These are dangerous days
To say what you feel is to dig your own grave – Sinėad O’Connor

• Funding for critical disease research delayed or denied.
• Media too fearful to take a stand.
• The party in power laughing and promoting negative stereotypes.
• Institutional neglect.
• Religious people condemning the gay community.
• Outright mockery from the White House.
• People afraid to speak up.

No, I’m not talking about 2025, I’m talking about the AIDS epidemic during the Reagan Years (1981-1989). But the lessons from that time are important now because, as the old saying goes, “those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

The 1980s were a very different time. Open discrimination against gay people in housing and employment was legal except in a handful of places. New York City did not pass antidiscrimination legislation until 1986, almost 17 years after Stonewall. New Jersey’s antidiscrimination law was passed in 1991, beating Los Angeles by a full year (though it wasn’t until 2006 that gender identity and expression were included).

It was against this backdrop that AIDS was allowed to spread unchecked. In 1982, when asked about this new disease, White House Press Secretary Larry Speakes laughed and said “I don’t have it. Do you?” Others in the briefing room also laughed.

The laughter eventually gave way to more sinister rhetoric, with public figures openly suggesting the quarantine or isolation of gay men. Conservative Commentator William F. Buckley wrote, in the New York Times, “Everyone detected with AIDS should be tattooed on the upper forearm and on the buttocks.”

At the same time, religious leaders called the disease “God’s punishment” and were relentless in attacking the sick and dying. Many churches would not allow openly gay people to attend, receive sacraments, or even have a funeral service.

Some families were so ashamed of their own children that they would only show up after they had died—to take their personal belongings and kick out partners from homes and apartments because there were no legal protections against doing so.

And yet, against this ugly backdrop of hatred, fear, and silence a resistance grew. It was quiet at first, but, over time, became so loud that it could no longer be ignored.

While some doctors and nurses treated AIDS patients with fear and judgment, others became compassionate advocates.

The gay community and our allies pulled together. People volunteered their time: sharing information, trying to get the attention of those in government, or just quietly sitting with men who had no one else. Lesbians played a greatly underappreciated role: volunteering in hospitals and hospices, organizing food deliveries, helping those with AIDS find housing.

Finally, in 1987, frustration boiled over, and two very different approaches emerged. Activist and Playwright Larry Kramer started The AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT UP), which engaged in civil disobedience to demand that more be done to find a treatment or cure for the disease. That same year, Activist Cleve Jones started the AIDS Memorial Quilt which helped show that there were humans behind the statistics. In October of that same year, there was a huge March on Washington, D.C. for Lesbian and Gay Rights.

Eventually, those with power could ignore us no longer and things began to change. Early treatments were developed, and they continued to get better. More straight people realized that they’d had gay friends and neighbors all along and that it just wasn't a big deal. Some of us even moved to suburban New Jersey.

Why the history lesson? As an elder, I’m glad that younger people in our community don’t have to go through something so painful and hope you all live to a ripe old age. I see so many of you worried about losing rights, having your spouses and partners deported, having your marriages challenged again and, in too many places, still being surrounded by hatred and ignorance.

You can stand up and fight against it. If that's not your style, you can provide support to those who do. it’s your turn to carry the torch. As long as you keep it burning bright you, too, will emerge from these dangerous days.

John and his husband Carlos moved from California to New Jersey in 2021 and are enjoying the suburban life. John can be reached at jsr26 at msn dot com.

The Best Christmas Present

My late father loved to change the lyrics to songs and holiday songs were no exception. Growing up, I was certain that the lyrics to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” contained the lines:

“Here we are as in olden days,

Happy golden days, up yours”

We always had lots of laughs but very little serious conversation. It’s a lot easier for those identifying as men to tease friends and family members than it is to engage them in discussions of things that matter, such as telling them you love them, admitting to them that you need help with something, or talking about major issues in your life or identity.

I lived in California at the time but always looked forward to coming back to New Jersey for Christmas. California Christmases were cold and dreary, while New Jersey Christmases were … cold and dreary, but with family.

My parents knew I was gay, and my now-husband Carlos stayed with my family multiple times. Still, it wasn’t discussed directly, though both my mom and dad would, whenever we talked on the phone, ask “How’s Carlos doing?” I always gave the standard response “OK” before we’d talk about something else like the weather, TV shows, or the time difference between New Jersey and California.

They liked having Carlos visit for Christmas, but did make us sleep in separate rooms, which added a forbidden thrill to when we snuck around in the middle of the night (thanks mom and dad!).

