I wrote for POZ magazine for a decade. When I started there was little hope for survival and I found humor to be my salve. I included some of my columns below. Though they are geared toward living/dying with HIV, they are relavant to any challenges you may face and how you can find humor in anything.
Unreality TV
January 2004 POZ
I have been lecturing, writing and performing a one-woman show about my life as a self-proclaimed HIV-enhanced goddess with a big mouth for the last 12 years. I weave messages of prevention, testing, self-respect - and, since moving to the country with my fiancé, my affinity for large farm equipment-into my talks. I'm pretty open about my life. So when Showtime asked to follow my fiancé and me around for a few weeks to make a documentary (as an openly positive/negative couple, we're newsworthy), I thought it would be one more chance to open some hearts and minds about AIDS.
It was much harder than I'd dreamed. The ever-present camera recorded tooth-brushing at night and prayers in the morning. Besides filming our life verity, the filmmakers interviewed each of us in depth. When they asked me if my honey had been tested-an obvious question, right? - I was surprised at how I shut down. Here I am, this educated educator, and I can't deal with my partner getting tested.
I didn't even want to think about it. Next question. It made me realize that I had plowed my fear of infecting this man who is such a treasure to me deep beneath all my acceptance of HIV.
Now, unbeknownst to me, he had agreed to get tested, camera crew in tow. He'd wanted to for a while, but hadn't gotten around to it. Nothing like a film crew tohelp you keep appointments. One of his stipulations was that I couldn't know. He understood that my fear was illogical, and he thought the least stressful way to do it was to wait.
One of his stipulations was that I couldn't know. He understood that my fear was illogical, and he thought the least stressful way to do it was to wait until after the test to tell me. So off they went, the crew pretending to follow him to work. The same charade unfolded when he went to get the results, which happened to be the day before our wedding.
When he returned from that second trip, we went to get the kilt he was going to wear for the wedding. He asked the cameras to stay behind so we could have some privacy (he respectfully knew I wouldn't want my meltdown filmed). I didn't think much of it until he revealed to me that he had been tested, received the results that morning and was negative.
I felt betrayed. When we drove up our long driveway and stepped into our house, the cameras were rolling and I couldn't even look at the crew. I was furious with them-and with my partner for going behind my back.. I walked out to the trees at the edge of our property. With my back to what felt like a crowd but was really only six, I sat in a chair and cried.
He was negative, for God's sake - I couldn't understand why I was so distressed. After letting my irrational feelings fly for about 20 minutes, my head cleared and I saw what was really upsetting me. I'd done what many people do around this disease: I'd lived in denial because I was harboring deep-seated shame that I was diseased, untouchable and harmful to this man I love. I felt I wasn't deserving of the wonderful life we were having.
I felt like I'd uncovered an oozing, infected sore. I was stunned, disgusted - and relieved. The next day I married my honey in our backyard, walking down the red stone path he had just built, turning the corner to see all our loved ones standing in a field in front of the altar we had made together. The next week I went into therapy to help me keep that shame close to the surface so it could heal.
It was much harder than I'd dreamed. The ever-present camera recorded tooth-brushing at night and prayers in the morning. Besides filming our life verity, the filmmakers interviewed each of us in depth. When they asked me if my honey had been tested-an obvious question, right? - I was surprised at how I shut down. Here I am, this educated educator, and I can't deal with my partner getting tested.
I didn't even want to think about it. Next question. It made me realize that I had plowed my fear of infecting this man who is such a treasure to me deep beneath all my acceptance of HIV.
Now, unbeknownst to me, he had agreed to get tested, camera crew in tow. He'd wanted to for a while, but hadn't gotten around to it. Nothing like a film crew tohelp you keep appointments. One of his stipulations was that I couldn't know. He understood that my fear was illogical, and he thought the least stressful way to do it was to wait.
One of his stipulations was that I couldn't know. He understood that my fear was illogical, and he thought the least stressful way to do it was to wait until after the test to tell me. So off they went, the crew pretending to follow him to work. The same charade unfolded when he went to get the results, which happened to be the day before our wedding.
When he returned from that second trip, we went to get the kilt he was going to wear for the wedding. He asked the cameras to stay behind so we could have some privacy (he respectfully knew I wouldn't want my meltdown filmed). I didn't think much of it until he revealed to me that he had been tested, received the results that morning and was negative.
I felt betrayed. When we drove up our long driveway and stepped into our house, the cameras were rolling and I couldn't even look at the crew. I was furious with them-and with my partner for going behind my back.. I walked out to the trees at the edge of our property. With my back to what felt like a crowd but was really only six, I sat in a chair and cried.
He was negative, for God's sake - I couldn't understand why I was so distressed. After letting my irrational feelings fly for about 20 minutes, my head cleared and I saw what was really upsetting me. I'd done what many people do around this disease: I'd lived in denial because I was harboring deep-seated shame that I was diseased, untouchable and harmful to this man I love. I felt I wasn't deserving of the wonderful life we were having.
I felt like I'd uncovered an oozing, infected sore. I was stunned, disgusted - and relieved. The next day I married my honey in our backyard, walking down the red stone path he had just built, turning the corner to see all our loved ones standing in a field in front of the altar we had made together. The next week I went into therapy to help me keep that shame close to the surface so it could heal.
Cash Flown
DECEMBER 2002 POZ MAGAZINE
Most stories of money and AIDS involve folks going broke trying to pay for meds. Not mine.
Until testing positive in 1990, I'd led - or followed - a freewheeling life, unfettered by financial concerns. I come from a long line of entrepreneurs who relished the high risks of invention over the security of savings. Dad has gone bankrupt twice; now 70, he's happy in his small rental apartment and low-maintenance life. At 96, Poppy throws his Social Security check on the green felt in Atlantic City every month. He can barely see and just manages to totter around, but when his walker hits the casino floor, he's a new man.
In my youth, I embraced this state of mind and went wherever the day took me. I traveled the country by thumb, grew pot on a California mountaintop, performed Beatles songs in Mexican cafes and dumpster-dove my way through New York City. Pockets empty, pockets full - it didn't matter. Say I was guided by a yogi's parable: "Given a fine cashmere coat, I began to worry about losing it. When it was finally lost, I felt nothing but relief."
My 1990 HIV diagnosis handed me a death sentence. But it also gave me a calling, a career: Recovering from bacterial pneumonia, I sat on the couch flipping TV channels and realized no one was talking about AIDS - at least, no one who looked like me (short, round, Lithuanian, Jew). What did I have to lose? I began speaking about my HIV at drug rehabs, ASOs, colleges, community centers. Fees were immaterial. Lives were at stake; mine had meaning, and I wasn't worrying about getting paid.
In 1994, an agent introduced me to the wonderful world of speaker's fees. My -chick-faces-AIDS rap began to ring the registers, and suddenly I was awash in cash. I sucked as a musician, but I can stand up,shake my cellulite and laugh at myself. It seemed to work, making all of us feel less afraid in the dark nights of AIDS.
In those days I still counted my life span in one-day-at-a-time units. I swam against the cash flow, gave a lot of it away and never thought about saving - until I met my current honey in 2000. He dreamed of owning a home. What the hell, I said, and on a whim we bought a fixer-upper on five acres in The Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania.
