Temptation

The image above has no bearing on the post, other than it shows the kind of scene I'm fantasizing about most these days.  And it's crazy hot.

Last night was date night.  Matt and I went to see The King's Speech, which was phenomenal.  I can't recommend it enough -- even though they take plenty of historical liberties, Geoffrey Rush and Colin Firth were spectacular.  I didn't  even want to stab Helena Bonham Carter in the eye, which is my normal reaction to her "acting."

So anyway, date night was great.  We went to the movie, got some pizza, came home and watched more of a documentary series we're currently enjoying, and then moved to the bedroom.  Sex with Matt always ranks a A-/A, but last night it was A+.  We fucked, and fucked, and when I didn't think either of us had the strength, we fucked some more.  He ended up with three of my loads-- two in the condom, one across the face.  He was ecstatic.  I was satisfied.

I've got the day off today, but he doesn't.  So now I'm sitting at home, and despite having been nearly drained of all the semen in my body less than 7 hours ago, I'm online cruising.

I should say that I'm not actually cruising.  I've done something that when confessed to probably makes me sound like an online troll that we all know and hate.  About a week ago, I created a profile on one of the popular gay fuck sites, and laid it out -- I'm an HIV+ man who wants a piece on the side to fuck bareback.  I want a young, smooth, clean cut, submissive boy to make my fuckpuppet.

Now, owing to being far away from actually cheating, I've set the profile in a different city, and I'm not responding to anyone.  But the number of boys writing into me is intoxicating.  I see unlocked pictures of beautiful, pink cunts, and knowing that with a click of the mouse I could have them... well, it is proving to be some kind of heroin for me.  I check the site all the time.  Each and every time, there's at least ten messages from boys eager to milk my cum.  Of those, 2-3 are totally fuckable.

I have complex feelings about this:  on one hand, as it currently exists, this is just a form of mental masturbation for me.  On the other, I'm getting these guys to expose themselves (physically and psychologically, I suppose) on the pretext of getting fucked.  The prospect of getting fucked is a powerful intoxicant, so part of me feels like I'm spiking their drinks.

Also, there's an element of cheating to this not-technically-cheating behavior: if Matt were to find out, he'd be royally pissed.  I would too if the roles were reversed.  Porn is one thing, but this is two steps from dipping my dick in someone else.

So, maybe I stop.  I don't know.  But for now, I'm going to check out what's awaiting me online.

Jealousy

In the almost two weeks since my last post, I've been quite busy. Matt and I went on a side trip to the countryside, wrapped up our time in Rome, and came back home. We're both knee deep back at work, and we've had a friend visit from out of town. 

Sex has been good, and frequent. Fights have been few. He even did something "special" for me this week-- he gave himself a neck to crack shaving. Matt's a very hairy guy, which I dig, but on the rare occasions when he shaves, it's easier to see how ripped he is, sending my sex drive through the roof whenever he walks by without his shirt on.

Honestly, I'm jealous of how in shape he is. We were both athletes in school, but he progressed farther than I did, and managed to keep it up. I work out, but have passed the point where I can hope for anything other than firm and well proportioned. No more six pack in my future, barring a tapeworm. 

My visiting friend gave me something else to feel jealous about. He's about my age, with similar sexual tastes. He's negative, and a total stud. One of the great thrills of being an old married couple (!) is having slutty friends over to regale you with the stories of their sex lives, and on this trip, my friend did not disappoint.

He has the kind of sex life I wish I could have, but probably never will again, even if I was single. One, he's hotter than I am. Two, the negative thing opens up a much larger crowd. He's forever sending over pics from Manhunt or wherever of the hot 22 year old he's just bred.

He's one of my oldest friends, and we don't get to see each other in person very much, but having him around, I started to resent him. I want to be able to fuck with the kind of abandon that he does, but I don't think I ever will. There's really no larger point here, but it's just something that's been on my mind for the last few days since he left. 

In the meantime, I'll just beat off to the pics he sends of his conquests. Not the worst outcome. 

Porn, and thanks.

