal referral and an offer of additional assistance if the Core Center didn't work out. The Blue Light Special got mad at me as we began to discuss what had just happened while unlocking our bikes.

Don't talk so loudly about me being positive on the streets. That guy just turned around to look at me! he admonished.

Uh, perhaps because he's cruising you, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. When David got sick the first thing I did was promise to myself that I would never be angry with him again, a promise I mostly kept and one which, I believe, resulted in a strengthening of our friendship as he got sicker. But I wasn't sure I could do it again with someone like the Blue Light Special who manages to get under my skin like no one else and who bore a much greater degree of personal responsibility for getting infected. David, after all, didn't know any better.




Just as we had planned, we hit the Belmont library to pick up some new audio books for the Blue Light Special who's trying reduce his German accent and sound more American. Then we returned to the Lincoln Park Zoo to say hi to the polar bears, his favorites, and check out the spring flower show. That's where I took his first post-diagnosis picture. At least that's how I'll always remember it. His broad smile, the one I've photographed hundreds and hundreds of times, doesn't seem diminished in the least.

We rode to Home Depot to pick up some WD40 for his bicycle chain and then searched in vain for a green grocer that had been recommended for its quality and prices. Both of us were sweaty and thirsty by the time we reached his apartment.

We spent the next several hours eating, talking and cuddling. I tried to be reassuring without being unrealistic. I discouraged him from trying to figure out exactly how he had been infected.



You can't turn back the clock I said. What difference does it make? It's more important to focus on your future. You caught this much earlier than most people do. The big decision you face now is how soon to start your medications.

We never made it to the Body Worlds 2 exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry. I didn't relish the prospect of paying $20 for an experience that would provide the Blue Light Special with ample opportunity to dwell on the possible deterioration of his glorious body.

Are you having a pity party? I asked when he turned away from me on the bed after a long silence. I can read him like a book. Or maybe he can play me like a fiddle, who knows?

That's not an effective treatment strategy. Things could be a lot worse. Imagine what it would be like if you had to depend on Gonzo or your drug buddies in the Pines instead of me and Thug Lover.

You're my angels he said before confessing that he had been a "bad boy." I didn't express what my unemployment buddy,Her Fierceness, calls my completely justifiable sense of outrage.

You're not a bad boy, but you did a bad thing I replied. Paging Dr. Phil.

I finally persuaded him to get up and go to the Harold Washington Library, part of his new day-off routine.

It's better than lying here on the bed, brooding.

First we stopped at Kinko's to photocopy the tax returns I had prepared for him on Saturday while he was at work. I figured we would need them as proof of his financial need for discounted or free HIV treatment at the Core Center.

After picking up a DVD that he had reserved at the library, our relationship returned to normal. We spent at least 90 minutes looking for an area where he said we could find a good, affordable Mexican or Puerto Rican restaurant, riding east on Kedzie through the most blighted areas I'd seen yet. I always forget just how big Chicago is and that I tire a lot more easily than the Blue Light Special even without HIV because of our age difference and my difficulty in adjusting to the Thug Lover's bike.

The evening devolved into accusations, excuses and recriminations until a guy he stopped on the street in Wicker Park gave him directions to a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away at the intersection of Western and Milwaukee. It wasn't great, but we left in a better mood.

Back at the apartment, I tried to watch the French silent film he had picked up at the library but fell asleep on the couch. He initiated sex a second time as soon as we got into bed, giving me a sloppy blow job that thoroughly wetted my sleeping shorts and licking the semen from my stomach, something he has never done before.

What's up with that? I asked.

What difference does it make? he replied, with the incubus grin.

Uh oh, I thought. This doesn't bode well for the future. I slept fitfully, awakening at 5 a.m. and wondering what lay in store for us at the Core Center.

The Blue Light Special had set the alarm for 7:30. He got up without much prompting but instead of dressing he sat down at his computer and began trying to create a new password for his online banking account.

At 8:15 a.m. I began to pack and announced that I was leaving.

If you're not going to let me help you the only way I know how, then there's no point in my sticking around.