I walked into that house as if putting on the yogi's cashmere coat. I found myself plunged into the details of mortgage payments and other bills - garbage collection, water, taxes, propane. At the same time, college budgets and speaker's fees began receding, and one morning I woke up in a cold sweat, realizing poverty was no longer the adventure it had been in those Mexican cafes. "Lose the coat," I thought, "sell the house."
But it had finally dawned on me that I might actually survive HIV. My last near-death experience had been two years ago, my viral loads were holding steady, and a weekly IV kept my bone-marrow disease in check. After 12 years of rush-to-the-hospital, get-my-affairs-in-order moments, the thought of planning a future instead of a funeral shook me up. What would I do when I was 50, 60, 70? I knew one thing: I wanted to be living in that sweet house with that sweet honey.
So I hit the phones, calling everyone I knew, trying to get my bank account off its starvation diet, trying to sell myself. I felt like Willy Loman. People didn't call back. The fridge went bare; we couldn't buy furniture for our fixed-up fixer-upper. I paced the empty rooms, making call after call.
I didn't like myself this way. How had my genetic indifference to money mutated into cold-cash dependence? Surprise conclusion: My terror wasn't really about (as therapists say) money. The fear of loss, which I thought I'd escaped when I was first learning to be so brave and funny about HIV, had finally caught up with me.
Now that I was no longer actively dying, I'd become desperate to hang onto life. That fear, not the house, was my cashmere coat.
I had to get back to the place that had once brought me peace. I started talking about living, disease and death again - forget the fee. I went to places where people loved me but hadn't been able to afford my high-end prices. I spoke in prisons, halfway houses and rehabs, faced my terrors and talked my heart out.
Once I let go of chasing the buck, money started to trickle in from the most unlikely sources. It was like adopting a baby one day and finding out you're pregnant the next. The house is still a bit bare, but I sleep better. My flimsy funding reminds me that clutching at dear life is not the same as embracing it.
Most stories of money and AIDS involve folks going broke trying to pay for meds. Not mine.
Until testing positive in 1990, I'd led - or followed - a freewheeling life, unfettered by financial concerns. I come from a long line of entrepreneurs who relished the high risks of invention over the security of savings. Dad has gone bankrupt twice; now 70, he's happy in his small rental apartment and low-maintenance life. At 96, Poppy throws his Social Security check on the green felt in Atlantic City every month. He can barely see and just manages to totter around, but when his walker hits the casino floor, he's a new man.
In my youth, I embraced this state of mind and went wherever the day took me. I traveled the country by thumb, grew pot on a California mountaintop, performed Beatles songs in Mexican cafes and dumpster-dove my way through New York City. Pockets empty, pockets full - it didn't matter. Say I was guided by a yogi's parable: "Given a fine cashmere coat, I began to worry about losing it. When it was finally lost, I felt nothing but relief."
My 1990 HIV diagnosis handed me a death sentence. But it also gave me a calling, a career: Recovering from bacterial pneumonia, I sat on the couch flipping TV channels and realized no one was talking about AIDS - at least, no one who looked like me (short, round, Lithuanian, Jew). What did I have to lose? I began speaking about my HIV at drug rehabs, ASOs, colleges, community centers. Fees were immaterial. Lives were at stake; mine had meaning, and I wasn't worrying about getting paid.
In 1994, an agent introduced me to the wonderful world of speaker's fees. My -chick-faces-AIDS rap began to ring the registers, and suddenly I was awash in cash. I sucked as a musician, but I can stand up,shake my cellulite and laugh at myself. It seemed to work, making all of us feel less afraid in the dark nights of AIDS.
In those days I still counted my life span in one-day-at-a-time units. I swam against the cash flow, gave a lot of it away and never thought about saving - until I met my current honey in 2000. He dreamed of owning a home. What the hell, I said, and on a whim we bought a fixer-upper on five acres in The Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania.
I walked into that house as if putting on the yogi's cashmere coat. I found myself plunged into the details of mortgage payments and other bills - garbage collection, water, taxes, propane. At the same time, college budgets and speaker's fees began receding, and one morning I woke up in a cold sweat, realizing poverty was no longer the adventure it had been in those Mexican cafes. "Lose the coat," I thought, "sell the house."
But it had finally dawned on me that I might actually survive HIV. My last near-death experience had been two years ago, my viral loads were holding steady, and a weekly IV kept my bone-marrow disease in check. After 12 years of rush-to-the-hospital, get-my-affairs-in-order moments, the thought of planning a future instead of a funeral shook me up. What would I do when I was 50, 60, 70? I knew one thing: I wanted to be living in that sweet house with that sweet honey.
So I hit the phones, calling everyone I knew, trying to get my bank account off its starvation diet, trying to sell myself. I felt like Willy Loman. People didn't call back. The fridge went bare; we couldn't buy furniture for our fixed-up fixer-upper. I paced the empty rooms, making call after call.
I didn't like myself this way. How had my genetic indifference to money mutated into cold-cash dependence? Surprise conclusion: My terror wasn't really about (as therapists say) money. The fear of loss, which I thought I'd escaped when I was first learning to be so brave and funny about HIV, had finally caught up with me.
Now that I was no longer actively dying, I'd become desperate to hang onto life. That fear, not the house, was my cashmere coat.
I had to get back to the place that had once brought me peace. I started talking about living, disease and death again - forget the fee. I went to places where people loved me but hadn't been able to afford my high-end prices. I spoke in prisons, halfway houses and rehabs, faced my terrors and talked my heart out.
Once I let go of chasing the buck, money started to trickle in from the most unlikely sources. It was like adopting a baby one day and finding out you're pregnant the next. The house is still a bit bare, but I sleep better. My flimsy funding reminds me that clutching at dear life is not the same as embracing it.
Second Coming
by River Huston AIDS NEVER KEPT RIVER HUSTON OUT OF OTHER PEOPLE'S BEDS,
BUT IT TOOK AN ADVENTURE IN ABSTINENCE TO BRING HER TO
ORGASM ON HER OWN COUCH OF SELF-ACCEPTANCE
MAY 2001 POZ MAGAZINE You may remember that for years I wrote a sex column in these pages. Though these pieces were brimming with juicy accounts of sexcapades past and present, I've recently had reason to question how much of a sexpert I really was. I quit writing the columns when a funny thing happened: I took my own advice, became a goddess and stopped settling (I had styled a typical partner "tall, dark and needy"). I began to delve deep into the spirit. I chose abstinence - not out of fear, shame or guilt, or loss of interest or opportunity - but because I began a love affair with myself. Yes, this included my vibrator, but it centered on taking supreme care of myself. I found a stone cottage on six acres and awoke each day feeling lucky to be alive. I still had to deal with all my HIV meds, but I was awash in a wonderful sensation of self-acceptance. Not having sex can be the most erotic thing in the world.
Then another funny thing happened: My body began to announce how healthy and happy, kind and gentle I was being to myself. The 50-pound adipose armor that had shielded me from the harshness of my diagnosis melted and resolved itself into a "Do it to me!" body. I remained oblivious to the fact that men were eyeballing me - until Christmas Eve 2000.
I'd gone to the movies with friends, but the theater had closed early, so I invited everyone over to my house for a video. No takers - except for one guy I knew only vaguely. We settled into the couch with The Thomas Crown Affair. Watching Rene Russo and Pierce Brosnan humping and bumping on a tropical island might have been a setup: The guy and I brushed against each other - and it was all over but the panting.Then I took a good look at him. I saw creamy skin and a 26-year-old body buffed by six years in the military. I've rarely been attracted to beauty or brawn. Intellect, creativity, wit - those usually register on my thermostat. As I reveled in this Adonis' arms - quite aware, thank you, of each peak and valley in his highly developed musculature - I wondered, "Why have I always ended up with the short, nerdy guy?" I was to drink from that HIV negative fountain of youth and beauty for the next two days - straight, no chaser.