My dad and I were both night owls so we always watched TV together after my mom, and sometimes Carlos, had gone to bed to read or listen to music.

I always asked my dad how he was doing, and he always gave the standard and expected response, “OK.” He always asked how I was doing, and I always gave the standard and expected response, “OK,” though once I think I mixed it up a bit and said “good, thanks” instead.

That all changed one Christmas Eve. I was sitting alone with my dad watching “A Christmas Story,” one of his favorite movies. During a commercial he turned to me, unprompted, and said: “You know, I’m really proud of you. You moved to California on your own not knowing anybody, got a good job, found someone and made a good life for yourself.” It was an emotional moment for us and there was so much I wanted to say to him in return but before I could say anything he was walking towards the kitchen. “You want some ice cream?” he asked. “Sure,” I said.

It's one of my best Christmas memories ever.

Happy Holidays to everyone who celebrates and peace and joy to those who don’t.

John and Carlos moved from California to New Jersey in 2021 and are enjoying the suburban life. John can be reached at jsr26 at msn dot com.

Before the internet, and long before dating apps, there were online Bulletin Board Systems (BBS). These were text-only spaces where various interest groups gathered to chat about specific topics. Imagine a reddit where, before you could read and respond to messages, you had to make sure your roommates were off the phone, then plug in your dial-up modem and wait while your computer made a series of ungodly squealing sounds, then log in and, via a series of menus selected with numbers and a keyboard (not everyone had computer mice), accomplish your task. In my case, the “task” was to meet someone to date.

I lived in San Francisco at the time so meeting someone IRL was fairly easy. There were bars and dance clubs, as well as some less savory places that I will neither confirm nor deny ever spending time at. However, being a computer nerd from the start (I owned a TRS 80 Color Computer in college), I thought that by meeting someone online I could pretend I was living in the future.

My BBS of choice was “The Backdoor.” Since it no longer exists, the following menu is created from my not-so-great memory:

1. Check for new messages
2. Send a new message
3. Find guys looking for fun

Dating or even just hooking up online in the 80s was very different:

• Now: “6’3” top seeks bottom. We will have five minutes of foreplay where you service me then I will f*ck you for three minutes and then leave. See my headless torso and dick pics. You must be hot and respond in 30 seconds or I will move on to the next person.
• Then: “Helllo. New to computre stuff. Want too meat (hahahahaha) sometime? Message me.”

There were no photos, just messages. Even the few porn sites that existed involved choosing a photo based on its text description, then waiting 15 minutes for it to download before seeing if it was worth adding to the spank bank.

I logged in and messaged a guy who met both of my criteria--he was around my age and knew how to use a computer. We chatted online for a month or two before finally agreeing to meet at the park. I nervously rode my bike--I didn’t own a car and, after driving on Route 22 recently, I wish I didn’t own one now.

When I got there, I saw a handsome Latino with curly black hair sitting on a park bench. He was wearing dark sunglasses and didn’t smile. I was intimidated but turned on at the same time, so I rode my bike around in circles before finally getting up the nerve to talk to him.

• Me: “Are you Carlos?”
• Him: “Yes. Why were you riding around in circles?”

I shrugged. He didn’t say much. “Damn,” I thought. “Living in the future sucks.”

• Me: “Want to get something to eat?”
• Him: “Sure.”

We went to a nearby restaurant. While waiting for our food, our engaging conversation continued.

• Me: “Are you going to take off your sunglasses?”
• Him: “No.”

But then the food came and we started talking. I don’t remember what we talked about, but whatever it was we both became more relaxed. He took off his sunglasses and it was lust at first sight.

After dinner, I invited him back to my place. We talked for four hours and then I asked if I could kiss him. “Yes,” he said, and the deal was sealed. We began dating and moved in together six months later. 35 years later we’re still together and we both have much better computers.

While talking the other day I said “do you realize we’re probably one of the first couples to have met online?”

“Probably,” he responded.

“Are you going to take off your sunglasses?”

“No.”

---

John and his husband Carlos moved to New Jersey from San Francisco in 2021 and are enjoying the suburban life. John can be contacted at jsr26 at msn dot com.

It’s Tuesday afternoon on a beautiful September day and I’m sitting alone in St. Thomas Church on 5^thAvenue in New York City, crying that I can't have an orgasm. I’m still crying when I hear it. Random staccato notes on the pipe organ. I laugh, imagining a cat has broken into the organ room and is walking haphazardly across the keys. This isn’t how I expected my day to go, but here we are.