First off-- thanks for the followers and the advice from the Breeder, whose blog manages to tackle carnal matters with a degree of finesse and candor that is rare. I have followers now! How strange.

Yesterday I woke Matt up with a morning pump-and-dump. The whole thing lasted less than ten minutes, but it was very hot and we both seemed satisfied. He curled up and went back to sleep with a sore butt, and I got up and started my day.

The problem with these things is that I imagine them differently in my fantasy world. Mainly, I want to roll him over and just fuck him... rather than rolling him over, finding a condom, sticky fingered unwrapping, applying tons of lube, and then slowly pushing in. When it's raw, it's much easier, quicker to get in, and more natural. This feels like a halting exercise of stop and start, even though I know that I'm emphasizing the negatives.

So Matt goes back to sleep, and I'm out on the sofa, and within 20 minutes I'm looking at porn... these days I've been very much into uncut twinks (go figure). I check tumblr and watch videos of these young guys getting absolutely railed by a whole assortment of men (mostly older) and am totally turned on.  Maybe this is me fantasizing about what I can do to the twinks when I'm in my 40s... who knows.

I just feel that I shouldn't be looking at porn-- not because I believe it's bad or immoral, but because I've got a real life guy who is (this isn't bragging, it's an honest assessment) hotter than 99.9% of the guys in porn, and who is basically begging for my cock at all hours of the day. Shouldn't I go for the real thing and stick to the faximile when real isn't available? I know a healthy fantasy life is important, I just wish I could integrate him into it.

Anyway, just today's thoughts. Matt's out of the shower, so I'm going to go eat some ass right now.

Wanting More

In the past five days, I've fucked my boyfriend four times, including one extended session that lasted hours and was one of the best we've ever had.  We had guests visiting, or else there would have likely been a fifth and sixth time.  This is a little above our normal pace, but not too much more.

If I haven't mentioned before, my boyfriend is a beautiful, mid-20s bottom, an artist with a perfect physique and a sharp-jawed face that made my mother blush the first time she met him, and I'm a late 20s top.  We're both comfortable in those roles.

Sigh.

I still want more.  It's not that I want more with him and he's not giving it to me.  I just want things he can't provide.  I want to smack around a fucktoy, I want to degrade him, I want to bareback and leave my cum deep inside.  I want to have multiple men fighting for my cock.  I want to feel the thrill of the chase.  I want more.

Many people in long term relationships are able to do all of those things and still have a happy and healthy relationship.  My boyfriend is not one of them.  While some of the things are on the table (rough, kink, etc), others are likely permanently off (multiple other men, chasing boys), and the big one (barebacking) is a non-negotiable.

The thing is, I'm totally enough for Matt.  He loves me, and sex with me, and doesn't feel like he's missing out on anything, even though he's the HIV- one-- presumably the one who did everything right.  I'm the one who fucked up, and somehow I still want more?  

We're entangling two issues here:  the desire(need) to be riskier and the craving for being with other people.  I realize that they're separate, and that one can be addressed within the context of the relationship, while one is a non-starter, save some medical breakthrough.  But I can't help but think that they're related.

Maybe if I were negative, and I could seed Matt day in and day out, I wouldn't want to knock up every tight bodied 21 year old that winks at me on the street.  Or maybe I would, but I wouldn't be as obsessed with it.  Or maybe I've just got more sexual energy than I know how to channel.  I jerk off at least twice daily, and still the switch is always on.  I thought this would lessen as I got older, but it's getting more intense.

I don't think I'll cheat, not yet.  I am HIV+ now largely thanks to a cheating partner, so you'll understand why I have serious moral problems with breaking that particular promise in nearly all situations.  However, I don't know if that's the case long term.

Sometimes I think I'm just waiting until we're at a place in our lives where he has fewer exit options: when he's more reliant on me for money, or we're married, or have kids, or whatever.  Then I think it would be easier to force his hand to accept me fucking other guys... but that's not something I want.  I don't want him to have to be with me because leaving is unpalatable.  But I can't escape the suspicion that I might be doing just that (however unconsciously), and I feel like a bastard for it.