It wasn't the first time I had threatened to go back to New York during my brief visit. On Sunday evening, after we had returned from a long tiring day on our bikes that included watching a parade in Greektown and a visit to the Chicago History Museum. It ended with him getting a flat in Boystown, we had a fight about what to do about dinner. I had offered to pick up some garlic so that we could use the shrimp I had purchased shortly after my arrival.

I have an easy recipe for scampi I said, forgetting that the kitchen truly is his domain.

Thug Lover doesn't tell me what to make he responded, tensely. He just enjoys whatever I make for him.

I'm not Thug Lover I answered, resenting the comparison to his absent roommate.

Our argument escalated quickly, like blood clouding water. When I refused to go out to eat with him--he offered to treat, in return for doing his taxes--he told me to leave the apartment.

OK, I'll go home I said going in the bedroom to pack.

Are you crazy? he had asked then, as he did now, telling me that I should calm down.

I continued packing until he started dressing. We were out the door at 8:35 a.m., only five minutes later than we had planned for our 9 a.m. appointment. Who knew if my second hissy fit had even been necessary?

We arrived at the Core Center a few minutes early. The Blue Light Special was told to fill out a single form with his address, social security number and other standard information. He balked at providing his social security number or indicating his race and religion.

Look, they've already got your social security number as a result of your ER visit. If you want this bureaucracy to help you, I suggest that you cooperate fully and be completely honest about your situation.

He put this advice to test as soon as an unsmiling but clearly efficient clerk called his name, informing her that he was an unemployed student.

They're going to find out that you have a full-time job I whispered as soon as she walked away and pointing to posted signs announcing that federal law protected all aspects of patient confidentiality.

Sure enough, the subject of income came up again as soon as he was given an orange card that he would be required to present during all future visits. We were referred to a second clerk two computers away who was responsible for determining his financial status.

Well, actually, I had a temporary seasonal job last summer and I was just hired again last month he said, truthfully.

I thought you told the other woman you were unemployed she responded.

The financial status clerk became much less suspicious and more compassionate as soon as I pulled out his W2 form and completed tax return.

Everybody's got somethin they gotta deal with she said upon learning that he had learned his status only yesterday. Me, I've got lupus. And a 17-year old daughter who wants to stay out all night.

She also indicated that he should be eligible for the state ADAP program that will cover the cost of any HIV medications. I didn't ask how their sliding scale worked or how much he would be charged for other services for fear of scaring him away.

While we were with the financial status clerk, an elderly black woman interrupted to ask for her assistance.

The pharmacy just sent me to Walgreen's for my prescriptions she complained.

You have to go there now because you're old enough for Medicare to take care of the costs now, she said politely, but firmly. Then she explained to us that the state was having difficulty subsidizing medication costs and that the Core Center was shifting people with HIV/AIDS who were eligible for Medicare or Medicaid to those programs.

Once the Blue Light Special's financial paperwork had been completed, a friendly if unfocused black woman in her 30s introduced herself as his New Patient Guide.

It's my job to take you around to all the services that are available to you here she explained. First I'll take you to your clinic on the third floor where you'll always report for your follow-up appointments.

She got my name wrong and apologized.

It's a bad day for me.

Neither of us asked New Patient Guide why but on the way up in the elevator, she filled us in.

A good friend was taken off life support and passed last night.

As soon as the Blue Light Special was out of earshot, I asked if her friend had AIDS. He had. Later, she told both of us that she had been HIV positive for 11 years and that she had a seven-year old daughter who praise the Lord was virus-free.

I had a couple of bad scares so now I'm committed to taking my meds she said even though they're pretty toxic.

A receptionist in the crowded waiting area directed us to the east side of the clinic. We were the only Caucasians present aside from a female social worker. The Blue Light Special better get used to the American urban melting pot, I thought.

The night before, when we passed the Core Center on our bikes and I noticed that it was named for Ruth M. Rothstein, I couldn't resist ribbing him.

It's a pretty delicious irony that you may be getting free medical care from a place honoring a Jew even though your grandfather was a Nazi.