Between the sheets we transcended the boring, unsensational, second-bestness of safe sex. It's the intention, not the act, that makes copulation erotic, and our focused desire and willingness to experiment helped us penetrate the barriers. Our safe-sex kit contained spontaneity and aspiration instead of some clinical sense of disease prevention. We were motivated by the wetness of emotional risk-taking rather than a dry sort of fear. The bed was littered with bottles of goo, condom wrappers, empty boxes of Saran Wrap, dog leashes, leather cuffs, dildos, vibrators, candles, scarves, lacy underthings and a riding crop.
I had never had this kind of sex before, so once my body fluid-soaked mind returned to rational thought, I had to try to figure it out. I believe that the sex this twenty-something guy and I had was possible only because of my recent spiritual journey. I've arrived at a place where I can exist in the moment and enjoy life to its fullest, believing that the future will take care of itself.
This may sound irresponsible, but it isn't: Setting myself free with my body and my guy has profoundly changed me. All the extra weight I had carried suddenly dropped from my heart, just as it had from my hips.
Of course, my new guy helped enormously by not being fazed by my HIV. With HIV negative boyfriends my age or older, I had always felt their fear - silently tinged with loathing. To them, HIV was alien. Disclosure left me feeling unworthy even to seek admission in the dating pool. But my new guy grew up in the epidemic. He understood.
It has been a few months now, and my man and I are still at it. We rarely discuss anything profound, sticking instead to talk that makes us laugh. There are gaps between us: age, tastes, interests. I try to stay firmly in the moment, however fragile it may be. There, I know that deep pleasure can be more than just passing gratification - it can be the opening up of the heart, the beginning of true love.
BUT IT TOOK AN ADVENTURE IN ABSTINENCE TO BRING HER TO
ORGASM ON HER OWN COUCH OF SELF-ACCEPTANCE
MAY 2001 POZ MAGAZINE You may remember that for years I wrote a sex column in these pages. Though these pieces were brimming with juicy accounts of sexcapades past and present, I've recently had reason to question how much of a sexpert I really was. I quit writing the columns when a funny thing happened: I took my own advice, became a goddess and stopped settling (I had styled a typical partner "tall, dark and needy"). I began to delve deep into the spirit. I chose abstinence - not out of fear, shame or guilt, or loss of interest or opportunity - but because I began a love affair with myself. Yes, this included my vibrator, but it centered on taking supreme care of myself. I found a stone cottage on six acres and awoke each day feeling lucky to be alive. I still had to deal with all my HIV meds, but I was awash in a wonderful sensation of self-acceptance. Not having sex can be the most erotic thing in the world.
Then another funny thing happened: My body began to announce how healthy and happy, kind and gentle I was being to myself. The 50-pound adipose armor that had shielded me from the harshness of my diagnosis melted and resolved itself into a "Do it to me!" body. I remained oblivious to the fact that men were eyeballing me - until Christmas Eve 2000.
I'd gone to the movies with friends, but the theater had closed early, so I invited everyone over to my house for a video. No takers - except for one guy I knew only vaguely. We settled into the couch with The Thomas Crown Affair. Watching Rene Russo and Pierce Brosnan humping and bumping on a tropical island might have been a setup: The guy and I brushed against each other - and it was all over but the panting.Then I took a good look at him. I saw creamy skin and a 26-year-old body buffed by six years in the military. I've rarely been attracted to beauty or brawn. Intellect, creativity, wit - those usually register on my thermostat. As I reveled in this Adonis' arms - quite aware, thank you, of each peak and valley in his highly developed musculature - I wondered, "Why have I always ended up with the short, nerdy guy?" I was to drink from that HIV negative fountain of youth and beauty for the next two days - straight, no chaser.
Between the sheets we transcended the boring, unsensational, second-bestness of safe sex. It's the intention, not the act, that makes copulation erotic, and our focused desire and willingness to experiment helped us penetrate the barriers. Our safe-sex kit contained spontaneity and aspiration instead of some clinical sense of disease prevention. We were motivated by the wetness of emotional risk-taking rather than a dry sort of fear. The bed was littered with bottles of goo, condom wrappers, empty boxes of Saran Wrap, dog leashes, leather cuffs, dildos, vibrators, candles, scarves, lacy underthings and a riding crop.
I had never had this kind of sex before, so once my body fluid-soaked mind returned to rational thought, I had to try to figure it out. I believe that the sex this twenty-something guy and I had was possible only because of my recent spiritual journey. I've arrived at a place where I can exist in the moment and enjoy life to its fullest, believing that the future will take care of itself.
This may sound irresponsible, but it isn't: Setting myself free with my body and my guy has profoundly changed me. All the extra weight I had carried suddenly dropped from my heart, just as it had from my hips.
Of course, my new guy helped enormously by not being fazed by my HIV. With HIV negative boyfriends my age or older, I had always felt their fear - silently tinged with loathing. To them, HIV was alien. Disclosure left me feeling unworthy even to seek admission in the dating pool. But my new guy grew up in the epidemic. He understood.
It has been a few months now, and my man and I are still at it. We rarely discuss anything profound, sticking instead to talk that makes us laugh. There are gaps between us: age, tastes, interests. I try to stay firmly in the moment, however fragile it may be. There, I know that deep pleasure can be more than just passing gratification - it can be the opening up of the heart, the beginning of true love.
Rage to Age
by River HustonTURNING 40 CAN BE A WICKED WRINKLE IN TIME.
BUT HAVING HIV HAS TURNED RIVER HUSTON'S MIDLIFE CRISIS
INTO A PIECE OF CAKE
FEBRUARY / MARCH 2001 POZ MAGAZINE I just turned 40. Such a fat, round number, the big 4-0, middle age. Gasp! Well, if this is the middle of my life, then simple math tells me I should live to be 80. But - knock, knock - HIV is here to remind me that I only have today. It has been reminding me of that for the past decade.
In our youth-obsessed culture, aging is a sin, especially for a woman. The over-40 are no longer sexy, attractive or valued. We also get dumber as we get older - or so you would think if you took a look at some of the stuff that's peddled for preserving a youthful appearance. I was at a makeup counter the other day when I saw a product called Magic. "What does it do?" I asked the saleslady. "Is it a face cream? A foundation?" She smiled her powdery, made-up smile and sniffed, "No. You just put it on, and it creates an illusion of youth." I asked how, and she actually said it was magic. I thought she was kidding, but she wasn't - and shouldn't, at $69 bucks a pop. I walked away empty-handed.
When I look in the mirror, I don't see 40 staring back at me. I'm not sure how I appear to people at all. Someone once looked at my headshot and exclaimed, "Vegetarian cookbook author!" I don't know about that, but I know I definitely don't worry about getting wrinkles and gray hair. I do wonder how long I'll get to be here. For at 40, I've finally come to really like living. It wasn't always so. At 6, I remember looking in the medicine cabinet for something to take me away; at 9, I drank turpentine.