Fast Forward

This will be the last intro posting.  If you haven't discovered by now, I can be long winded.  I am striving for pith in this post.

I'm reclining on a sofa in Rome, banging this out on my keyboard, with my wonderful boyfriend Matt in the other room.  Matt doesn't know I'm doing this.  He thinks I'm working.  I'm not telling him about it just yet, so this will be our little secret.

After the John incident, I got to work getting my physical and mental health in order.  I haven't had a panic attack in five years, my viral load has been undetectable for nearly eight, and my T-cells have been high for a similarly long time.  I take daily HIV medication, but no longer take anti-anxiety or depression medicine.

College was tough.  I didn't get better immediately, and for a while my (mental) health got worse.  Eventually, I came out on the other side and had my first mature healthy relationships.  In the past eight years, I've fallen in love three times, each with men who are still very dear to me.

I graduated school, went into a typical over-achiever job, hated it, went and did something more entrepreneurial, loved it, and did that for a while.  After some very modest success, I'm taking some time to work in a field I feel passionate about, giving back a little to the world that has blessed me with a great life. Case in point: I'm in Rome on a month-long vacation with my boyfriend.

I say this not to brag, but to underscore a main point of ambivalence about my writing this blog.  I have a good life. I have a job I love, security, a great (and gorgeous) man, even a fucking perfect dog.  What do I have to complain about? When I was infected with HIV, I literally started planning my funeral. That this was in the cards for me is never something I considered.

Thank you for reading so far, now it's time for the real fun to begin.

Forgiveness

Something strange happened about two years ago. I was having dinner with a friend and the topic of my HIV gingerly came up. Even among friends who have known about this for years, we don't discuss it very much. It's awkward for them, and my sense is that they feel like they're intruding to ask questions.

I should interject to say that the topic of HIV is not un-awkward for me, hence this experience in anonymous ranting. My close friends and sexual partners know, but my family doesn't.  We'll talk more about that at a later point.

Back to our dinner. My friend asked me about John (they never knew each other) and if I ever hear from him, or what he's doing, how he's doing, etc. Then my friend said something strange -- he said that he would never want to meet John, because he (my friend) is afraid of how his anger would manifest itself.

Of course, I was touched.  The capacity to induce rage is a sign that someone truly cares about you.  

But I was also shocked to discover that I felt no anger for John at all.  I sat at the table trying to dig it up, to feel something awful and wretched about him. On an intellectual level, I realize that it wasn't all John's fault, but if fault is to be apportioned, the majority goes to him. Yet still, I can't make myself be angry with him.

I realized at that moment that I had forgiven him.

It wasn't some grand gesture, or a long soul-searching process, but with time I had let go of my anger, disappointment, sadness, and self-pity, and just forgiven him. It feels like one of the most remarkable, and unexpected things I think I've ever done.  Writing it down I'm flabbergasted that I have that capacity, but I feel comfortable telling you that I'm proud of myself for it.

This is the last time that I'll be discussing John as anything more than a passing reference, but I think it's helpful for me (and hopefully you) to show where I've come from in order to see where I'm going.

The Infection

Like any story entered in media res, there is a long and convoluted backstory.  Because I'm no Virgil, I'm going to take the easy way and try to knock out the main plot points in what I intended to be a few short paragraphs, but what now seems to be a slightly longer affair. Grab on.

I was born in a small town on the opposite coast from where I now live.  I was tall, I was awkward, I was always the smartest kid in my class, and my family was one of the wealthier and better known in town.  I realized I was gay early on, and despite floating in a sea of Christian conservatism, I had well-travelled, liberal parents who never terrorized me with threats of hellfire and damnation, so I escaped some of the self loathing that plagues many gay kids.  Some.

I eventually grew into my body and gained a small dose of self confidence in myself and my sexuality, and came out to friends and family in my senior year of high school. There was crying (in the family), feigned shock (friends), and apathy (the general world).  From what I understand, experience was atypical, and I feel lucky for that.