My “journey” begins early in the year when a high Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) test during a routine physical (“it’s probably nothing”) leads to an MRI (“it may be nothing”), then  to a biopsy (“there’s still a chance it’s nothing”), and finally to a diagnosis, over Zoom, of unfavorable intermediate stage prostate cancer.

There must be a mistake. They must have mixed up my results with someone else’s. Does that happen? Probably not. My husband cries with me, but eventually falls asleep. Waves of terror continue to pass through me. It’s 2 AM. I can’t sleep and my thoughts are racing. My husband is fast asleep and the dog is snoring. Maybe rubbing one out will help. I ejaculate blood. I’d been warned this is a side effect of a prostate biopsy, but it’s still jarring.

The next morning, in a somewhat dissociative state, I make an appointment at a major cancer center in New York City. It’s not for three weeks. I take this as a sign that I’m going to live for at least three weeks.

I go online. From Dr. Google, I learn prostate cancer is a deadly, virulent disease that spreads and kills quickly but is so slow growing and indolent that it’s not worth testing for or treating. Dr. Google tells me stories of impotent men wearing diapers years after prostate surgery but that men recover quickly and are back on Grindr in weeks. Dr. Google says surgery to remove the prostate (prostatectomy) is the gold standard but that gay men should never have prostate surgery. Dr. Google informs me radiation is as effective as surgery with fewer side effects but that the side effects of radiation are much worse and that everyone, including gay men, should have surgery. I learn my sex life will be ruined, and my husband will leave me, but we will be closer than ever and continue to have great sex.

I find an online gay men's support group and attend my first meeting. I nervously log in and the guys are joking about artificial urinary sphincters, arguing if bottoming is the same without a prostate, and discussing the pros and cons of the dry ejaculation that results from treatment (Pro: no mess to clean up. Con: no mess to clean up). I tell my story. They’ve heard it 100 times but listen politely and with kindness. I’m still in anger and denial, careening towards depression, while most of them have passed bargaining and are well into acceptance.

With prostate cancer, the patient generally decides the treatment. Surgery or radiation are the standard of care. Focal therapy, high-frequency ultrasound and other treatments are the alternative methods. Ivermectin and high-dose marijuana oil are touted as miracle cures in some online circles but thankfully not mine.

After careful deliberation (asking Siri for a random number), I choose SBRT--five sessions of high-intensity external radiation.

I’m scheduled for surgery to have three gold fiducial markers, each the size of a grain of rice, sewed into my prostate. These are used during radiation treatment to ensure the beam stays where it’s supposed to and doesn’t fry other organs if I breathe, move slightly, or run screaming from the table.

Because my stage is unfavorable, I’m told I must also do six months of Androgen Deprivation Therapy (ADT), which is a polite way of saying “chemical castration,” which is a polite way of saying “cutting your balls off without cutting your balls off.” Prostate cancer feeds on testosterone, so shutting off T helps radiation work better. I ask the side effects and am told “hot flashes and tiredness.”

Things are normal the first couple of weeks. My husband and I have sex once a week like the long-time married couple we are. By the third week, I can’t reach orgasm. I decide to try a different move to see if it’s better, but my husband uses his safe word, which is “what the hell are you doing?!?” The ADT is in high gear and my testosterone is gone. I’m tired, I have no appetite, I’m moody, I can’t concentrate and my dick doesn’t work. That night I lose it.

I’m in bed bawling my eyes out and I start screaming “I want to die! Please, just let me die” over and over and over. My husband gently puts his body on top of mine, strokes my hair, and tells me “It’s OK. I’m here for you. We’re going to get through this.” I’m still screaming when our American English coonhound becomes alarmed and starts baying at me. We laugh uncontrollably. I’ve never felt more in love with my husband (or my dog).

The day of the surgery to implant the markers arrives and I’m crying again. I’m crossing the Rubicon. I dread anesthesia because it makes me vomit. I tell the anesthesiologist this and she assures me it won’t happen with her. I wake up sore, but not nauseous. I will always ask for a female anesthesiologist from now on.

I’m wheeled to the recovery room. My husband holds my hand as the nurse comes in and gives me a tiny juice box with some first-grade math problems on the back. At least I’m still sharp enough to add 5 + 4.

We head home. Every pothole hurts and, living in New Jersey, there are a lot of potholes.

