The Gay Blade

We call them, only half-jokingly, our "fur children" . Dogs, cats, whatever pet we have, they enrich our lives. When I was recuperating from being at death's door in the mid 90s, one of my brothers bought a puppy, much to his wife's horror, with 2 kids under 5 at the time, so I ended up looking after her for 3 or 4 days a week. I took her to obedience class. She made me get up every day and take her for walks, morning and night, summer and winter. In short, even though she adored my brother, she also bonded with me. I seriously believe that having her in my life helped me in my recovery immensely. It stopped me focussing on myself and my troubles so much, something that's so easy to do. She made me laugh, doing silly dog things. She made me exercise. Having to keep up with a happy, energetic young Doberman cross is bound to make you fitter. She had "4-paw drive" fast as lightning, up and down hills, running like crazy then stopping to see where I was....

It's my birthday next Monday. 47. Amazing. When I was 27 and in London and newly HIV+ I was told I had about 2 years left to live. And then when I was 35 or so, back here in Auckland, I was told I had a year to live. Either the Drs got it wrong, or you are reading the writings from beyond the grave - my advice - don't listen to Drs when they tell you how long you have left. Or maybe we're all stuck in an episode of "The Ghost Whisperer" or something equally crappy. But they meant well when they did say that to me, and they were basing it on their not inconsiderable experience of what the typical trajectory of HIV infection meant in those days. In fact, back in 95 I was so sick everyone thought I was on the way out, me included. I am bloody lucky - there is no other reason I'm still here but blind luck. I don't think I'm special. I was lucky enough to somehow hold on till the new drugs came through. I know so many guys who didn't make it. But I con...

There used to be a fashion in the 17th century to write manuals of advice for young men. Often they were framed as letters from a father to his son. I was wondering what sort of advice I'd give today to a young man coming out into the glamorous glittering world of gay Auckland. Because, of course, when I was a young man, venturing out into homoland, there really wasn't anything in the way of examples or models except for Hudson & Halls or Mr Humphries on "Are You Being Served" - and as much as I appreciate them now, at the time I just didn't want to be anything like them. However, I did start my sex life at the tender age of 15, in the public toilets in the Otahuhu car park. And I just kept going back, there and to other bogs around town. Doing the milk run as we called it. Albert Park, High St, Durham Lane, Customs St and back. There was no Rainbow Youth to go to - all the advice I got was from men who wanted my sweet young body. Some of them were remarkably...

There's a joke that for gay men, having sex is like shaking hands. It's just what we do, you know, it's how we say hi to a stranger. And there's an element of truth to it, after all, as gay men we are defined to some extent by what we do with each other with out clothes off. Or at least flies open. And it's often said that nzdating should really be called nzfucking, cause that's how we treat it. And I'm not complaining about this. Casual sex is one of our great treats. But what about dating? Why don't we seem to do that in this country? I was talking about this with an American friend recently, and he claimed that over there it's actually quite normal to go out and have a meal, maybe a coffee or a drink, and not fall into bed straight away. From what he said, they sometimes even do that two or three times before they do fall into bed.(OK, not always, and maybe not so much in NY). And I was also talking with another friend, who is, sexy, and smart...

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Well, it happened again. Met a guy online, chatted a bit, figured out that the filthy, perverted, friendly things we enjoyed would complement each other's need for perversion and filth nicely. Agreed to safe sex, naturally. Met up in a neutral space so we could each back out with dignity if the reality didn't quite match up to what life online had conjured up. We both fitted our descriptions and agreed we still wanted to do filthy things to each other. Then I told him I was HIV+. Fear, confusion, doubt and... "Look", I said, "if it makes you uncomfortable then hey, let's forget it - no point trying to pretend." He was grateful for the chance I gave him and he left. I didn't have to tell him - and I don't always tell everyone I get naked with. That's why we do safe sex guys - so we won't catch it or pass it on. In fact, I can remember about 7 or 8 years ago at a bar being told off by a guy for telling him my HIV status - as he said "W...