After high school, I took a year off to travel, then went to a mildly prestigious college. Up until I left home, I'd had lots of sex from the point of view of your average 18 year old straight kid, but not tons, especially looking back now at what was to come.

I had the tendency to fall in love easily, and dropping my shorts was even easier. At the time I thought that I was living the bohemian ideal: freedom through unbridled experience, but with the perspective of a little time, I see that I just really loved fucking.

Arriving at college gave me a new big city which I could plunder all sorts of men: young, old, white, black, you get the picture.  But along with this non-stop boinking, the panic attacks and dark moods that I had experienced very infrequently throughout my life were becoming more common.  Something was wrong, but I didn't know what.

None of that stopped me from screwing and loving my way across campus and the city.  But through the rear view mirror, I can tell that my mental health impacted my choice of partners more than I could have imagined at the time.  I was drawn to the guys who were the opposite of me:  working class, uneducated, substance abusers, rough, sleazy.

Not all of the men I met and loved fit this description, but the one who is most important to this story did.  We'll call him John.

John was a working class man about eight years older than me (19 and 27).  John was sexy, and screwed up, with a propensity towards uppers.  I was instantly smitten. We met online, and he asked me out on a date.  We went to dinner, he made me laugh.  He fucked me four times that night, and in that department, he was epic.  I didn't want to leave in the morning.

We began "seriously" dating soon after.  Several months in, we decided to stop having safe sex.  We both went to our respective doctors, got tested, came back all clear, and celebrated by going out dancing, where he encouraged me to try crystal meth for my first (and only) time. In the ensuing two days of being awake, we fucked (or rather, tried to) countless times, but I felt happy.  I hated meth.  He loved it.

Several more months go by, a few seasons change, and now it's the summer between freshman and sophomore years.  I've got a boyfriend who drives me crazy-- he's erratic, we get in monster arguments, and he's doing nothing that any sane person would consider trust-inspiring.  He shows up late (or not at all) and he disappears for days at a time, but he always apologizes and then the physical chemistry takes over and I feel powerless to stop.  Why it never occurred that he was cheating on me is a question I can't answer even today.

Late that summer, I got the worst flu I've ever had in my life.  My fever was high, and I had the strangest feeling of a blade in my throat -- whenever I swallowed, it felt like the front of my larynx was being sliced open from the inside.  This had lasted for days when  I went to my doctor, who ordered an HIV antibody and RNA test.

Obviously, you know the result, but even more than eight years later, I can't explain how I felt.  I'm sure I was hurt, but more than that I had the feeling of being surprised by not being at all surprised.  There was only one potential vector, and he had received the same diagnosis within a few days.

I don't want to dig into mine and John's history after that moment.  As a show of how much work I had to do with my own mental health, John was actually able to make me feel immediately sorry for him, and to consider not ending the relationship.  I eventually came to my sense. We never spoke again after that summer, and other than a birthday email the following year, I've neither heard from nor seen him since.

Starting Out

"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself."  - Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf

I'll start with introductions. 

I am a 29 year old gay man living in a large American city.  

I am in a long term relationship with a 27 year old man, whom I love dearly. 

I am HIV+.

He is HIV-. 

I'm writing this blog because I know that there are others out there who are like us, want to be like us, want to be something different, or who simply want to understand.  I'm also writing it for myself-- the difficulties of relationships are better described by more talented writers, but our situation is somewhat novel, providing me few other outlets to purge what lurks in my mind.  

That's not to say that this project is something that I'm embarking as some sort of psychic cleanse, with wisdom flowing from my lips to the great masses.  I don't (try not) to flatter myself.  In fact, even writing this, I think that I'd almost rather no one else ever read it.   I'm not going to dive into that particular contradiction.  

Suffice it to say: if you are reading this, I sincerely hope you find whatever you were looking for when you stumbled into my corner of the interwebs.  I plan to anonymize this experience, for the sake of both myself and for others whose experiences are being plundered (mostly without their knowledge).  I appreciate any comments, feedback, etc., but more than anything, I would appreciate you respecting my desire to remain anonymous.