I read about “penile rehab,” which is taking low dose Viagra or Cialis during treatment. This is thought to prevent atrophy and reduce shrinkage. None of this was mentioned by any of my doctors or nurses, but I get a Viagra prescription with 12 refills. The pharmacist gives me a sly smile when I fill it.

When it’s time to start radiation, I go for a “simulation” where they run me through the process without actually frying my prostate. The “process” involves an enema and drinking 16 ounces of water and holding it for an hour to keep my bladder full and out of the radiation field. I make a mental note of how unpleasant this is in case I’m ever a dom top and my sub wants some degradation play.

Every other day, for five days, I lie on the table while the technicians align me under the beam. They pretend not to see my ever-shrinking junk and I pretend they can’t see my ever-shrinking junk. They ask me what music I want to hear. I want them to think I’m cool so, over four days, I select Nicki Minaj, Lana Del Rey, Noah Kahan and Chappel Roan.

On my final day I bring cupcakes for the techs who were professional, kind and empathetic. I ask for Lady Gaga, hoping to get something upbeat like “Gypsy” or “Applause” but instead I get “Shallow.” Bradley Cooper’s raspy voice barely rises above the noise of the linear accelerator circling around me and turning my prostate into a smore. I hope the techs aren’t too busy eating cupcakes to forget to turn it off.

I ring the bell signaling the end of treatment but it’s not really the end. There’s still four more months of ADT. Radiation and ADT make me tired. I nap every afternoon until the dog decides I've had enough sleep and smacks me with her paw. The idea of food becomes increasingly unappealing, and I lose weight. I work out like a fiend. Weightlifting 3-4x a week, cardio every day and walking the dog four miles, rain or shine. It doesn’t matter. ADT causes muscle loss and I’m starting to get a “cancer belly” which I hide by wearing oversized (and overpriced) shirts I buy from fancy stores after my doctor appointments in New York.

Over the next month all my body hair falls out. My husband says I look like a swimmer, but I think I look like a raw Costco chicken. It’s been a month since radiation, and two months into ADT. I can’t sleep, my joints hurt, my memory is gone, my dick is dead, and I’m having bad thoughts again. I find a therapist. I start taking an antidepressant.

I make an appointment with a sexual health specialist in New York. Before the doctor comes in, his assistant measures my now-pre-pubescent penis and testicles, stretches my penis to see if it still has elasticity, shakes his head from side to side and types a bunch of notes into the computer. The doctor says my anorgasmia is due to ADT. I tell him I’m relieved because ADT is almost over. He tells me the effects will continue for six months or more after stopping, and that a significant number of men never get back any testosterone at all. He smiles, gives me a fist bump and leaves.

My soul is crushed. I head outside and walk down 5^th Avenue. Instead of fantasizing about the hundreds of hot men walking past I try to guess their testosterone level. Beard and lots of body hair—at least 800. Older with a mustache—probably 450. Metrosexual—320. Thin, young twink—at least 1,000. My inner voice tells me I’m a neutered dog. I feel tears coming, so I weave out of the sea of people and into the near-empty church. I cry and pray until the imaginary cat walks across the pipe organ and I’m OK again.

On the bus home, I ask myself why I’m so concerned with sex and my physical appearance when I should be thinking that my treatment is saving my life. I realize it’s because I know it’s going to work so I don’t have to think about it. There’s a 70% chance. That’s pretty good, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like anyone dies from prostate cancer right—never mind. I can’t think about that. I’m tired but at least I know what I’ll be discussing with my therapist later in the week.

I head home and my husband has set out all the fixings for homemade burritos, one of my favorite meals. He hugs me. For now, the ADT is not messing with my emotions, so we eat our burritos and watch Gordon Ramsay berate some poor young home chef for her not-so-great macaroni and cheese. “This is the worst thing that could possibly happen to me!” she says. “Not by a mile,” I think.

I sit on the couch and rest my feet on my husband’s lap. The dog wants in on the action and climbs next to me. Here we are, three living creatures enjoying an ephemeral moment together. I soak it in instead of taking it for granted like I would have in the BC (before cancer) times. For the first time in awhile, I’m deeply and fully aware of the silent but real love radiating between the three of us and that someday it's going to end. I tell my husband, out loud, that I love him. He rubs my leg. “Are the burritos OK?” “Perfect,” I reply.

---

John and his husband Carlos moved to New Jersey from San Francisco in 2021 and are enjoying the suburban life. John can be contacted at jsr26 at msn dot com.