You know you're not the only one who's confused. And when you talk to friends and read reports in the gay press, you realize something deeply troubling is happening out there. You hear about men who have tossed away their Trojans, and about the frightening new statistics from the San Francisco Health Department. New HIV infections in the city have risen from about 500 a year in 1997 to between 750 and 900 this year, with most of that increase among men who sleep with men. Some dispute the figures, but you know the general trend is up. And you know it must be going on in other cities, too.

Some guys have made a conscious decision to "bareback" -- to have anal sex without condoms. Others just slip up in the dark urgency of the moment. Some are positives screwing other positives. Some are negatives screwing other negatives. Though the AIDS prevention crowd would prefer that they discuss their status before they have sex, lots of guys just make assumptions based on what their partner is willing to do. Many guys figure that if someone of unknown status is willing to penetrate them without a condom, he couldn't be positive. Others figure that if someone of unknown status allows himself to be penetrated without a condom, he couldn't be negative. Sometimes, they're right; other times, of course, they're wrong.

You're obsessive and depressive, but not impulsive. You've always had a tough measure of self-control, even when drunk or stoned. So you don't bareback and don't intend to; you haven't been fucked without a condom since the Dark Ages back in 1984 -- by Tony, the spry little elf who taught your Spanish class when you spent a month in Barcelona.

You'd fled the States to take a breather from AIDS. You slept with Tony after a night of sweat and dancing. You were too tired or too smashed or too excited to say no. You justified the risk after the fact, by telling yourself that AIDS was not yet a problem in Spain -- even though you knew Tony had lived for a while in San Francisco. He died a few years later. Was he already infected when he had his way -- when you let him have his way -- with you? You assume so, but who knows?

Since then, you've done your best to be careful. You've had more sexual partners than most heterosexuals could imagine, but on the gay scale your numbers are probably somewhere in the middle. And yet you still don't ask whether someone's positive or negative before you decide to mess around with them. Demanding to know feels intrusive to you; it's something to discuss on the second or third date, not right away.

This "don't ask, don't tell" policy shocks many straight folks. But you figure, Why bother asking? Suppose someone tells you they're negative. Does that mean they tested negative two years ago? Six months ago? Last week? Besides, you know they could be lying. So you patiently explain to straight friends that you assume everyone is positive and restrict your activities accordingly.

But here's one thing you don't tell your friends: If a guy does say he's negative -- even if you're not convinced you can believe him -- you relax a bit more. Sometimes you even search for evidence. Like when that burly guy with the killer laugh took you home from the bar, and you peeked in his medicine cabinet and unzipped his toiletries bag looking for HIV drugs.

You found no drugs and made an assumption, but the joke was on you. He told you, after it was all over, that he was positive. Did that make you anxious? A little. Had you done anything you could possibly regret? No. But knowing the worry is pointless doesn't always banish it.

Sometimes, of course, you can just tell. You go to the gym and see men with sunken cheeks and thinning butts. The HIV drugs they take have redistributed their body fat. But many are still sexy, and you go home with one of them, the tall, angular man with talented hands and the devil in his eyes. You wonder how he looked before. You imagine him with a full-fleshed face and redwood legs. And the touching is textured and lovely, and of course you do nothing risky, and you mean to call him soon. But you don't. And he doesn't call you either. Maybe he could feel how your body tensed when your desire strained against your self-imposed limits. Or maybe, as with Steve, the infinitesimal risk of infecting you worries him too much. Or maybe it has nothing to do with AIDS at all.

The fear you feel is not a constant. When the guy you're with strokes you here and you kiss him there, it disappears for an hour or two. But sometimes, when it's all over, you lie there and fret as details tumble through your mind. Did his uncondomed dick slip too close to your butt? Did you go down on him too enthusiastically? Did his sperm splash on your paper cut? For you, pleasure and fretting are a zero-sum game. If you had a great time, you fret less. If it was just OK, you fret more. It doesn't make sense, but does anything about sex or love? And you keep testing negative, so you must be doing something right.

These ruminations and calculations have droned on for so long now that you almost don't notice them. It's been that way since AIDS first hit your life about 200 years ago, and the doctors couldn't even say for sure that kissing was safe. Frank, your boyfriend at the time, had swollen glands. You both knew it was an early sign of what was then called GRID -- gay-related immune disorder. You were terrified and tried to keep his tongue at bay.

But you couldn't survive without kissing, or at any rate didn't want to. So you kissed. You thought, what the hell. And the fear drowned in the pleasure. For the most part.

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