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Chapter Nine

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers”

[Portland, Oregon, April 1994]

In the first session of the training program, Steve welcomed the group with his usual cheerleader enthusiasm. “You will be making a real difference,” he told them. “You’ll be saving the lives of your brothers. We can stop this epidemic in Oregon because of volunteers like you.” I noticed the change in the room’s atmosphere as he spoke, people sitting up straighter, a certain swelling with pride. Steve always had this effect upon people. He ended by thanking them for being part of this effort that had never been tried before. “You are going to be pioneers!”

We began with self-introductions. The colonel led off. “Hi, my name’s John. I’m not gay.” Hoo boy. Great start. My eyes slid over to Steve, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, We’ve got ten weeks. It was very important to John that everyone know he was not queer. “But I have a gay son, and I’m here because of him.” The group welcomed him.

Next to John was a handsome, dark-eyed fellow. “Hi. My name’s Marco.” (Lukas whispered to Chad, “Love to see his Polo.”) Marco shared that he was HIV-positive and in a monogamous relationship with his partner, Terry, who was negative.

Lukas’s self-introduction was animated and entertaining. He began by sharing that he came from a small town “forty miles and fifty years north of Portland.” After he’d been speaking for eight minutes and only gotten to his coming out in first grade, I feared we were going to get his complete and unabridged life story. I interrupted him. “Excuse me, Lukas. We need to move on.”

“But I’m not finished.”

“I know. But in the interest of time, this is only a ten-week training.”

After the others introduced themselves, I gave an overview to the program: Arthur would handle the technical information and procedural part; I would handle the counseling and team building. They were each provided a thick binder on HIV and AIDS and standard counseling procedures, and later would be divided into practice teams. I emphasized that everything shared here was confidential, as it would be in the counseling rooms, with the exceptions that we were required to report any instances of sex with minors or a person who by his words was threatening to harm himself or another.

“It’s not our role to judge. We’re here to help.” I was speaking to John. ”And to do that we have to build trust with each person who comes in. That means being nonjudgmental of sexual behaviors that might be foreign to us.”

“I can’t imagine any that’d be foreign to me,” said Lukas.

Each session would be divided into one hour of technical training on HIV/AIDS, and one hour on basic counseling techniques and team building, during which they could ask other members of the group any personal question they wished. The one being asked could choose not to answer.

In their second session, Marco asked the colonel, “How long were you in the military?”

“Thirty-five years.”

“Oh, I love men in uniforms, too!” burbled Lukas.

The others laughed but John just bristled. I suspected he’d be doing a lot more bristling over these coming weeks. “I’m not gay,” he said, in case anyone had forgotten.

Reggie, a young Black computer programmer, asked Lukas if that was his real name.

“No. I chose it. I wanted to call myself Tom Cruise, but that name was already taken. I loved the ‘cruisey’ part.”

It came John’s turn. He was clearly uncomfortable as he addressed Lukas. “Have you always been like this?” The “this” was understood.

“Yes!” Lukas squealed. “Always! Isn’t it wonderful?!”

The others chuckled and laughed, but John just stared at him. It wasn’t so much a look of disapproval as of distaste, so I decided to put them on the same practice team.

In the third session, we began counseling techniques appropriate for HIV testing. The twelve participants would be divided into their practice teams. Before that evening’s session, Arthur and I met with Chad, Leo and Lionel, who would each be assigned to a different group.

“The role-playing the volunteers will be doing can be emotionally intense,” said Arthur. “It’s important that we staff maintain professional boundaries.”

“Professional boundaries?” asked Lionel.

“I mean that we not become emotionally or sexually involved with the volunteers.”

Chad meekly raised his hand. “Uh, too late.”

Arthur looked at him. “Oh. Well, we’ll put you and the other fellow in different practice groups. Who is it?”

He looked sheepish. “Darren.” After Leo, probably the handsomest guy in the group.

“You dog, you!” said Lionel, punching him on the shoulder.

“Okay,” said Arthur, “so we’ll put Darren— ”

“And Frank.”

“ . . . Okay. So, we’ll put Darren and Frank— ”

“And Reggie.”

Arthur stared at him.

“And Lukas.”

Exasperated, Arthur said, “Are there any of the volunteers you haven’t bedded?”

Chad thought. “Um, John, the straight guy.”

“Thank God,” breathed Arthur.

We began the first hour with team building. By this time, they were becoming more daring with their personal questions, and when it came John’s turn, he asked, “I’m just interested: Have any of you ever had sex with a woman?”

All shook their heads. Except Lukas, who shot his hand into the air like an excited kid with the answer to the algebra problem. “I have! I have!” he shouted. “Four, maybe five times. It was great!” Then he looked at the others staring at him. “Okay, so I admit I occasionally get off on kinky sex.”

The team members laughed, but John was appalled. “Maybe four or five times. You don’t know?”

“I might have been a little inebriated on those occasions.”

