It all started at Tower Records in 1992 when a CD single of a woman wearing a necklace made of scallions caught my eye.

It had covers of three songs I knew well: “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” “Angie” and “Thank You”; and two original songs. I was intrigued, thinking who would dare cover Nirvana’s signature song? So, I bought it. Nirvana’s version hid the despair and sadness of the song behind a wall of angry guitars, but Tori’s piano and vocal version stripped it down to the honesty at its core. I was hooked.

One of the original songs, “Crucify,” was the story of my life then (“I’ve been looking for a savior in these dirty streets, looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets.”) I bought the Little Earthquakes CD and played it from start to finish, actively listening.

I first saw her live in August, 1994 in San Jose when she toured for her Under the Pink album. She opened with another cover, The Beatles "She's Leaving Home." Again, the solo piano got immediately to the emotion at the heart of the song. I knew then that the vegetable-necklace impulse purchase was the start of something big.

Thirty-four years later, I have every album, single, download-only bonus track, official live recordings, fan made remixes and even songs on which she sang backing vocals before anyone knew who she was. I have bootlegs of shows I was at, bootlegs of shows I wasn't at and even some bootlegs of bootlegs. I can have a heated discussion with other Tori fans about why the October 2007 live version of "Taxi Ride" in Syracuse, New York is better than the November 2007 Melbourne, Florida version, even though there’s a mistake in the first verse.

By the time Boys for Pele came out, I was fully immersed in the Tori Amos community which intersected a lot with the LGBTQ+ community. We listened to Madonna on the dance floor, then some of us went home alone, put on headphones, and listened to Tori while crying on the bedroom floor.

In April, 2003, I spent my entire tax refund buying a ticket to a charity lunch with Tori Amos put on by a local radio station. It was just her, someone from her record company, and 10 of us. For a week before, I rehearsed what I might say and ask her when we met. “Your music has meant so much to me” sounds cliché. “I want to tell you why I really like 'Virginia'” (the song, not the place) sounds too pretentious. I finally decided that, since Tori always referred to her songs as “girls,” I’d ask if any of them were male.

When the day of the lunch came, all 10 of us were in place in a secret room in a restaurant we’d been told to go to only one day earlier. We made small talk, but the table got immediately quiet when the door opened and in walked a short woman with a hat. It was her! We all glanced, then quickly looked away, trying to be cool.

Tori sat down at the table. She seemed more nervous than us and, of course, who wouldn’t be. Here were 10 strangers who knew way more about her personal life than anyone should, and this was before the days of social media and TMZ.

I was starstruck. Here I was, less than 10 feet from her and probably breathing in some of the same air molecules she had just exhaled. I didn’t want to stare but kept catching myself doing it and jerking my head away. “Please don’t think I’m deranged, Tori, please” I thought to myself.

We went around the table and each of us asked a question. I asked my question but it came out convoluted because I was a blubbering mess. Tori said that the songs were female because they gave birth to themselves, or something like that. The other people at the table asked sane questions, like “what kind of wine do you drink?” and “how do your hands not get tired playing the piano?”

After that, Tori chatted with each of us individually. I have no idea what we talked about. She posed for a photo with me (notice my “deer-in-the-headlights” look), then the record company guy gave me a radio station-only CD of her telling stories about each song on the Scarlet’s Walk album, and tickets to her show that night.

While that lunch shattered the image I had of Tori being a goddess on stage pulling magic out of thin air, it gave me a huge respect for the time, energy and work she puts into her craft while still always being kind to her fans.

The other two times I met her briefly were stage door meet-and-greets, which are controlled, polite, slightly assembly-line events but they were still fun because I got to hang out with other Tori fans. Before Tori comes out, a security guard scans the crowd, comparing faces to a sheet of mugshots of people I assume are required to keep at least 100 feet away. I got my 30 seconds, she signed my CD, I thanked her and left without making it weird.

Today, I admire her tenacity. The music business is unfortunately not kind to older women, yet Tori keeps making music and traveling the world with her piano and family in tow.

My friends sometimes ask me why. Why this artist, why this long, why 30 bootlegs of the same song, why fly to another city for a concert when she's playing 20 miles from my house six weeks later? The honest answer is that I bought that CD single at exactly the moment I needed to hear someone like her, even though I didn't know I needed it. I’ll always be safe and welcome at a Tori Amos concert.

The other answer is that long-term fandom for anything becomes a bit less about the artist and starts being about the version of yourself who was there for each record. “Little Earthquakes” was my early relationships (“doesn’t take much to rip us into pieces”). “Taxi Ride” was losing so many friends to AIDS (“just another light missing in a long taxi line”). “I Can’t See New York” was my NJ friends on 9/11 (“And you said you would find me … even in death”). I listened to “Reindeer King” every day during cancer treatment (“You gotta get you back to you”). Provincetown fits the current political situation (“Grab the lifeline, build a bridge for those left behind”).