The rest of my life was a self-destruct mission that I pursued with drugs, alcohol and life-threatening situations. When I stopped all that, I was left only with the desire to hang myself. I really can't explain it - I just always felt unhappy on this planet.
HIV was the proverbial big kick in the butt.Actually it has kicked my butt more than once, including three close encounters with death. It's ironic: When I was finally closing in on my wish for extinction, I suddenly got a clear taste of the sweetness of life and how I had missed its delicious nectar, opting instead for turpentine. With this realization, I began to notice things in my life that weren't straight out of a nightmare. The older I get, the more of these I discover.
For me, aging only brings experience, confidence and the faith that everything will work out and there is no reason to get your panties in a twist. This past year has been the happiest of my life. I've forgiven all the people I felt had done me wrong, and accepted most of my circumstances - including a weekly IV that leaves me feeling like a 95-year-old in need of a walker. I make a decent living, and I know where my clitoris is and how to use it. These are things I was clueless about when I was 20 or, for that matter, 30 (I knew about my clitoris but was too inhibited to show anyone else how to use it).
Luckily for the new me who wants to live, I come from hearty stock. My grandmother lived to be 96. She was built close to the ground with a bowl haircut she snipped herself, and she snored at least as loudly as I do. I promised my mother that I would never tell Granny that I have AIDS -- it would "upset her too much." But she suspected it anyway. Why else would I, in my 30s, feel so comfortable talking about death and dying, while all the other relatives were busily assuring Granny she'd be just fine?
If AIDS has taught me one thing, it's to look death in the face. No one gets out alive, and it's good to be able to talk about it without all the denial and drama and tears.
I called my granny every Sunday, and every Sunday she would say to me (very loudly because she was going deaf), "Dahlink, when am I going to die? I can't take this anymore. Everything hurts!" I would say (also very loudly), "Soon, Granny. Soon," and she would laugh. When she died, I grieved, but I also rejoiced for her freedom from her arthritis, weak heart and inconsistent bowel movements.
This is not how I feel when people with HIV die young. I recognize their freedom from the horrors of this grotesque disease, but it doesn't feel joyful. After watching so many people not even come close to 40, I feel grateful for every day I get to take a walk, a breath. And every day I mourn and remember my fallen comrades in the AIDS wars. This sharpens my gratitude.
I noticed this again six months ago, when I had a suspected brain hemorrhage. Because I survived, this episode put a permanent smile on my face. So wrinkles, stretch marks, saggy muscles, varicose veins, memory loss, failing eyesight, oldster woes - bring them on. When people complain about aging, I shrug. I just feel lucky I get to do it.
BUT HAVING HIV HAS TURNED RIVER HUSTON'S MIDLIFE CRISIS
INTO A PIECE OF CAKE
FEBRUARY / MARCH 2001 POZ MAGAZINE I just turned 40. Such a fat, round number, the big 4-0, middle age. Gasp! Well, if this is the middle of my life, then simple math tells me I should live to be 80. But - knock, knock - HIV is here to remind me that I only have today. It has been reminding me of that for the past decade.
In our youth-obsessed culture, aging is a sin, especially for a woman. The over-40 are no longer sexy, attractive or valued. We also get dumber as we get older - or so you would think if you took a look at some of the stuff that's peddled for preserving a youthful appearance. I was at a makeup counter the other day when I saw a product called Magic. "What does it do?" I asked the saleslady. "Is it a face cream? A foundation?" She smiled her powdery, made-up smile and sniffed, "No. You just put it on, and it creates an illusion of youth." I asked how, and she actually said it was magic. I thought she was kidding, but she wasn't - and shouldn't, at $69 bucks a pop. I walked away empty-handed.
When I look in the mirror, I don't see 40 staring back at me. I'm not sure how I appear to people at all. Someone once looked at my headshot and exclaimed, "Vegetarian cookbook author!" I don't know about that, but I know I definitely don't worry about getting wrinkles and gray hair. I do wonder how long I'll get to be here. For at 40, I've finally come to really like living. It wasn't always so. At 6, I remember looking in the medicine cabinet for something to take me away; at 9, I drank turpentine.
The rest of my life was a self-destruct mission that I pursued with drugs, alcohol and life-threatening situations. When I stopped all that, I was left only with the desire to hang myself. I really can't explain it - I just always felt unhappy on this planet.
HIV was the proverbial big kick in the butt.Actually it has kicked my butt more than once, including three close encounters with death. It's ironic: When I was finally closing in on my wish for extinction, I suddenly got a clear taste of the sweetness of life and how I had missed its delicious nectar, opting instead for turpentine. With this realization, I began to notice things in my life that weren't straight out of a nightmare. The older I get, the more of these I discover.
For me, aging only brings experience, confidence and the faith that everything will work out and there is no reason to get your panties in a twist. This past year has been the happiest of my life. I've forgiven all the people I felt had done me wrong, and accepted most of my circumstances - including a weekly IV that leaves me feeling like a 95-year-old in need of a walker. I make a decent living, and I know where my clitoris is and how to use it. These are things I was clueless about when I was 20 or, for that matter, 30 (I knew about my clitoris but was too inhibited to show anyone else how to use it).
Luckily for the new me who wants to live, I come from hearty stock. My grandmother lived to be 96. She was built close to the ground with a bowl haircut she snipped herself, and she snored at least as loudly as I do. I promised my mother that I would never tell Granny that I have AIDS -- it would "upset her too much." But she suspected it anyway. Why else would I, in my 30s, feel so comfortable talking about death and dying, while all the other relatives were busily assuring Granny she'd be just fine?
If AIDS has taught me one thing, it's to look death in the face. No one gets out alive, and it's good to be able to talk about it without all the denial and drama and tears.
I called my granny every Sunday, and every Sunday she would say to me (very loudly because she was going deaf), "Dahlink, when am I going to die? I can't take this anymore. Everything hurts!" I would say (also very loudly), "Soon, Granny. Soon," and she would laugh. When she died, I grieved, but I also rejoiced for her freedom from her arthritis, weak heart and inconsistent bowel movements.
This is not how I feel when people with HIV die young. I recognize their freedom from the horrors of this grotesque disease, but it doesn't feel joyful. After watching so many people not even come close to 40, I feel grateful for every day I get to take a walk, a breath. And every day I mourn and remember my fallen comrades in the AIDS wars. This sharpens my gratitude.
I noticed this again six months ago, when I had a suspected brain hemorrhage. Because I survived, this episode put a permanent smile on my face. So wrinkles, stretch marks, saggy muscles, varicose veins, memory loss, failing eyesight, oldster woes - bring them on. When people complain about aging, I shrug. I just feel lucky I get to do it.
Petal Pusher
by River Huston AFTER ESCAPING THE GRIM REAPER, RIVER HUSTON LETS THE RAGE
FALL AND THE FORGIVENESS FLOW, OUR LADY OF THE FLOWERS ASKS,
WHY KICK THE PRICKS WHEN YOU CAN FLOAT IN THE ROSES?
DECEMBER 2000 POZ MAGAZINE
One of the many opportunities having HIV presents is the chance to perfect bitterness as, if not an art form, at least a suit of armor. To such common questions as "Do you have AIDS or are you HIV positive?" I've learned to quip, "Oh, gee, I'm only positive, so why get your panties in a bunch?" To esteemed medical practitioners asking how I got infected I reply smartly, "Your husband (wife)." And when, for the millionth time, I hear "How long do you have left to live?" I answer in my best Dorothy Parker voice, "Not long, thank God." Hahahahahahahaha. But when actually faced with the possibility of my own demise three years ago (bone-marrow disease), I realized just how terribly bitter I really really was.
