Loose Ends

My first and final year of college I moved with my pal, Kip, into a two- bedroom apartment at 950 Steiner Street. It's the block on which the storied 'Seven Sisters', perhaps the most photographed Victorian houses in the world are. Steiner is a nice span of avenue and the view from Alamo Square Park is among the most picaresque in San Francisco so naturally there has never been a shortage of tour buses or travellers snapping pictures of The Painted Ladies, trudging,  up and down my old street...

Cafe Flore, probably- I don't remember when we met -but I once had a rangy lover named John whom I was mad for.  6'1", toothy grin,  freckled yet silky smooth alabaster skin, the most luscious mane of red hair and a body you'd sketch in an anatomy class. I'd like to say he had hazel eyes but I fell for the browns in them. An intellectual New Englander, I knew little about him from the waist up.

John was drawn to S&M and its aesthetic tensions as well as the sandpaper that was/is interracial gay male relationships in the early 90's. At approximately the time we began dating, AIDS was truly out of control. Dizzying, complex, tragic and truly frightening, there was a great deal of activism and outrage around the country's inability and unwillingness to give a shit about HIV. I was pissed, Larry Kramer was pissed, Marlon Riggs was pissed- anyone homosexual -was pissed. Act-Up had had it and became the centrifugal force for what we now call 'awareness' about the role of government. At the top of the list of primarily men to be taken from the world from HIV/AIDS were African- Americans (also around the period we began to call them that and not 'Blacks') Africans and Haitians. Men older than myself but on many levels identical to me.

The term seroconversion became part of the collective but hush- hush gay lexicon. The reaction to anything 'vanilla' with everything extreme. To have sex with as many partners as possible (in as many places as possible- at the gym, at bars, gloryholes in the Embarcadero, on BART) was the rebellious antidote to living in the dark, awful caves of fear and terror. John's interest in risky behavior was playful at best and, at worst, predictable but what was attractive to me was the eroticism in his politics. He was a chaste vicar in a tutu to my nubile yet cowardly lion. I couldn't call him my boyfriend which made our roles possible and playtime thrilling.

One early evening in the fall (interrupting mine and Kip's regularly scheduled bong rip, Red Hook and Golden Girls daily after-work program) John and me disappeared into my room to literally open up his bag of tricks. After a lovely afternoon spent fellating one another and taking black and white pictures of me and duct tape, I gleaned that there was to be a second phase of our romp. I had recently blown my school loan on a futon and a stereo and, already objectified and horny,  invited him over to christen my bed.

Our apartment was on the ground floor and basically eye level to the sidewalk outside. I don't recall any blinds and I had no furniture so my space made an artistic tableau for what John had in mind which, in retrospect, was more performance art than subversive kink. Golden Girls could be heard in the background and Kip belly laughing at it but that was soon drowned out by Peter Gabriel's 'Passion Of The Christ' soundtrack, which John cranked up. Stoned and tittilated, I heard the melodies from my bed, to which both my legs and arms were tied with rope and where I lay, blindfolded, hearing the faint clopping of the footsteps of commuters and passersby.

Every few minutes hot wax was spilled onto my naked chest, tummy and legs. Incense burned along with my flesh and I could hear my 'master' moan with excitement and the occasional honking of a tour bus or car. John's warm, waxy and lubricated hand would twiddle with my dick or finger me readying me to squirt and then.... nothing...... but the music from a bazaar or the muffled mutterings of German tourists. Fed things like strawberries, warm chocolate and whipped cream, I was really turned on as was my captor though that was just a guess because unbeknownst to me John had left the room. Tethered to my shitty futon and gagged with a bandanna, I was  powerless to move or yell and once the tracks stopped (and I felt the chill of fog waft in from the wide-open windows) I began to panic. If Kip was home he was silent and if John left, we certainly hadn't established a 'safe word'.

At first I was aroused in anticipation of what was next. I'd seen '9 1/2 Weeks' and recall thinking Kim Basinger was lucky because Mickey Rourke was hot and hoped that I got to handle John's's unit for the second time that day. Erect with the thought of having sex with John whilst strangers watched, many minutes passed by...and: nothing. After that fantasy evaporated I began to get a bit angry. I wasn't the sort to wait around to get laid plus I had the munchies and had to pee. Later, thoughts of avarice and slavery crossed my mind and I became enraged which, when I say it calmly and aloud now, makes me chuckle. The truth was: I was pissed at myself for not working this out beforehand with John which, of course, would have been pointless.

Eventually the CD ended and it was quiet in the apartment. I was scared but couldn't call out for help. I didn't need help. I was ashamed more than anything but the fear of being left naked, humiliated and alone freaked me out and I began to sob. The tears, the product of feelings of abandonment and confusion rained heavy but lasted maybe a few minutes and then...: nothing....I was exhausted, defeated and grew serene as my head emptied of all thought I found this strange peace. The certainty that regardless of what happened next I'd be alright if I had just a little bit of faith. Then I started laughing. Big time.

I always knew John would return, that we'd likely argue as I feigned indignation and outrage and would later enjoy the best, most furtive lovemaking of my 23 year old life. John had taught me a valuable truth that day, a lesson it has taken me decades to grasp: That no matter what constraints, blindfolds or gags anyone put on me there is no bondage more punishing or exhilarating than my own thoughts of the unknown.