By the end of the morning, New Patient Guidehad introduced us to an Illinois state benefits coordinator (nothing there for the Blue Light Special's because of his immigration status) . . . a case manager who instantly put him at ease by teasing him about his body though she made me a little wary with her probing questions (is your name on the lease? how do you pay the rent for that address on your income? does your roommate know what's going on? ) before deciding that he didn't need her services because of his stable employment and living situation . . . a mental health counselor (given your recent drug use and inability to explain why you did it, I think a follow-up consultation is advisable) whose psychological assessment offended him (why would she think I hear voices? or see things that aren't there? ) . . . and an Asian nurse who finally intervened with the young Indian physician who kept us waiting longer than he was supposed to while he mysteriously consulted with another patient in the dark.

Truly, the Core Center offered one-stop shopping or in more voguish terms, the kind of "wrap-around care" that researchers believe leads to better outcomes. None of the staff questioned my presence or seemed to resent my occasionally assertive questions and additions to the Blue Light Special's answers (his roommate gives him a rent reduction in exchange for food shopping, cooking and cleaning). America may not recognize gay relationships or have universal health care but this ain't bad. My tax dollars were being put to use for something I could be proud of.

The physician apologized, explaining they were short staffed, and ushered us into a consulting room and began delivering an HIV 101 lecture in a flat mid western accent. It may have been useful for some patients but we already were familiar with the information he clearly was providing by rote. He earned my trust and admiration when he responded I don't know, a phrase I've never heard a doctor utter before, to one of my questions but then lost it with another.

I had asked him about the two current schools of thought among AIDS treatment specialists. One group advocates using drugs to eliminate the viral load from the outset and keeping the t-cell count high; the other has adopted a "wait and see" attitude based on the results of blood work at three month intervals, prescribing medication only when the t-cell count falls below a certain level.

I don't see any reason not to begin taking medication immediately, even if you just tested positive he said blithely.

Uh, how about the side effects? They can be bad enough over the short-term. Who knows what will happen to people who end up taking them for decades? What if they compromise the efficacy of future, less toxic treatments?

Later, it occurred to me that early drug treatment may very well be a public health strategy to reduce infection rates by keeping the viral load as low as possible in the HIV positive population and to reduce acute health care costs incurred by an uninsured population coping with opportunistic infections even over abbreviated lifetimes. (Live Life Out Loud dismissed this when I asked her, however, insisting that long-term drug therapy costs more. I'll reserve judgment until I see a cost benefit analysis.)

The physician gave the Blue Light Special a follow-up appointment in two weeks and signed the paperwork necessary for him to proceed to the lab where they would draw seven vials of blood, enough not only reconfirm the presence of HIV antibodies, but also to determine his viral load, t-cell count, possible infection with other STDs and major organ function, including kidneys and liver.

Even though the Blue Light Special already was late for work, I persuaded him to stay and have his blood drawn instead of returning another time. They kept us waiting longer at the lab than anywhere else but at least we got to speculate about the cute teenager who was waiting, too. We both assumed he was gay but his mother, not he, entered the lab alone.

The lab was the only place where I wasn't allowed to accompany the Blue Light Special. I wondered if he behaved any less passively outside of my presence.

By this time, New Patient Guide was as eager to see us go as we were to leave. Nevertheless, when the Blue Light Special emerged from the lab, I asked if we could meet the nutritionist downstairs, mostly because I thought this might be the one person with whom the Blue Light Special could establish a continuing relationship, the kind that could encourage him to form a real connection at the Core Center. He studied nutrition, he takes a handful of vitamins every day and he examines food labels obsessively to reduce his sodium intake. She wasn't available but New Patient Guide told him he could come back and see her anytime before hugging us goodbye.

Depending on his t-cell count the Blue Light Special may not have to return for another three months after his next appointment. I'm afraid that the arrival of a bill or the side effects of medication, if he chooses to go that route, could undo the progress that I think we made today. We shall see as he would say.

I didn't realize how stressed I was until I tried to pick up Thug Lover's dry cleaning and discovered that I had left my wallet at the 7/11 where I had stopped for a diet Dr. Pepper after the Blue Light Special rode off to work. I spent the next hour or so reading the Times online to get my mind off of things. A news item announced that the coroner had reported that an accidental drug overdose had caused Anna Nicole Smith's death. That was about all I absorbed. I decided to call Her Fierceness to unload.




