Watching the show reminded me of how alive I felt when I didn’t masturbate. I didn’t touch my cock for three weeks. If I masturbate I look at porn. It disturbs me that the majority of the men I look at are identified as ‘straight’. The websites that turn me on are not even straight guys having sex but just talking, naked. Waiting. Anticipation.
At the airport to New York I found myself looking around. Airports/stations/the streets. We are all equal on the streets.
New York was great fun. I stayed in the East Village, as usual, with Dan and Eric. There was no time to take the lil dog so I sadly left him at home with Hillary and Eric.
Delta sucks. Bad seats, miserable flight.
My driver to CNN was from the Dominican Republic. He asked about the sex rehab show. He chatted about how hard it was to be monogamous-but regardless of how hard it was he felt that he honored his partner by not sleeping with other women-even though (he told me) it would be very easy.
“She deserves it. She deserves that I don’t sleep with other girls. It’s hard man. Very hard.”
Joy Behar, seen her on the View. Like her and her political brusqueness.
At CNN I met Drew, we hugged. He looked shell shocked after the death of his father. I was amazed that he continued doing press but there he was soldiering on. We met Joy Behar who was a friend of my host Dan. She was great fun but tried to put a comic twist on the whole sex addiction thang. This comedy approach failed rather as it’s difficult to chat about sex rehab and not want to cry your heart out.
Saw Anderson Cooper. Cute but TINY. We nodded gruffly at each other like men do.
After the show (which can be seen on CNN website) I met with the VH1 publicist who told me that most gay media outlets were not interested in covering the sex addiction issue. It infuriated me. Sitting on the floor taking screen grabs with his phone of his Housewives of …. Client was a slim gay boy/man/guy. I started in on the publicist about how important getting a sexual health care message was. Although, actually, I think that within the gay community this is more of a mental health care issue. I reminded him that incidents of Syphilis were up 500%, that bug chasers were no longer an elite group of fetishists but increasingly young gay men were deliberately infecting themselves with HIV.
At this point the gay publicist guy starts berating me for being ignorant, that I was lying.
Either in denial or just ignorant this man and men like him are killing other gay men. I am so tired of meeting gay boys who are incapable of thinking beyond their pecs. Who cannot or will not join the dots.
Drug companies marketing AIDS suppression drugs advertise to the gay community with pictures of sexy half dressed young men. The message is clear: we can behave like we always did-as can you. HIV is just like diabetes! It’s nothing. You’re going to be FINE. If you get infected..so what! It’s all going to be OK.
High on crystal, back room, multiple partners, self hatred, sexy advertising: it’s a lethal cocktail resulting in only one outcome: HIV positive and a life shackled to expensive prescription drugs.
HIV gay men are slaves to drug companies and will be for the rest of their lives. Living in a delusional Peter Pan existence they get infected with HIV sell their souls to Pfizer and drown their sorrows in alcohol, crystal and so many rancid hot tubs. Staving off the day when old age (40’s) or side effects finally get them.
Really missed the lil dog for the rest of the weekend. Really missed him.
Flew home to LA. Justin picked me up and we drove to Palm Springs to Rudi and Jake’s housewarming. Lovely house full of so many men. The smell of cocaine and vodka on their breath. The zombie like attention they paid to Justin. The gay parade the following day was like some parade stored in a box marked 1976. The rainbow floats blared: I am what I am. It’s raining men. Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight. The same songs, the same costumes the same shrill applause. This community is stuck.
I began to have a physical reaction to it. I began to close down. I began to pretend I wasn’t there. I could feel myself dying.
The ‘a’ gay zombies bumping into Justin-the new meat. Pushing me out of the way to paw at his tattoos.
We slept in the bunk beds. Our hosts blacked out and ended up in the hot tub with 8 others. In the morning named underwear on the kitchen floor where it stayed until we left that evening.
After the parade Justin and I went to the Ace hotel where there was a ‘best but’ contest. It reminded me of a cruder version of Butlin’s holiday camp from the 1960’s. The guys from the previous night were now wearing Speedos and drinking more vodka and snorting more cocaine. They cheered the best butts. They rehashed the experiences from the night before which were indistinguishable from the stories about the night before that and many, many other nights all over the world with so many, many men. They asked me dumb gay zombie questions so that they might get to Justin. I refused to be engaged. I didn’t, couldn’t speak. When they could they asked Justin the same zombie questions that they hoped would allow them to see his chest, squeeze his nipples. Eat new meat. Finally we made our escape.
The large Palm Springs house that Sonny and Cher once owned was deserted. A chill wind swept off of the mountain and over the terracotta tile, the granite work station and the azure pool. The ghosts of too many parties inhabit this house.
We drove home.
That night I lay on my big white bed and counted my blessings.