“All right,” I said. “Your turn, Lukas.”

He turned to John. “Have you ever had sex with a man?”

John immediately shifted into bristle-mode, arms crossed, insulted even to be asked. “No. Never.”

Lukas studied him for a moment. “Let me amend the question. Have you ever had sex with another boy?”

We saw the colonel redden, a flush rising to his face, his brain stalling. He cleared his throat. “Once.”

“Bingo!” Lukas cried. “So, we’re both experienced in the ways of the other.”

The group was laughing. Still red, John explained, “We were two thirteen-year-olds fooling around.”

“Oh, I just adore fooling around!” said Lukas.

Later, as we wrapped up that hour, John confessed, “I’ve never told anyone— not my wife, not my gay son— about . . . about that time.” There seemed to be a melting going on in the group, a warmth and acceptance being shown toward him.

I said, “Thank you, John. For your honesty. And for trusting this group with that information. I remind everyone that what we share here remains confidential.” The others nodded soberly. Lukas made a zipping motion across his mouth.

Following the break, Arthur began training them in how to ask the required questions in a direct and nonjudgmental way. He demonstrated the technique, and they began practicing in pairs, using the pretest questionnaire. I kept my eye on John as I floated around the room, listening and observing.

“In the last thirty days have you engaged in oral sex?” “In the last thirty days have you engaged in anal sex?” “In the last thirty days . . .”

But he was good. He stayed with the script, kept his tone professional and neutral, didn’t stutter or gag at behaviors that must have been exotic to him. I was impressed. It turned out the greater challenge was keeping certain of the other volunteers to a professional and neutral manner.

“My God! Five guys in one night?” shouted Lukas. “That even beats my record!”

“Uh, Lukas . . . “ Arthur began gently. “Try not to editorialize.”

“Oh, sorry.” He sat up straight, held his questionnaire in front of him, and resumed. After ten minutes, they switched partners for the next set of questions.

“Oh, honey, I love your shirt. Where did you get it?”

“Lukas, stay focused on why you’re there with the client,” said Arthur.

“But I’m establishing rapport!”

“Yes, well, keep your rapport-establishing to a minimum, please.”

On some things, it was Arthur who had to adapt. Lukas was asking his “client” in the role play, “Within the last thirty days have you engaged in . . . oral-anal sex— What is that, anyway?”

“Rimming,” said Arthur.

“Then why don’t we just say rimming?”

“It’s advised that in these settings we use clinical terms rather than the street terms.”

“But we all know what the street terms mean.”

The others agreed. If the point was to make gay men feel comfortable with us as other gay men (excepting John), we should use our own language, they argued. I nodded to Arthur, supporting the team, and he acquiesced on this point. It would be acceptable— here only— to use street terms.

The training proceeded. After switching partners again, Lukas asked Frank, “In the past thirty days have you engaged in sex with other men in public venues?”

“Yes. Up in Washington Park.”

“The Fruit Loops? Which part?”

“Behind the tennis courts in the woods.”

“Oh, is that any good? I haven’t tried it there— ”

“Ah, Lukas. Focus, please?” said Arthur.

Lukas took a big breath, sat up straight in his chair, then winked at Frank, whispering, “We’ll talk later.”

Next, John and Lukas were paired up, John looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, let’s get to it.”

Lukas gave a brisk salute. “Oui, mon Colonel!”

I was waiting for John to request a different partner, or a different practice team— any team without Lukas— but he didn’t. He got right into the questionnaire. “Do you know your blood type?”

“Um, red?”

Before John left that night, I checked in with him as he was putting on his coat. “How’s it going?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “It’s an education, all right. I’m beginning to understand the meaning of vanilla sex.”

“You’re going to learn more about gay sex than you might want to know.”

“No, no, it’s fine. As the Roman poet Terence said, ‘Nothing human is strange to me.’” He glanced over at Lukas. “At least, not anymore.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt Terence ever spent a night on the Fruit Loops.”

• • •

By the fourth session, I noted a certain warming up to each other. John, too, was becoming more relaxed, and I could see all of them beginning to cohere into a team. They were avid to learn about HIV/AIDS and proper counseling techniques. Arthur was still having misgivings about Lukas.

“Lukas, don’t flirt with the clients.”

“I wasn’t flirting. I was bonding.”

“Then don’t bond with the clients. You don’t have time.”

And increasingly, as I predicted, Lukas became the glue holding the team together with his wit and whimsy and willingness to be outrageous.

Arthur began, “Tonight we’re going to be discussing issues facing serodiscordant couples.”

Lukas looked up from his notepad. “Serodiscordant?”

“Where one person is positive and the other negative, like Marco and his partner, Terry.”

Lukas shook his head. “Do you lie awake at night thinking up these terms?”

For the team building in the second hour, I divided them into two groups and had them talk about their families.