At 4 p.m. I left the apartment, thoroughly unprepared for the steep temperature drop to 37 degrees. A harsh wind off the lake made pedaling north to the Montrose Beach parking lot, a gay crusing area for cars, extremely difficult. I wanted to check out the scene before meeting the Blue Light Special in front of the nearby Elk's Veteran's Memorial at 6 p.m. Guys sitting in parked cars flash their brake lights at each other to indicate their interest. Not much was happening so I killed some time freezing my fingers by photographing the Montrose Beach bird sanctuary from a chilly pier.

For once, the Blue Light Special showed up early. We ate delicious spinach appetizers, grilled meat and couscous at a Moroccan restaurant Thug Lover had recommended, warming our hands on the tiny mint tea cups. I had decided not to let him treat me but I had no choice when the bill arrived and I discovered that they didn't take credit cards.

The world really is topsy turvy when you're working and I'm not and you're taking me out to dinner I said.

He seemed to be more pleased than I thought he would be, handing the waiter a crisp $100 bill.

On our way home, we finally managed to find Stanley's the green grocer we had looked for on Monday. The prices thrilled him, the quality of the produce less so.

It's OK if you buy it on your way home and use it immediately he observed. Among his purchases was a bulb of garlic.

I bought a pint of mint chip ice cream to celebrate the end of a very draining day. Both of us returned to the apartment in very good moods. The Blue Light Special was as affectionate as he's ever been.

He also made another confession.

I knew I would become positive in America because I had a dream once. I dreamed that I would become the first HIV positive Hollywood movie star.

Really? I asked, more gently than I thought possible.

Yes he said in that purring way of his that comes across even in our daily phone conversations.

Well, I'm sure you will. And I'll write the role that will make you famous.

Enabling has never been my strong suit but for once I believe the occasion called for it.

As soon as he opened his eyes this morning, I played Celluloid Heroes by the Kinks,a song I'd tried to send to him via e-mail earlier.

Everybody's a dreamer
Everybody's a star
Everybody's in show biz
It doesn't matter who you are
There are stars in every city
In every house and on every street
But if you walk down Hollywood Boulevard
The names are written in concrete.

The music startled him.

This is a sad song he said, sleepily.

I don't think so I said, hugging Blue Light Special hard.

I wish my life was a non-stop Hollywood movie show,
A fantasy world of celluloid villains and heroes,
Because celluloid heroes never feel any pain
And celluloid heroes never really die.

WAITING

My fourth flight to Chicago in less than a year has been delayed by a couple of hours. Not that it makes much difference--the Blue Light Special won't return from his new full-time and night classes until after 9 p.m.

A grueling schedule, however, is hardly the biggest change in his heretofore charmed life. On March 12, he went to the local Chicago STD clinic for his second rapid HIV test in three months at the end of the so-called window period that follows high-risk behavior. If infection has occurred, it takes this long for the antibodies the immune system produces to fight it in the blood. He called me late that night, a Monday, with distressing news.

"At first the woman at the clinic told me that I was OK, that I could leave but then she came running after me and said I needed to take the test again. If you're negative the test is supposed to show two solid red lines but my line was more pink. It didn't turn red the second time either so she drew blood for a lab analysis."

The story sounded a little peculiar and even though the Blue Light Special isn't the most reliable reporter, I chose to believe him when he said that the results were inconclusive instead of evidence that he had seroconverted. He sounded pretty chipper on the phone, a posture that he has kept up for much of the waiting period.

But a quick internet search for information about rapid HIV tests before going to bed that night snuffed out what little hope I had. According to the literature, the tests are highly accurate and there wasn't any mention of "inconclusive results." I went to sleep feeling as shitty as I had when David, my first and only other serious relationship, had told me he was positive in 1992. Not again, not again.

I got up the next morning determined to go about my day as usual--shades of 9/11--but before finishing the Times, I e-mailed Master Spinner and Live Life Out Loud, two good friends who are well-connected in the AIDS field, asking them to give me a call at their earliest convenience.