I had always pictured my death as a graceful and uplifting event. Yet when a friend showed up at my hospital bed with a bouquet, I heard myself tell him that I hated flowers and to save his tears for the funeral. He rushed from the room, never to be heard from again. My brittle mask of humor peeled back, and my raw face of rage was fully exposed. Disgusted, I held off on the morphine clicker and thought about my life. What I discovered at the bottom was nothing but profound sadness and dwindled spirit. Suddenly, the sum of my parts -- the books I authored, awards I'd won, TV appearances, new car and home - didn't add up to much at all. I decided if I survived, I would change all this. I survived.
So my self-examined life began. When I was first diagnosed with HIV, I frantically sought spiritual guidance - from Deepak Chopra to the Baghavad Gita - but driven by fear, I was only soothed for a short time. Then my well-meaning brother sent me an audiotape called "Why People Don't Heal."I avoided it for weeks because its title sounded like an accusation. But one day, on a long road trip, I decided to give it a try.
The taped voice hit a nerve when she asked with measured sarcasm: "How much longer do you want to carry your resentment around with you? A day, a year or 10? It's your choice." In one of those moments of cheesy enlightenment, on the highway, I knew I needed to learn forgiveness.
But where to start? Much of my rage not only predates my HIV diagnosis but may have steered me toward it. When I was 14, six men raped me, beat me and threw me naked into a ditch one snowy Pennsylvania night. Few people in my small town ever acknowledged the crime. Because I was drunk before the tragedy occurred, those who did whisper about it said that I deserved it. I tried to drown the memory in liquor and drugs. Long afterward, the image of six men crawling into my bed still disturbed my most intimate moments; rock-bottom self-esteem took a toll, leading me to risky sex. I finally understood the wisdom of the old cliché that to reclaim my spirit, the forgiving had to begin with myself.
No matter the circumstances, I needed to treat myself like my own best friend. Would I call my best friend a fat pig who should die? Not. Then came forgiving others. It's not about Almighty Moi waving some forgiveness scepter over my rapists - it's about detaching with love.
(I visualize the person who hurt me surrounded in light, compassion, the whole New Age yards.) Perhaps the most difficult person for me to detach from was my husband, who committed suicide because of AIDS-related illness in 1990.
I was diagnosed two days before. Making my way to find him so that we could talk about it, I found a note he'd scribbled in the wet cement outside our old apartment. My mother half-joked that suicide would be her way out, too, if she were in my shoes. (Thanks, Mom, I'll stick to forgiveness.) Through it all I have realized that forgiveness is less an action like turning the other cheek than a state of mind.
As corny as it sounds, HIV is my gateway to happiness, which I have always been entitled to, but still needed to claim. Life gives me the chance to do this through forgiveness in a thousand ways on a daily basis. For instance I turn road rage to lane love: That person in front of me who has the nerve to be doing the speed limit while I am late to meditation class is keeping me from getting a speeding ticket. So the next time I face my death, you ask, will I do it with grace? I hope so. But one thing is sure: A lot more people will be around to see me through it. And I'll take all the flowers I get.
FALL AND THE FORGIVENESS FLOW, OUR LADY OF THE FLOWERS ASKS,
WHY KICK THE PRICKS WHEN YOU CAN FLOAT IN THE ROSES?
DECEMBER 2000 POZ MAGAZINE
One of the many opportunities having HIV presents is the chance to perfect bitterness as, if not an art form, at least a suit of armor. To such common questions as "Do you have AIDS or are you HIV positive?" I've learned to quip, "Oh, gee, I'm only positive, so why get your panties in a bunch?" To esteemed medical practitioners asking how I got infected I reply smartly, "Your husband (wife)." And when, for the millionth time, I hear "How long do you have left to live?" I answer in my best Dorothy Parker voice, "Not long, thank God." Hahahahahahahaha. But when actually faced with the possibility of my own demise three years ago (bone-marrow disease), I realized just how terribly bitter I really really was.
I had always pictured my death as a graceful and uplifting event. Yet when a friend showed up at my hospital bed with a bouquet, I heard myself tell him that I hated flowers and to save his tears for the funeral. He rushed from the room, never to be heard from again. My brittle mask of humor peeled back, and my raw face of rage was fully exposed. Disgusted, I held off on the morphine clicker and thought about my life. What I discovered at the bottom was nothing but profound sadness and dwindled spirit. Suddenly, the sum of my parts -- the books I authored, awards I'd won, TV appearances, new car and home - didn't add up to much at all. I decided if I survived, I would change all this. I survived.
So my self-examined life began. When I was first diagnosed with HIV, I frantically sought spiritual guidance - from Deepak Chopra to the Baghavad Gita - but driven by fear, I was only soothed for a short time. Then my well-meaning brother sent me an audiotape called "Why People Don't Heal."I avoided it for weeks because its title sounded like an accusation. But one day, on a long road trip, I decided to give it a try.
The taped voice hit a nerve when she asked with measured sarcasm: "How much longer do you want to carry your resentment around with you? A day, a year or 10? It's your choice." In one of those moments of cheesy enlightenment, on the highway, I knew I needed to learn forgiveness.
But where to start? Much of my rage not only predates my HIV diagnosis but may have steered me toward it. When I was 14, six men raped me, beat me and threw me naked into a ditch one snowy Pennsylvania night. Few people in my small town ever acknowledged the crime. Because I was drunk before the tragedy occurred, those who did whisper about it said that I deserved it. I tried to drown the memory in liquor and drugs. Long afterward, the image of six men crawling into my bed still disturbed my most intimate moments; rock-bottom self-esteem took a toll, leading me to risky sex. I finally understood the wisdom of the old cliché that to reclaim my spirit, the forgiving had to begin with myself.
No matter the circumstances, I needed to treat myself like my own best friend. Would I call my best friend a fat pig who should die? Not. Then came forgiving others. It's not about Almighty Moi waving some forgiveness scepter over my rapists - it's about detaching with love.
(I visualize the person who hurt me surrounded in light, compassion, the whole New Age yards.) Perhaps the most difficult person for me to detach from was my husband, who committed suicide because of AIDS-related illness in 1990.
I was diagnosed two days before. Making my way to find him so that we could talk about it, I found a note he'd scribbled in the wet cement outside our old apartment. My mother half-joked that suicide would be her way out, too, if she were in my shoes. (Thanks, Mom, I'll stick to forgiveness.) Through it all I have realized that forgiveness is less an action like turning the other cheek than a state of mind.
As corny as it sounds, HIV is my gateway to happiness, which I have always been entitled to, but still needed to claim. Life gives me the chance to do this through forgiveness in a thousand ways on a daily basis. For instance I turn road rage to lane love: That person in front of me who has the nerve to be doing the speed limit while I am late to meditation class is keeping me from getting a speeding ticket. So the next time I face my death, you ask, will I do it with grace? I hope so. But one thing is sure: A lot more people will be around to see me through it. And I'll take all the flowers I get.