They're having an election this year, in case you hadn't noticed. God what a dismal set of options we have before us. Labour? They seem desperate to stay in power, and willing to do just about anything to do so. But so tired, so arrogant, (witness their indignant howls when the Auditor General demonstrated they'd broken the law) and so out of touch. Plus I don't recall seeing the EFA on the list of promised policies before the last election, when I did vote for them. If they'd had that on the list I wouldn't have. Their constant spiteful attacks on John Key for being successful just don't do it for me either. I know whoever was in power would have cosied up to China, but I find that country as morally bankrupt as apartheid era South Africa. But Labour won't mention a word on those issues. National? Moving so fast to the centre they're nearly indistinguishable from Labour on social policies. Economically neo-liberal still (no thanks!) and not really s...

I was talking a bit about types of men we find sexy with a friend the other day. I don't know if I have one anymore. When I was younger I used to have a type, or types, of men that I found attractive. I am old enough to remember being young with men who had long hippy hair and untamed beards, dressed in flares and wearing love beads, smelling of patchouli and were sweet and gentle and passionate. In my early 20s, they were in their early to mid twenties (28 seemed so old, 30 ancient) slim, trim, but not covered in muscles - I don't think the uber-developed gym-body was around in those days when I think about it. I have always liked a hairy chest, I have to say. And for some reason, a man's back has always been a major turn on for me. Some backs are like warm ivory shields, and tracing the muscles and lines of them as I lie entwined is still something I enjoy. Legs too, I've always been a leg man. I can remember deliberately standing at the bottom of the stairs at schoo...

The tragic suicide of Dr Matt Wildbore last week as well as the imminent publication of Dr Chris Brickell's new book "Mates and Lovers" made me think of a few things. One thought that I keep returning to is the way our history, individual and collective, is so fragile. For many younger men in Auckland, Matt Wildbore is not a name they'd know. For me, and I guess for my generation, he was a symbol of compassion, of care, of fun, of bravery and support through the worst days of the plague. He was vocal, he was courageous, he cared. The effort he put in, and also the efforts of many others, through those dark days when all you could expect after an HIV+ diagnosis was to get sicker and sicker and die, usually terribly, perhaps in your own shit, emaciated, blind, demented, unable to recognise those around your bed who loved you, it seems that history, that part of our culture, has been lost to some extent. It's as if the generation coming straight after a terrible w...

A good friend, who at 44 is a couple of years younger than me, had a heart attack the other week (henceforth known as HAM -Heart Attack Man). Given that he smokes like a chimney, and in his drinking makes me look (at times) like a Salvation Army officer, perhaps it’s not surprising. Worrying, as I am very fond of him, but maybe not so surprising. Another friend, also younger than me, but only by a few weeks, has been living with a nasty cancer diagnosis (henceforth known as CB - Cancer Boy) for the last 2 months. Both of these guys, myself and another friend (let’s call him the 4th), were sitting chatting the other night on K Rd. CB and HAM were sort of swapping notes, while both were smoking still (I can be smug as I haven’t had a ciggie in weeks and weeks now) joking a little, when I asked the 4th if was ok, and he assured me he was, and he asked me if I was ok, and I said “I’m fine thanks, just fine” or words to that effect. There was a slight sort of pause, then I said, “We...

Here’s a question for you: Do all immigrants to New Zealand, or any country, share the same issues? I mean, do a multi-millionaire French immigrant and his American wife settling in Marlborough and running a vineyard have that much in common with an IT peon from Shanghai in Wellington? How much does either one share with a Samoan wife joining her husband and his family here in South Auckland? They all have to adjust, they all come from somewhere else, they’ll all feel a bit different here, for a while at least, but their social and material conditions are vastly different, and this will affect how they adjust to life here. I ask because from among the mailing lists I’m on, I received one the other day that had this acronym - GLITTFAB = gay, lesbian, intersex, transgender, takataapui, fafa’afine, asexual, and bisexual. What an assortment! And why on earth are we all grouped together? That’s what I don’t get. As a gay man, I think I do share a few interests with lesbians. We get ...