Master Spinner called amost immediately and informed me that the "morning after treatment" had to be administered within hours of suspected infection not positive test results. He also verified that clinics in Europe were more likely to offer it which would explain why the Blue Light Special had come across it in his German Google search.

Sometimes they'll give it to you in an American emergency room if you tell them you have good reason to think you have been exposed he added.

I wondered if perhaps this explained why the Blue Light Special had visited the ER twice in early December shortly after we had gotten back in touch after a two-month estrangement. He insisted he had sought medical attention because of his reaction to crystal methamphetamine use, but his severe anxiety might also have been symptomatic of a growing fear about HIV infection due to unsafe sex and slamming with a positive partner.

Master Spinner also suggested that the Blue Light Special try to get into a scientific research program, a strategy that had extended the life of his first lover who, still going going strong, was among the first people to receive AZT more than 20 years ago through a pilot program at the National Institutes of Health.

Researchers are always looking for recent sero-converts he said.

When I expressed my incredulity that this could have happened to a man pushing 40 pretty hard, he offered his own story to help me put human behavior in perspective.

Last year somebody gave me a booty bump. I let the guy fuck me without a condom, toothus tacitly explaining his familiarity with the state of morning after treatment.

There you go: if someone as intelligent and accomplished as Master Spinner could compromise his health in this way, why should I expect more from the Blue Light Special or anyone else?

I managed to keep my routine going even after my conversation with the Master Spinner, but my mind was consumed with fear, rage and hopelessness. I kept reminding myself that the medical advances that had occurred in the 14 years since David's death might keep the Blue Light Special alive longer than me given the history of heart disease and cancer in my blood relatives.

The knowledge didn't comfort me much. I kept asking over and over How could he have exposed himself? Am I prepared to deal with even the long-distance drama of his new condition given that his hypochondria levels are off the chart to begin with?

Then I began to think about the unmistakable parallels between the Blue Light Special and David on their path to seroconversion, at least in relation to their impact on my own status: in both instances I had withdrawn from them sexually well before they tested positive. Did I have some highly developed sense of self preservation?

Of course this could very well be a case of chickens and eggs that has nothing to do with a sixth sense and everything to do with the end of passion. As each of us turned to other sexual outlets, I continued to practice safer sex and they didn't. This led to a bout of sexual insecurity. Was my refusal to engage in unsafe sex with men I loved who attracted me powerfully an indication that I was less sensual than they and ultimately the reason that they sought satisfaction elsewhere?

Guilt nagged at me a bit, too. Would the Blue Light Special have seroconvered if I hadn't sent him home from the Pines in late September after discovering that he had partied with several guys even though I had told him the summer before that I would never tolerate this behavior again? He's his own keeper but I wonder if the emotional support that I have always provided might have helped him resist the siren call of drugs and unprotected sex during a period of unemployment and loneliness in a new city?

Live Life Out Loud called me from the Metroliner after I returned from my lunchtime swim. She had been in New York for the day, taking a former colleague of ours who now suffers from liver cancer, to the doctor. Her knowledge about testing and the current state of treatment was a lot more extensive than Master Spinner's.

Did he have a flu-like illness shortly after his high-risk behavior? she asked, noting that this is common among many new cases of HIV infection. He had, back in early December, shortly before his first visit to the STD clinic when he had tested negative.

By the time we finished our long conversation, I had little doubt that the lab results would confirm that the Blue Light Special had tested positive but Live Life Out Loud did make me feel a whole lot better when she told me that first-rate treatment could be obtained in Chicago regardless of ability to pay or immigration status thanks to the Ryan White Act.

It's ironic she observed. If he had cancer, he would be shit out of luck but because it's HIV, he probably can even get free dental care.

I summed up both conversations in e-mails and sent them to the Blue Light Special. When he called later that night, he sounded as if he didn't have a care in the world. When our conversation eventually returned to HIV, I briefed him about what I had learned and asked if he wanted me to make an appointment for him at the Core Center, the clinic Live Life Out Loud had recommended, so that I could accompany him if he turned out to be positive. He agreed.

The next morning I called the Core Center and was surprised to learn that his name and social security number already were in their system. They must have recorded the information when he was admitted to the Cook County Hospital emergency room, part of the same system, in December.