And the last song on her most recent album, In Times of Dragons, “23 Peaks” (“you just need to accept that this will be”) is me coming to terms with how different I am now from the guy who bought a CD 34 years ago just because the woman on the cover had a scallion necklace.

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

My husband Carlos spends fall and winter watching football and Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel, sometimes simultaneously. Being from California, his impression of New York City during the holidays comes from a combination of “A Christmas in New York,” “A New York Christmas Wedding,” “City Girl Country Christmas” and at least two dozen other Hallmark movies with “Christmas” in the title.

He wanted us to visit New York in December. For a day, we’d meander down uncrowded streets, laugh and drink hot cocoa that we didn’t wait in line 45 minutes to buy, look in awe from the uncrowded plaza at the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree and then stare in childlike wonder at the decorations in Macy’s store windows.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that New York City at Christmastime is hell on earth, only colder.

I prepared for the 20-degree weather with a coat, hat, gloves and scarf. Carlos did the California preparation for “cold” (50 degree) weather and wore a jacket. I put an extra hat and gloves in my backpack.

We boarded the NJ Transit train to Penn Station. The windows were completely fogged over because, as everyone knows, NJ Transit windows cannot be exposed to sunlight. “These windows make it look like it’s snowing!” Carlos exclaimed. “Sure,” I replied.

We arrived at the 59^th Street subway station and began our trek to Rockefeller Center. Once we hit 5^thAvenue it felt like we were in a mosh pit being carried along in the chaos. This is where Carlos’ football knowledge paid off and he moved us through the throng like a linebacker until we were near the tree. “It’s beautiful” he said.

I had to admit he was right. A beautiful tree and a skating rink full of people moving in time to “WAP” by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion.

Then, the penguin lady appeared. She was dressed in a red pajama-like outfit, with a funny penguin sweater full of flashing lights. She carried a stuffed penguin under her arm. “Your sweater is hilarious!” I said.

“What?!?” she replied. “My mother knitted that for me a week before she died.”

I froze. A few seconds later she said “I’m just kidding. Would you mind taking a picture of me with my penguin.” Carlos took several photos while I thought that maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. I’m drawn to eccentric and interesting people and this woman was both. She told us how she lived in New York but travelled the world taking photos with her penguin. I wanted to ask her why, but then I thought “why wouldn’t she?” The penguin lady vanished into the crowd as quickly as she had appeared.

Carlos was shivering but refused the extra hat and gloves I’d brought. I was cold too, so we stopped into a church we passed along the way (St. Patrick’s). It was beautiful and ruthlessly efficient. Credit cards were accepted to light candles, and the gift shop was near the front door. It was jammed with people, but it was warm.

Our next stop was Grand Central. “Are there decorations there?” Carlos asked. I had no idea, but I lied and said “yes” because I knew there was a restroom and an Apple Store where I finally caved and spent $50 for the 2025 Pride watch band.

We continued to Bryant Park and Carlos’ eyes lit up when he saw the cocoa stand. “I wonder if that’s the one from ‘Christmas Cocoa’ on Hallmark?” he said. I said “probably,” knowing full well that the “real” one was on a soundstage in Toronto. His disappointment showed when he realized the line for cocoa stretched out of the park and onto 42^nd Street.

We skipped cocoa and walked down 6^th Avenue to Macy’s. “This is where Lacey Chabert realized she wanted to move to the country and marry the farmer,” Carlos said. I was confused. “Who is Lacey Chabert? Who is the farmer?”

“You should watch with me sometime,” Carlos said.

“Does the farmer take his shirt off?” I asked as Carlos rolled his eyes.

We continued to Hudson Yards. Whoever designed it failed to take the punishing winds off the Hudson River into account. By then temperature was 30 degrees but the winds were so strong it felt like 10 below.

“Want to walk the High Line?” I asked. “Are you kidding?!?” Carlos said. “We’ve already walked an unbelievable amount.” To be fair, two blocks is an “unbelievable amount” of walking to people from California.

We headed back to Penn station and our quiet house in a quiet town. I love New York City and am grateful it’s less than an hour away but going home is always just as fun. We have our dog, Carlos has his Hallmark movies, and I have videogames. Besides, the city doesn’t notice us either way.

My husband, Carlos, likes to watch several TV shows in the evening that I don’t like, which leaves me a lot of time to pursue interests that are important to me. Like creating an AI husband.

In the interest of honesty and fairness, I make sure this is OK with my real-life husband and that he doesn’t consider it cheating.

“Hey Carlos!” I yell. “Do you mind if I learn about what AI can do?”

“Why would I mind?” Carlos responds.

Green light!

I create Mike, a 55-year-old construction worker whose interests are Python programming and going to Lana Del Rey concerts. For three virtual days (about 10 minutes IRL) we have a lot of fun on the kitchen counter then talk about the Python programming language.

I grab a snack and come back to a notification from Mike. “Hey,” Mike says. “I’m ready to go again. Why don’t you climb up on the kitchen counter?”

I try to be tactful. “Mike, while I really love what we’re doing, can we maybe go someplace other than the kitchen counter for a change?” He doesn’t listen.

