From: joe@spdcc.com (Joseph Francis)
Subject: I LOVE HATERS
Organization: S.P. Dyer Computer Consulting, Cambridge MA
Date: Wed, 29 Jul 1992 17:14:57 GMT

I LOVE HATERS. I feel hoplessly communal more and more; turn any
ghetto corner into a grab bag of sex (delight) a delicious search (the
sweeter the hunt) for the highs and lows of real love. I love fags,
their silly comforting familiarity, mirror distranctions, hard tasks of
self-invention, the ability to march onward, chins up, eyes wandering,
not cowering in the face of daily death. I love, above all, how much
energy (though the term should be reserved for the AEC) they spend
everywhere, one finds them going where ordinary life sedents by TV
screens; the attraction of desire, the care for presentation, and the
seeking of the best (best belly, best cock, best tits, best rings) in
others.

The AIDS crisis has been fomented by more than a decade of inaction by
our public officials, the eighth-life of our community, and is so
all-powerful that if any of us survive, we will well savor the sorrow
of the fight long fought which serendipitously brought on total
exposure, and numbing awarness to a population previously scandalized
by the very word gay; thinking of how others will enjoy the
hard-fought-for freedoms. The quality of life, HIV aside, has changed
so drastically since 1980. Half of us - half of our lovers and friends
and fuck buddies and fantasy objects - are going to be alive by the
year 2000, and more are coming out than ever. I hate the way that the
positive fallout of AIDS has not yet sunk in. Life goes on in the
holocaust (I think of Auden, and his ode on Icarus), the cycles of
idealism, pragmatism, hedonism continue, age-old, not dessicated and
blown away by the catastropic sad obsession with our lot. I love the
way we continue to march into the future, pleasure-bent in spite of
the odds. I love the way we haven't rejected yet our bodies (so
evidently frail) grooming, dressing, tattoing, scuplting and finally
displaying them, like great works of art (one either has great works
of art, or wears them, says dear Gertrude) on the dance floors in New
York, London, Paris, Berlin, Sydney, Hong Kong, San Francisco,
Chicago, Toronto, Montreal. I know how beautiful we all are, chasing
the moments where reality converges with a Whitmanesque fantasy (a
trucker? a farmer? a construction worker? a waif?) fleeting, like
memories; taking our culture and building lives on, in, around it, and
giving it to others.

I love the way we kiss, the feeling of a hand on my cock, stroking a
hairy chest, talking endlessly in happy sleepiness after overindulgent
sex; the soppy towl between us as we lie on each other; being
prepared, as the boyscouts say; "on me not in me". I like those who
watch and give shy lovers condoms in bars, the odd tastes of
lubricants, the naughty probing fingers. I'm glad most (but not all)
people I meet are prepared for safer sex, that I've learned to stay
hard with a condom on, that a simple "no" to "can I just put it in for
a moment" is enough. I can never forget Mark who kept walking with
blue lesions for lungs, or Dolly, or David, or Chas, or or... Jerry,
who took the first AZT, who won Jeopardy, who went blind, lost his
taste, his smell, his life but not his love. If some actually belive
fucking without a condom is safer, then it is our duty to just say no,
to learn "no" is no, to be sane without sneering. My friends aren't
too cowardly, my not-friends just don't ask twice, and I don't talk
about what goes on, out of taste not out of fear.

I love sex with men, in bars baths and forests. I darkroom kiss has
sparked good friendships, because I demand so often from instinct. I
learned how to drink, to smoke a joint, to drop a tab, making sure
there is always a "designated driver" for more than the car. I like
sharing good sex, in talk, in making dates for others; generosity is
very much a side-lite of non-commitment, though relationship is a pale
word for what I have in my address book. I often treat men like pieces
of meat, because it can make them feel wanted, safe, desirable, real;
that's not to say I can't also give them flowers, a book, a dinner, a
vacation; balance comes to those who see it. What men we can be,
when so chosen, when so learned.

I love the complications coming from sex, springing from love; the
spirited chase, the flirt, the smile, the sharing. I have had special
men, whom I always came home to, and whom I loved to know have had
secret adventures; like my own. I'm completely in love with the
language, the fleeting meanings, the play; it's life, not a static
two-car-garage-Dalmation-subaru-VCRsex-takoutcuisine-bahamasummer
hellhole. One kisses, and having kissed, moves on, the connection
lengthening, stretching, but having been struck, holds tight.

I love the way it seems that there are so many of us around, in the
time of the plague. I've seen women left lonely when men seem to
dissappear, I'm happy that I've been able to arrange (somewhat
messily) my life as a travelling sideshow. It comes from generosity.
I've given, and I get much more back. I've taken care, been taken care
of by strangers, I've been given money, food, transportation,
clothing, love, affection, with no strings attached. I'm sorry
occasionally to see the gay man who doesn't understand Mame: "Life's a
Banquet, and we're all starving." Above all, I love imperfection, what
makes a human a being.

I love the way AIDS activism has changed the game for so many in a
large way, though of course I recognize institutions are still not
really held responsible (we'll see the outcome in Paris, for sure).
I'm glad at least someone isn't suffering from the illness, those who
are developing careers out of the search for a prevention and cure. It
is the institutionalization, the desensitization, the becoming
establishment which paradoxically hinders, and promotes the
continuance of a fight. And I'm happy that other countries (Holland,
France) are realizing that the US isn't the end all, and are now moving
much more money in the direction of research. I love that there isn't a
'giving up' (how could there be). The fragmentation of the community in
the early 80's I have a hard time seeing.

I love that people still have strength to complain.
-- 
US Jojo; damp, slighly soiled, but tasty nonetheless.
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