As the week wore on, I began to adjust to his new reality but I still wasn't prepared for the call I got last Tuesday night, March 20. I knew immediately from the tone of his voice that something was wrong.

Thug Lover, his roommate, had stayed home from work that day. The lobby had notified him that the woman who had tested the Blue Light Special at the STD clinic was downstairs and wanted to see him. When he refused to let her up, she left a note asking him to have the Blue Light Special call her. She also wanted Thug Lover to come to the clinic for an HIV test. Although he and the Blue Light Special haven't had sex in years, he complied. Thug Lover tested negative. Although she refused to tell him anything about the Blue Light Special's status, the reasons behind her presence in their lobby couldn't have been more obvious.

The Chicago Department of Health must track new HIV infections aggressively. This may explain why Gonzo, the guy the Blue Light Special believes infected him, urged him never to reveal that they had had sex to the Health Department.

They're always coming around he said after informing the Blue Light Special of his HIV status and telling him that he hadn't ever been sick enough to take protease inhibitors.

Of course the Blue Light Special DID reveal that he had sex with Gonzo when the STD clinic worker pressed him for details about his recent sexual contacts in the extensive interview that followed his "inconclusive" rapid HIV test results. So it probably wasn't a coincidence when Gonzo sent him an e-mail asking how he was doing shortly after his visit to the clinic. When I heard this, I suddenly was momentarily sympathetic to arguments for quarantining the infected.

As the Blue Light Special relayed this latest drama, he also hit me with a big dose of self-pity blaming Gonzo for infecting him, criticizing the United States for not offering him the morning after treatment, asking why it had happened to him without ever acknowledging his role and asking over and over again, What's next?

Apparently, Thug Lover had even less tolerance for this affect than I do.

He said if I jumped off our balcony [on the 25th floor] he'd go downstairs and kick my ass.

I took a slightly more gentle tack, reminding him that things could be a lot worse but also acknowledging that he likely would experience a profound psychological change.

Do you remember how when we went to tea in the Pines we always used to speculate who was positive and who wasn't? How we kind of divided the crowd into us and them?

The Blue Light Special picked up on my train of thought pretty quickly.

You mean now it's me and them? he asked.

Exactly.

A part of me thinks it would be best for him if he gets involved with an HIV support group that has some good role models for him, but I'm also a little scared that I am going to lose him to the HIV world. People gravitate to their own kind. Once you're infected, it seems awfully hard not to take advantage of what some HIV positive people call the benefits of "membership" which include, but are not limited to, unsafe sex with other infected partners. The kind of behavior you now observe constantly in the demimonde, the kind of understandably selfish behavior that normalizes unsafe sex for young people who may not fully appreciate the seriousness of the illness. If we can't expect people to protect themselves from getting infected, how can we expect them to behave "responsibly" once they are?

Unemployment has given me plenty of time to analyze all aspects of the Blue Light Special's seroconversion. I had an epiphany today while swimming. Perhaps subconsciously he wanted to become HIV positive so he could blame his failed acting career on his health. Or maybe he really, really wants to get a prescription for steroids and bulk up what already is very a nearly a perfect body in everyone's eyes but his own.

In any case, my plane hasn't even taken off yet and already I'm beginning to tire a little of the drama, especially after the phone call I got yesterday from Thug Lover, just before he took off for Dresden for a long-planned vacation. It didn't come as a total surprise because the Blue Light Special had told me that he had asked for my number.

What are we going to do about our stepchild? he asked after we awkwardly exchanged pleasantries. We've never discussed it, but I'm pretty sure he thinks he's the Daddy and I'm the Mommy in our unconventional threesome.

This from the guy who didn't want to hear why I had sent the Blue Light Special home from the Pines because it was "something between us"!

Nevertheless, I kept my cool and told him that I had scheduled this trip to coincide with the results of his confirmatory test and a follow-up medical appointment if necessary. He seemed more relieved to learn that the Core Center would provide treatment regardless of his immigration status or ability to pay. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure he would have tried to persuade me to let the Blue Light Special live with me in New York, or support his advice that he return to Germany. Thug Lover didn't get where he is in corporate America without being a skilled manipulator.