“My mother’s been wonderful,” said Lukas. “She admits she dresses much better now because of me. Our family, you see, has been fashion-challenged for generations.”

“And what about your father?” asked Chad, who was facilitating that group.

“Oh, my father’s ashamed of me. Has been all my life. I’m a great embarrassment to him. But then, he is to me as well. Absolutely no sense of taste!” His group, with the exception of John, laughed.

“So, your father doesn’t accept you as gay?” said Chad.

“My father doesn’t accept me as anything. You’d think he’d have gotten over it by now. Like, maybe I’ll still turn butch someday?” He added in a sing-song voice, “I don’t think so.”

“Same with my dad,” said Reggie. “Supposedly because the Bible says it’s an abomination.”

“Oh, my dad tried that on me, too,” said Lukas, “but, really, he doesn’t know the New Testament from the Old. He couldn’t tell Luke from Leviticus.”

John cleared his throat. “Maybe if . . .” All heads turned to him. “Maybe if you tried to act a little more . . . well . . .”

Lukas sat back in his chair, theatrically crossing his arms and legs, which, given his string-bean frame, made one think of how pretzels must be made. “Yessssssss?”

“Maybe more . . . you know.”

“Mas-cu-line?”

“Yes.”

He immediately unwound himself. “Oh, I tried that. Honestly, I did. When I was younger, I tried to walk like other boys, tried to control my hands from flying around. I went out for all the sports at school until the coaches begged me not to. Tried to show interest in “guy” things. Dad would be telling our neighbor the Portland Trail Blazers won their game last night, and I’d say, ‘Fabulous! How many touchdowns did they score?’”

Then, for the first time in these four weeks together, we saw Lukas’s flippant and flamboyant manner fade. “I wanted him so much to love me. I would have done anything for his approval. But by the time I was fifteen, I stopped trying. I knew it was hopeless. I was this way, for whatever reasons, and knew I couldn’t be any different.” He took a deep breath and set his shoulders. “So, I decided then and there that my father would just have to learn to accept me as I am.” A sadness washed over his features. “But he never did.”

“Your father’s still not able to accept you?” asked Chad, who I could tell was practicing Active Listening from his psychology course.

“When I go home to visit Mom now, he walks out of the room. I don’t think we’ve said more than ten words to each other in as many years.”

“Thanks for sharing,” said Chad.

I watched John watching Lukas and thought I saw genuine commiseration on his face— for Lukas’s father. Was he thinking, Thank God, at least my son is a man?

• • •

Steve usually dropped in each night before he left for home, sometimes observing part of the sessions. I could tell he was pleased with how the team was developing. He stayed the entire evening on the fifth night when we conducted a midway evaluation. The feedback was very positive: Every member was enjoying the training, felt he was learning new and important skills and knowledge, with John adding that the program had spiced up his and his wife’s sex life. “We’ve tried out a number of, uh, behaviors I’d never thought of before. Now, when I come home from training, Maggie often has candles burning, my dinner on the table, dressed in her negligee, greeting me at the door with a glass of wine. She’s fully supportive of my volunteering.” To which the group clapped, hooted and cheered, and John broke out into a wide smile. He was becoming one of the boys.

Later, in the team-building portion, I divided them into two groups, where John once again mentioned “my gay son.”

“You always refer to him that way. Like, that’s his only quality?” asked Chad.

“No. No, he has many fine qualities.”

“For example?”

“He’s probably the brightest of my sons, certainly the most sensitive, sensitive to other people’s feelings. Has been since he was a child. I feared for him back then, that he’d be hurt by people not as sensitive as he was. But I needn’t have worried. He also has a strong inner core.”

“Sounds like you love him.”

John looked surprised at the statement. “Of course I love him. I love all my sons.”

“I believe you. Have you told him or any of your sons that?”

John admitted he’d not told any of his sons he loved them since they were children. “It would embarrass them and me. And besides, they know it.”

“Oh, how do they know?” asked Chad.

“It’s understood. Always has been.” He crossed his arms, signaling Chad not to take this any further.

Chad shifted focus to the group, asking, “How many of your fathers have told you they love you since you were twelve? Raise your hands.”

Not one of them raised his hand. Chad turned back to the colonel. “At least you’re not alone, John. It’s a father-son thing. I’m sure it’s understood.”

Floating between the two groups, listening in, I realized that I would have been the only one who could have raised his hand. Dad in the emergency room, his eyes glassy, face red, looking so incredibly distraught as he stared at his eighteen-year-old son lying there, coming out of the intentional drug overdose. He’d said the words, but I hardly heard them, drugged up on the drugs they’d given me to counteract the drugs I’d given myself. And feeling shitty because I’d failed in the attempt to end this life he and Mom had given me. Dad said the words but I shifted my head away, just wanting to sleep and be left alone. I’ve thought back to that moment many times over the years. It was a lost opportunity. He never said it again.

I turned away from the group, closing my eyes. Father, forgive me.