1984 Senior High.

I grew up when “gay cancer” hovered over everything. I was fourteen, a virgin, and terrified. Nobody told us what it really was. They just called it the gay cancer. And because I knew, secretly, that I was gay, I thought: the moment I get it, everyone will know.

In high school in California, teachers never spoke clearly. Nobody explained how it spread, how to protect yourself. Just images—blistered tongues, emaciated bodies—labeled “the gay cancer.” One burned into my memory: a man with sores on his tongue. I ran to the bathroom, stared in the mirror, and checked my own tongue. The fear was unbearable. It wasn’t just disease; it was orientation, parental judgment, peer judgment, survival.

I grew up. Condoms. Caution. Boundaries. Even now, I’ve never had semen in my mouth or my ass. Once, I tasted pre‑cum—I rinsed immediately.

But here’s the truth: I’m not afraid of sex. I’m scared of emptiness.

That man I fucked? Married. Good-looking. Fucked me well. Then told me about his wife and his lies. That wasn’t intimacy. That wasn’t love. That was two men hiding from themselves. That’s not trust. That’s not devotion. That’s loneliness using a body.

If two people truly take care of each other—honor each other—why should the act be frightening? Forbidden? Closeted?

Because in a town of a thousand, being openly gay isolates you.

Male friends? None. They’re scared of being “confused.” That says more about them than me. Women? Half think like men, and the few available are fought over like meat. I watch from the outside. Ignored. Observing.

So I do it myself.
I build my own world.
Thinking. Learning. Creating.
Without waiting for anyone.

I think about what it would feel like to share closeness—completely. Physically. Emotionally. To give and be given in trust. Not as desire, but as freedom. The freedom to believe that nothing—not even a virus—can touch a space built on care.

Yes, we have PrEP. Vaccines. Medicine.
Science changed risk.

But protection isn’t a pill.
It’s commitment.

Life is fragile. Bodies fail. Doctors fuck up. Surgeries go wrong. Vigilance doesn’t stop fate. But love? Trust? Devotion? Those are choices. Daily choices. That’s authority.

At fifty-six, I know I may never find that connection—especially here. Small town. Old prejudice. Old rules about who gets love. And I’m okay with that.

Solitude isn’t loneliness.
Still… sometimes I imagine.
Giving myself fully.
Being fully taken.
In love.

Fear shaped me.
It taught survival.

But I don’t hope anymore.
Not because I’m unworthy—
But because I understand the gay world.

We call ourselves a rainbow.
We’re not.

Bears. Twinks. Labels.
None of it explains love.

Love is quick.
Fear divides people now more than ever.
It hasn’t changed.

There is this refugee who puzzles me. He is gay, but he comes from a community where being gay is seen as abnormal. At 35, he still has to live his life in fear—afraid of judgment, rejection, exposure. Every choice, every step, every word is measured against the risk of being found out.

So, I write about love, about fantasy, about blending past and present, about metaphysical passions. At this age, companionship has to take form not in a male body anymore, not in sucking a dick, but in rebuilding my mind.

Credits: god-arse-tight-hole-workmen-clouds CUMM.co.uk