How To Be A Sex Goddess
by River Huston FIVE EASY STEPS TO A HOT, NEW YOUJULY 1997 POZ MAGAZINE
It's one thing to go around claiming you're a sex goddess when you have only yourself to face in the morning. But having recently fallen in love - yes, it's true! - I now wake up next to the man of my dreams (or close to it). There's something daunting about doing it on all fours sans sheets in the brightness of 9 am - before my makeup person has arrived, let alone forgoing the shower, the blow-dryer and the toothbrush. After all, a 24-hour-a-day sex goddess is a tall order. I finally broke down and let him know that even sex goddesses get the blues.
You no doubt wonder what all this "sex goddess" stuff's about. Well, it's just my way of being HIV positive. I wasn't into calling myself a PWA or any of the other, less glamorous names: AIDS victim, patient, cadaver. Not very sexy. Instead I decided on sex goddess. You need a little extra boost when you're bug-infested.
The media keeps reminding us that we're the Untouchables. Take "Abstinence is the only safe sex." This slogan makes me cringe. It literally means that every time I engage in my favorite pastime, I'm threatening another person's life. But it's about more than the act of sex. The HIV-enhanced are supposed to surrender all sexual desires to atone for having once been such whores. Of course we were sluts if we got infected in the first place, right? That's what I hear, anyway. Even if you're not rolling in anyone's hay, it's still important to be aware of yourself as a sexual being. So in order never to forget what a fabulous, hot babe I am, I became an HIV-intensified sex goddess. Not your ordinary been-there, done-that empress of the erotic. But the Sex Goddess of the Universe. She who helps guide others to embrace their own inner sex goddess. (See five steps, below.)Since coming out as a sex goddess to my, uh, sweetheart (What else should I call him at this stage of the game --partner? Not quite. Significant other? Oh, please. Lover? Old man? Boyfriend? Wild animal with a cock of steel?Yeah that sounds about right), I've had to do some maintenance.
Don't get me wrong: Things in the beauty game have definitely improved since I found out I have HIV. In the first place, I no longer look in the mirror and say, "Fat pig, die." Before HIV, I always found something wrong with my appearance, even when I had a "Reebok body." But I've learned that looks, weight and body shape are not the be-all, end-all of self-esteem. No, finding your sexiness and maintaining it is definitely an inside job.
Now my wild man of steel tells me hourly what a dish I am; his appendage confirms the notion that I'm a sexy woman. But it's me who has to find myself beautiful. Why? It's not just about wanting every man, woman and child to gaze at me lustfully when I walk into a room. It's about health and well-being. When I feel sexy, I have more energy. I have the confidence to try new endeavors. I'm vibrant. Strong in the face of adversity. Sympathetic to others. Nice even to myself. All this because of high sex-esteem? You betcha! I have found I'm not the only one.
Just follow River Huston's five easy steps, and you'll stay forever a Sex Goddess of the World:
It's one thing to go around claiming you're a sex goddess when you have only yourself to face in the morning. But having recently fallen in love - yes, it's true! - I now wake up next to the man of my dreams (or close to it). There's something daunting about doing it on all fours sans sheets in the brightness of 9 am - before my makeup person has arrived, let alone forgoing the shower, the blow-dryer and the toothbrush. After all, a 24-hour-a-day sex goddess is a tall order. I finally broke down and let him know that even sex goddesses get the blues.
You no doubt wonder what all this "sex goddess" stuff's about. Well, it's just my way of being HIV positive. I wasn't into calling myself a PWA or any of the other, less glamorous names: AIDS victim, patient, cadaver. Not very sexy. Instead I decided on sex goddess. You need a little extra boost when you're bug-infested.
The media keeps reminding us that we're the Untouchables. Take "Abstinence is the only safe sex." This slogan makes me cringe. It literally means that every time I engage in my favorite pastime, I'm threatening another person's life. But it's about more than the act of sex. The HIV-enhanced are supposed to surrender all sexual desires to atone for having once been such whores. Of course we were sluts if we got infected in the first place, right? That's what I hear, anyway. Even if you're not rolling in anyone's hay, it's still important to be aware of yourself as a sexual being. So in order never to forget what a fabulous, hot babe I am, I became an HIV-intensified sex goddess. Not your ordinary been-there, done-that empress of the erotic. But the Sex Goddess of the Universe. She who helps guide others to embrace their own inner sex goddess. (See five steps, below.)Since coming out as a sex goddess to my, uh, sweetheart (What else should I call him at this stage of the game --partner? Not quite. Significant other? Oh, please. Lover? Old man? Boyfriend? Wild animal with a cock of steel?Yeah that sounds about right), I've had to do some maintenance.
Don't get me wrong: Things in the beauty game have definitely improved since I found out I have HIV. In the first place, I no longer look in the mirror and say, "Fat pig, die." Before HIV, I always found something wrong with my appearance, even when I had a "Reebok body." But I've learned that looks, weight and body shape are not the be-all, end-all of self-esteem. No, finding your sexiness and maintaining it is definitely an inside job.
Now my wild man of steel tells me hourly what a dish I am; his appendage confirms the notion that I'm a sexy woman. But it's me who has to find myself beautiful. Why? It's not just about wanting every man, woman and child to gaze at me lustfully when I walk into a room. It's about health and well-being. When I feel sexy, I have more energy. I have the confidence to try new endeavors. I'm vibrant. Strong in the face of adversity. Sympathetic to others. Nice even to myself. All this because of high sex-esteem? You betcha! I have found I'm not the only one.
Just follow River Huston's five easy steps, and you'll stay forever a Sex Goddess of the World:
- When you suddenly find your legs wrapped around the neck of the one you love, don't be distracted by your stomach and don't try to suck it in. First, it doesn't work. Second, it's too late. Third, he doesn't care. (and you can't have an orgasm at the same time that you are pulling in the rolls.)
- Don't turn off the lights. In fact, rent floodlights. And bring that little flashlight for the cracks and crevices - it's all good.
- No more douches, sprays or vaginal mints! It's supposed to smell like that. If strawberries and vinegar really turned men on, imagine what Aisle 4 of your local supermarket would look like.
- Speak out. Is he just a few millimeters from heaven? Don't just lie there thinking of England. Come right out and tell your loved one how to do it right. Now is not the time to be coy - that's what sex-goddess affirmation is all about. There's nothing like popping a juicy dewy to make a girl feel sex goddess - esque.
- The next time you let go with a rip-roaring queef (for those of you out of the loop, it's the vaginal equivalent of passing gas), rest secure that it's part of life and nothing but a bean dinner is more intimate. If these hints don't help, it may be time to go back to basics: Get out your beaver-tongued vibrator, turn it on and say, "I am good enough, I am sexy enough, and goddammit, people like the way I smell." Repeat until satisfied.
Fast Times At Hillsboro High
by River Huston RIVER GETS EXPELLED FOR TEACHING HEAD TO THE CLASSJUNE / JULY 1996 POZ MAGAZINE
OK, so I am finally able to get a condom on a penis with my mouth every time. It's quite exciting. So I feel this urgent need to demonstrate my newfound talent at all my safer-sex lectures. I try to pick the most opportune time, whether as an icebreaker at a gathering of grade-school teachers or just as a late-afternoon classroom pick-me-up.
What I didn't realize was that by demonstrating my method at Hillsboro High School in suburban New Jersey on March 20, 1996, I would change the course of my life.
It was a late-afternoon lull. I have been giving lectures at Hillsboro High School for the last three years. The kids always appreciated my humor and candid illustrations on just how to have safer sex, whether it is oral, anal, vaginal, plural, rural, in cars, bars and/or airports. I pulled out my new demonstration penis. I told the students how to place said condom in mouth in the correct direction to allow for easy application: "With your tongue, secure reservoir tip on that penis." I usually stop after I cover the head, assuring them I could go all the way.
