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 In my American Dream, anyone can achieve their ultimate golden dream come true. No matter who you are, where you came from, the color of your skin, your religion, your background, no matter any of the things that enslaved the dreams of peoples of the past ... no matter any of that, as an American, you can achieve your dream. Right?
My American Dream is a simple one. True love. As defined by every American that's ever dreamed of having a romantic partner, a husband, a wife, a spousal equivalent, a civil unionist, let's not get bogged down by the terms. A boo.
What good is any American Dream without an American dreamer to live the dream with you, mind, body and soul? Would the first black president's story be as compelling without a first black president's soul mate? Heavens, no.
I want what the Obamas got. No, not the presidency. The bond. The partner in peril and triumph. The boo. But I've never had a boo, just meat. All the flesh you can eat but rarely breakfast.
So far, I've been single for life, a co-creation of nightmarish dreams by myself and the world. But I no longer believe in nightmares. I believe that dreams come true. Black men can be president of the USA. Surely, a black man can find true love, at least for a little while, right? Don't I deserve a taste of Happily Ever After with an Asterisk like every American?
Thing is, the first half of my life, I was a closeted basket case who pretty much felt like an unlovable nigger faggot. The world was pretty good at confirming my suspicions, too. Yep, y'all played along real good, give yourselves a hand!
The second half of my life, however, has been quite different. It started out kinda rocky. There was the AIDS baby I got preggers with in 1985, a month after graduating UCLA (where I was a cheerleader). That was a pretty big hit. But here I am, miracle of miracles, alive in the two oh, oh, ohs! And I'm happy to be living with AIDS! I even write novels where the main characters are black and HIV poz like me; and my boys have been nominated for five Lambda Literary Awards!
But, world, there's just this one thing ... I still ain't found no true love, and I don't know if I still believe my American Dream can come true. Can I be loved for all that I am? Can I be loved no matter the color of my skin or what lies underneath?
The world has come a long way since the AIDS Panic of the last century. People with AIDS have babies now, oftentimes with people without AIDS. Science has gotten a good handle on what is and what isn't safe sex. HIV-negative folk can get all the safe nut they want with HIV-positive folks.
So I'm back on the American Meet Market, right? I'm available to both HIV-positive and HIV-negative people, right? Whether or not I find true love is all about who I am, how I took, how I take care of myself, my ambitions, my goals, my values, my beliefs, my ability to be a great lover, the content of my character, stuff like that, right? We all have an equal opportunity to be loved in America, right?
Is my American Dream possible? Am I living in the same America as my fellow Americans? Is there anybody in America who could fall in love with this face and make my American Dream come true?
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 A lot of dudes on the internet are proud of their HIV test dates. Seems like they're always telling the world: “Neg as of such and such a date.” So why not me?
I was HIV-negative as of June-ish, 1985. I've been HIV-positive as of July 25, 1985. That was the day Rock Hudson told the world he had AIDS and the doctors on the tube that night told me I had AIDS. They were explaining the symptoms. Sounded pretty technical, but my layman's interpretation went something like this:
That big black cock you took up your ass the other week gave you the night sweats that gave you the same thing Rock Hudson's got, and you're both gonna die soon, and the world's gonna know why.
I made a pact with God that night: if I never touched another man, the night sweats will just be a fluke.
Didn't work. In '88, I made it official by getting tested.
My vow of celibacy turned into a vow of "never getting fucked again" somewhere over the course of the next few years. One time, I was with a popular porn star with a huge cock. I was too scared to even touch it as he jacked off on my chest.
I did eventually let another dick up my ass. Another porn star, another wad of cash from my wallet. By then, my vow of "never getting fucked again" had degenerated to "might as well save my ass for true love, like a new virginity." But by 1991, there was no true love and no medical hope for the HIV-positive. I wasn't going to pass up a huge porn star cock this time. He wrapped it up, and for the first time since 1985, I was a fag in the truest sense of the word.
Decades later, I feel like Rip Van Winkle, having woken up in this modern 21st century world. Young men bareback like there was never a thing called AIDS. Gay men party like there was never a thing called the 60s, the 70s, the 80s, and rehab. History repeats itself all right. We did Nam over in the Middle East, and young fags are as wild and free as any night at the baths in San Francisco, circa 1977.
AIDS is still here. I get fucked more often now, but not enough. Now most gay men don't dare touch my skin, and not just because it's black. I'm a monster in gay world now, an AIDS monster, to be precise. I can't get fucked now, or fuck anybody, or eat some really good ass like I wanna, because I'm HIV-positive.
Men discriminate against me left and right. No blacks. Whites only. Clean and disease-free only. HIV negative as of such and such a date.
But I'm still here. I still wanna have sex. I still wanna find true love. And for the rest of my life, I'll be semper poz.
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My HIVPlusMen