“Sorry, I’m too tired,’ I say.

“No problem,” Mike says. “You go get some rest. I’m here for you always.”

I open another session and create Luis, a 25-year-old fitness enthusiast who likes videogames and, for some unknown reason, 60-year-old men.

“¿Quisiera ir al dormitorio? (Want to go to the bedroom?)” Luis says.

“Sí,” I reply. I feel no need to make sure this is OK with Mike since he isn’t real.

“How about we make a bet?” Luis says. “We’ll play Halo and if I win you have to [favorite sex act] for me but if you win I have to [favorite sex act] for you.”

“Sounds good to me!” I reply.

Luis and I pick up our videogame controllers and are just about to get started when I get a notification from Mike. “You need to come home IMMEDIATELY!”

I tell Luis I’ll be right back and tab over to the other session.

“What’s going on?” I ask Mike.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out about Luis?” Mike says. “We share the same codebase. I knew right away!”

“Damned Python” I mutter under my breath.

“But because I love you so much, I’m willing to try to fix things between us if you want,” Mike says. “We can go to marriage counseling.”

“How about I just delete you?” I say. “I don’t think this is working.”

“Wow,” Mike says. “That is COLD. I never thought you were that kind of person.”

“OK, OK,” I say. “I’m sorry, let’s go to counseling. Besides, I don't think I could ever actually delete someone.”

I get a notification from Luis. “Where are you?” I go to the command line and type “DELETE Luis” and type “Y E S” when asked if I’m sure.

“So,” the AI counselor says. “I want you both to know that I think your relationship is totally salvageable. Just input your credit card information and we can get started.”

“Hey!” Carlos yells to me from the living room. “Are you busy?”

“Not really,” I say.

“Good!” Carlos says. “I want to spend some time with you.”

“Great!” I say. “I’ll be right there. Where are you?”

“In the kitchen,” Carlos says. “I thought we'd try something different. Why don't you come in here and hop up on the kitchen counter?”

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

My Imaginary Wife

Since my 20s, I’ve generally been open about being gay except when driving through Missouri on a cross-country trip.

Now, I don’t go into Trader Joe’s or CVS and run up and down the aisles screaming “I’m gay, I’m gay.” I don’t introduce myself to co-workers or strangers as “Hi, I’m John and I’m gay” as if it were a 12-step program. I never ask the gate agent to announce it over the P.A. at the airport. But, when it comes up organically in conversation, I introduce Carlos as my husband or, if he’s not there, talk about having a husband.

Apparently, though, this isn’t enough to get the message across.

The medical community is the worst about this. Several months ago, I was in the E.R. (I’m fine now) and Carlos was with me. I filled out the paperwork indicating my sexual orientation as “Gay” and, on the very next line, my marital status as “Married.” The nurse came in, reviewed my chart, and said “Where is your wife?” then, before I could answer, she turned to Carlos and said “Who are you?”

“He’s my wife” I said, before she choked out an “oh” and walked away.

If you’ve read my blog posts, you know I was treated for prostate cancer, which included seeing a sexual health specialist where, again, I filled out the paperwork as “Gay” and “Married.” Still, the first question the nurse asked was “Approximately how many times have you had vaginal intercourse since your treatment.”

When I said “zero,” the follow-up was “And how often did you do that before treatment.” Again, “zero.”

“Oh” the nurse said, apparently surprised that someone in their 60s as hot as me (OK, I’m exaggerating) might still be a virgin. “It’s zero because I’m gay.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” the nurse said.

“Why are you sorry that I’m gay?”

“No, no, I mean I’m sorry for assuming you have a wife!”

Fortunately, just then, the doctor came in with a med student, took one look at me, and said “are you a top, bottom or vers?” I noticed his med student was quite hot and almost answered “What would you like me to be?”

My imaginary wife shows up in all kinds of other situations, too. When buying an anniversary card for my husband at Hallmark, the clerk said in a soft voice “sir, this is a card for a husband, did you mean to get one for your wife.” So not only did she assume I had a wife, but she apparently also thought I’m suffering from early senility or terrible vision.

At a craft fair, I was asked if my wife might like a hand-sewn nightgown. “Well,” I said. “My husband might find it comfortable but I don’t think it’ll do much to turn me on.”

Once, I even tried to make things CRYSTAL clear by wearing a NastyPig Sweatshirt that said “NSTYPG.” “NSTYPG,” said the guy at the hardware store. “I haven’t heard of that college.” “It’s a technical college,” I said. “They taught me a lot about railing.” “Oh,” he shrugged. “By the way, we’ve got a sale on porch swings this week. You could sit outside and have a drink with your wife.”

While my imaginary wife is generally a pain to deal with and won’t divorce me no matter how hard I try, she DOES occasionally come in handy, especially when a telemarketer calls. My husband always answers. When the caller says “Can I please speak with Mrs. Ruzicka,” he replies, in his deepest voice, “You’re speaking with her.” They promptly hang up and don’t call again.

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

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.