It was about at this point that I noticed a woman frantically snapping photos. I just thought it was one of the librarians. (They love my lectures.) So, on a whim, I decided to show her how to do it with no hands. Click! Click! She ran from the room.
Shortly after, the militia arrived. "Ma'am, you will have to stop using any props in this school." I laughed, thinking they were kidding. I gave my next lecture. Suddenly, over the loudspeaker, I could have sworn I heard I was being summoned to the principal's office.Ahhh, but it was only signaling the end of another pleasant day at Hillsboro High School. But we were having so much fun no one wanted to leave my lecture.
Not so for several school officials. I had barely hit the parking lot when I was informed that there was a problem. I wasn't too unnerved; I've offended people before. Certainly they will get over it once they actually see for themselves what a fun and exciting activity putting a condom on a penis with a mouth can be.
Then, at 7 a.m. the next morning, a fellow from 101.5 FM calls about the alleged six-inch purple sex toy I had in my mouth while leading a group of hapless students in a lewd chant. What? "Would you like to say a few words to our radio audience in your defense?" he asked.
He then proceeded to announce, every 30 seconds, "We have River Huston, AIDS activist, on the line. Yesterday she put a six-inch purple sex toy into her mouth during a safe-sex demonstration at Hillsboro High School." He then had to use the same phrase whenever he asked me a question. I finally had to say, "Hey, Marty, is it the size or the color that offends you?" It seems that if a demonstration penis is purple, it becomes a sex toy.
Well, I did 22 talk shows that day, all the network news shows, every major newspaper in New Jersey, plus The New York Times. There were press conferences and mobs of angry parents. I received, in equal amounts, supportive phone calls and cranks asking me to come and demonstrate my talents personally.
I can't help finding it all a bit ridiculous. Our safer-sex message in this country is to hold up an unopened condom and say, "Be safe." What exactly does this mean? That if I carry this thing in my pocket, I'm safe? What is a lesbian supposed to do? Part of the safer-sex discussion has to focus on sexuality and celebrating it. We must examine our feelings about sex, why we have sex, why we have unsafe sex. Is it low self-esteem, peer pressure, manipulation, boredom, curiosity, financial stability or just the inability to say no?
I feel there are two purposes to sex -- pleasure and procreation. If you are doing it for other reasons, let's look at that. I try to create a safe forum for people to explore what they really want out of a sexual experience. I use humor, anecdotes and, yes, props. The results have me booked a year in advance, in the States and abroad.
I have a file-cabinet drawer filled with letters of appreciation from kids, parents and teachers. I know that to give the same warmed-over statistics-based safer-sex talk filled with fear and consequences does not create behavior change.
OK, so I am finally able to get a condom on a penis with my mouth every time. It's quite exciting. So I feel this urgent need to demonstrate my newfound talent at all my safer-sex lectures. I try to pick the most opportune time, whether as an icebreaker at a gathering of grade-school teachers or just as a late-afternoon classroom pick-me-up.
What I didn't realize was that by demonstrating my method at Hillsboro High School in suburban New Jersey on March 20, 1996, I would change the course of my life.
It was a late-afternoon lull. I have been giving lectures at Hillsboro High School for the last three years. The kids always appreciated my humor and candid illustrations on just how to have safer sex, whether it is oral, anal, vaginal, plural, rural, in cars, bars and/or airports. I pulled out my new demonstration penis. I told the students how to place said condom in mouth in the correct direction to allow for easy application: "With your tongue, secure reservoir tip on that penis." I usually stop after I cover the head, assuring them I could go all the way.
It was about at this point that I noticed a woman frantically snapping photos. I just thought it was one of the librarians. (They love my lectures.) So, on a whim, I decided to show her how to do it with no hands. Click! Click! She ran from the room.
Shortly after, the militia arrived. "Ma'am, you will have to stop using any props in this school." I laughed, thinking they were kidding. I gave my next lecture. Suddenly, over the loudspeaker, I could have sworn I heard I was being summoned to the principal's office.Ahhh, but it was only signaling the end of another pleasant day at Hillsboro High School. But we were having so much fun no one wanted to leave my lecture.
Not so for several school officials. I had barely hit the parking lot when I was informed that there was a problem. I wasn't too unnerved; I've offended people before. Certainly they will get over it once they actually see for themselves what a fun and exciting activity putting a condom on a penis with a mouth can be.
Then, at 7 a.m. the next morning, a fellow from 101.5 FM calls about the alleged six-inch purple sex toy I had in my mouth while leading a group of hapless students in a lewd chant. What? "Would you like to say a few words to our radio audience in your defense?" he asked.
He then proceeded to announce, every 30 seconds, "We have River Huston, AIDS activist, on the line. Yesterday she put a six-inch purple sex toy into her mouth during a safe-sex demonstration at Hillsboro High School." He then had to use the same phrase whenever he asked me a question. I finally had to say, "Hey, Marty, is it the size or the color that offends you?" It seems that if a demonstration penis is purple, it becomes a sex toy.
Well, I did 22 talk shows that day, all the network news shows, every major newspaper in New Jersey, plus The New York Times. There were press conferences and mobs of angry parents. I received, in equal amounts, supportive phone calls and cranks asking me to come and demonstrate my talents personally.
I can't help finding it all a bit ridiculous. Our safer-sex message in this country is to hold up an unopened condom and say, "Be safe." What exactly does this mean? That if I carry this thing in my pocket, I'm safe? What is a lesbian supposed to do? Part of the safer-sex discussion has to focus on sexuality and celebrating it. We must examine our feelings about sex, why we have sex, why we have unsafe sex. Is it low self-esteem, peer pressure, manipulation, boredom, curiosity, financial stability or just the inability to say no?
I feel there are two purposes to sex -- pleasure and procreation. If you are doing it for other reasons, let's look at that. I try to create a safe forum for people to explore what they really want out of a sexual experience. I use humor, anecdotes and, yes, props. The results have me booked a year in advance, in the States and abroad.
I have a file-cabinet drawer filled with letters of appreciation from kids, parents and teachers. I know that to give the same warmed-over statistics-based safer-sex talk filled with fear and consequences does not create behavior change.
Hot For Teacher
by River HustonA LITTLE DISCIPLINE ALWAYS PUTS
HIV IN PERSPECTIVEJUNE / JULY 1995 POZ MAGAZINE
I recently went against all common sense and accepted an invitation from my high school health teacher to come to her human sexuality class to speak about my experiences as a person with HIV and as a mistress. Dominatrix, that is. Mistress Mercy Payne's the name.
As a woman who is HIV positive, I am often asked to speak at high schools, prisons, drug-rehabilitation centers and universities, but rarely if ever do I mention The Dungeon, my place of employment during my glory days as a dominatrix. The reason's simple: The lay reaction to my former profession is to immediately assume that I contracted HIV through such, even though my clients and I never exchanged any bodily fluids. Then they make the next moralistic leap that even if I did not contract HIV as a dominatrix, I sure deserved to.
I have read student evaluations of my talks about dominance: "She is not a human being." "I wanted to throw up." "I hope she dies soon." "She is worse than those homosexuals." Did I not learn anything from these experiences? I guess not, because I accepted the latest invitation.
What could I possibly have been thinking?
So here I am, 7:30 in the morning, describing to 16-year-olds how to perform the perfect branding of a slave. A look of horror and disbelief claims all those young faces. Still, they move forward n their seats as someone asks, "What was the most freakiest thing you ever did?" I disappoint them when I say I don't think that anything I did was what I would call freaky.
I try to explain, as best I can, that many situations and experiences (not to mention karma) shape and influence our sexuality. What turns on one person can leave another screaming and grabbing for his testicles. I refer specifically to a particular suspension method involving said testicles. Matter of fact, I reveal, in detail, that suspension method to the first class. Naturally, each successive class insists on every detail as well. I oblige:"Wrap the testicles with rubber tubing, and then wrap the tubing around the penis, which by now should be in all its stiff glory. Attach the rubber tubing to a pulley system connected to a crossbeam above a four-poster bed frame. For added effect, insert thirty straight pins into the shaft of the penis" - here, always a chorus of groans from the students - "and proceed to crank the body up by the testicles." A few of the weak-hearted run from the room. Most just flail their hands screaming, "Stop, Mistress, stop!" Oh well, some people just don't know how to have fun.
Class after class, a student says, "You don't think this is freaky, let alone wrong? This is sick!"
"Look," I respond, "when you masturbate - " Every sphincter in the room slams shut and a look of denial shadows every face. "OK, when your neighbor masturbates - " The chairs slide eerily farther apart. "OK, when your father masturbates, or the principal of the school, or the President of the United States, they usually think about something - and that something is not a wedding scene or a banner that says 'Abstinence Is the Only Safer Sex.' People fantasize. Fantasies may encompass a very broad range. So when slave number 456 - and I number all my slaves - comes to me and wants to wear a tutu and a baby bonnet while licking a well-worn photograph of Grandma's behind and humping his childhood blanky, that is his karma. Who am I to say that he is any more wrong than someone looking at this month's Playboy or Playgirl while shucking the oyster or riding the baloney pony?
Despite the passion of my outburst, I can see I'm getting nowhere here. They do not want to accept dominance as an alternative lifestyle, so I figure what the hell, it's time to go into character. Mistress Mercy Pain to the rescue."
Before a class of unruly 11th graders calling me names at 7:55 on a Monday morning, I rise from my seat and pull a strap-on dildo from a leather satchel. I hand it to the nearest student, don a rubber mask and proceed to pull more paraphernalia out to impress upon them just who is in charge here. I then order "Stay right where you are!" as some in the class look nervously toward the door. With a sincerity I didn't know was even possible so early on a Monday morning, I trudge through the correct way to perform a golden shower and the proper etiquette required by a slave instructed to clean out the toilet with a brillo pad taped to his penis. I also include tales of "the rubber raincoat man" and the foot fetishist who wanted to be castrated to make me pair of mules from his you-know-whats.
Alas, it is not to be Mercy Payne who saves me, but the bell. The students leave bewildered, carefully avoiding each other and the place where I perch. I wonder briefly, "Why am I here?" But my old health-class teacher assures me that my lecture has perhaps brought a little perspective to these dreary, unformed lives.
A little perspective, indeed. By the time those kids fled to their next class, me being HIV positive was the last thing on their minds.
HIV IN PERSPECTIVEJUNE / JULY 1995 POZ MAGAZINE
I recently went against all common sense and accepted an invitation from my high school health teacher to come to her human sexuality class to speak about my experiences as a person with HIV and as a mistress. Dominatrix, that is. Mistress Mercy Payne's the name.
As a woman who is HIV positive, I am often asked to speak at high schools, prisons, drug-rehabilitation centers and universities, but rarely if ever do I mention The Dungeon, my place of employment during my glory days as a dominatrix. The reason's simple: The lay reaction to my former profession is to immediately assume that I contracted HIV through such, even though my clients and I never exchanged any bodily fluids. Then they make the next moralistic leap that even if I did not contract HIV as a dominatrix, I sure deserved to.
I have read student evaluations of my talks about dominance: "She is not a human being." "I wanted to throw up." "I hope she dies soon." "She is worse than those homosexuals." Did I not learn anything from these experiences? I guess not, because I accepted the latest invitation.
What could I possibly have been thinking?
So here I am, 7:30 in the morning, describing to 16-year-olds how to perform the perfect branding of a slave. A look of horror and disbelief claims all those young faces. Still, they move forward n their seats as someone asks, "What was the most freakiest thing you ever did?" I disappoint them when I say I don't think that anything I did was what I would call freaky.
I try to explain, as best I can, that many situations and experiences (not to mention karma) shape and influence our sexuality. What turns on one person can leave another screaming and grabbing for his testicles. I refer specifically to a particular suspension method involving said testicles. Matter of fact, I reveal, in detail, that suspension method to the first class. Naturally, each successive class insists on every detail as well. I oblige:"Wrap the testicles with rubber tubing, and then wrap the tubing around the penis, which by now should be in all its stiff glory. Attach the rubber tubing to a pulley system connected to a crossbeam above a four-poster bed frame. For added effect, insert thirty straight pins into the shaft of the penis" - here, always a chorus of groans from the students - "and proceed to crank the body up by the testicles." A few of the weak-hearted run from the room. Most just flail their hands screaming, "Stop, Mistress, stop!" Oh well, some people just don't know how to have fun.
Class after class, a student says, "You don't think this is freaky, let alone wrong? This is sick!"
"Look," I respond, "when you masturbate - " Every sphincter in the room slams shut and a look of denial shadows every face. "OK, when your neighbor masturbates - " The chairs slide eerily farther apart. "OK, when your father masturbates, or the principal of the school, or the President of the United States, they usually think about something - and that something is not a wedding scene or a banner that says 'Abstinence Is the Only Safer Sex.' People fantasize. Fantasies may encompass a very broad range. So when slave number 456 - and I number all my slaves - comes to me and wants to wear a tutu and a baby bonnet while licking a well-worn photograph of Grandma's behind and humping his childhood blanky, that is his karma. Who am I to say that he is any more wrong than someone looking at this month's Playboy or Playgirl while shucking the oyster or riding the baloney pony?
Despite the passion of my outburst, I can see I'm getting nowhere here. They do not want to accept dominance as an alternative lifestyle, so I figure what the hell, it's time to go into character. Mistress Mercy Pain to the rescue."
Before a class of unruly 11th graders calling me names at 7:55 on a Monday morning, I rise from my seat and pull a strap-on dildo from a leather satchel. I hand it to the nearest student, don a rubber mask and proceed to pull more paraphernalia out to impress upon them just who is in charge here. I then order "Stay right where you are!" as some in the class look nervously toward the door. With a sincerity I didn't know was even possible so early on a Monday morning, I trudge through the correct way to perform a golden shower and the proper etiquette required by a slave instructed to clean out the toilet with a brillo pad taped to his penis. I also include tales of "the rubber raincoat man" and the foot fetishist who wanted to be castrated to make me pair of mules from his you-know-whats.
Alas, it is not to be Mercy Payne who saves me, but the bell. The students leave bewildered, carefully avoiding each other and the place where I perch. I wonder briefly, "Why am I here?" But my old health-class teacher assures me that my lecture has perhaps brought a little perspective to these dreary, unformed lives.
A little perspective, indeed. By the time those kids fled to their next class, me being HIV positive was the last thing on their minds.