Queer and Loathing: Rants and Raves of a Raging AIDS Clone (13 page)

Read Queer and Loathing: Rants and Raves of a Raging AIDS Clone Online

Authors: David B. Feinberg

Tags: #Biographies & Memoirs, #Memoirs, #Gay & Lesbian, #Nonfiction, #Literature & Fiction, #Essays & Correspondence, #Essays, #Politics & Social Sciences, #Social Sciences, #Specific Demographics, #Lesbian; Gay; Bisexual & Transgender eBooks, #LGBT Studies, #Gay Studies

BOOK: Queer and Loathing: Rants and Raves of a Raging AIDS Clone
12.9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
The letter was signed “John Weir, Still alive and well and living on East Eleventh Street.” The editors responded,
“The Native
apologizes for this embarrassing error.
”
April Fools
 
I’m getting AIDS this Wednesday, April 1, at 12:01 A.M. This is not to say that I am destined to reach a critical point in terms of the mathematical growth of infected cells in my lungs at midnight; this is not because I can pinpoint the precise moment when I was infected with HIV (August 17, 1982, at approximately 1:47 in the morning in some seedy establishment best left to the imagination), and it is statistically inevitable that I come down with a defining disease exactly nine years, seven months, thirteen days, twenty-two hours, and fourteen minutes after initial exposure because I have consciously striven to be Joe Clone (the average gay man, virtually indistinguishable from anyone else) for the past decade and therefore I am the statistical mean.
I’m getting AIDS this Wednesday, April 1, at 12:01 A.M. because my T-cells have consistently been under 200 for the past year and the Centers for Disease Control’s definition of AIDS is scheduled to change on April 1 to include, in addition to a rather long list of opportunistic infections and diseases, the fewer-than- 200 T-cell criteria. April fool! I’ve got AIDS. The CDC definition was supposed to change on January 1. I was dreading New Year’s Eve for all the usual reasons (the strictly enforced gaiety of the season, the inability to consume vast quantities of alcohol without forcibly vomiting two hours later, and, most important, physical proximity to Times Square); in addition, I was dreading it because I was going to get AIDS. And now it probably looks as if the definition will not change for another few months (but maybe it will). The CDC announced the prospective definition last fall and has been extending the comment period and changing the effective date due to pressure from activists, community-based organizations, physicians, and me, mainly because I don’t want to get AIDS.
Originally appeared as
“Getting
AIDS Absurd” in
NYQ,
April 5, 1992.
 
Last year I blithely assumed that the Immigration and Naturalization Service would completely open the borders to people with HIV on June 1 for the absurd reason that it said it would; however, in response to massive pressure from right-wing conservatives, it softened the regulations so people with HIV could visit but not stay in the U.S. Which is why the international AIDS conference was moved to Amsterdam. Frankly, I think this was a cynical move on behalf of the government to bankrupt ACT UP/N.Y., which plans on sending more people to Amsterdam than the entire Division of AIDS (although theoretically it shouldn’t [appreciably] cost ACT UP/N.Y that much because the working group is committed to raising 95 percent of the money itself, and has indeed already raised 1.3 percent).
On April 1 I am scheduled to move from asymptomatic HIV-POSITIVE to the absurd and oxymoronic appellation asymptomatic AIDS. I feel unworthy of this transition; this is an undeserved honor for me. I feel I should go through some rite of passage first. I’m not ready for the psychological jet lag of this nomenclatural change, a purely numerical boundary that leaves me with the nauseating vertigo one gets from switching ZIP codes at a dizzying rate. I much prefer the comfort of traveling by train. It is as if I could get to heaven without dying.
This is just another anxiety reaction I’m going through. I spent the entire year I was twenty-nine dreading thirty. After surviving my birthday, my anxiety completely dissipated. Now the tables are turned and my three main goals in life are to find a lover, to travel to Italy, and to live to forty (not in that order). So it’s conceivable that after April 1 I will no longer wake up at 6:00 A.M. on Monday morning (for some reason every morning seems to be a Monday) with that dark feeling in my gut that is either total and absolute fear or indigestion.
I have three options to avoid getting AIDS on April 1. I could meditate and stop eating red meat and stick myself with needles and completely change my lifestyle to eliminate all anxiety, hence raise my T-cells above 200. The easier way out would simply be to stop time by bombing the international clock in Greenwich, England. Or I can resume my long-lapsed subscription to the
New York Native,
that Never-Never Land where “AIDS” doesn’t exist except as a construct in quotes,
What should I do when I come down with CDC-defined asymptomatic AIDS? Should I quit my job to devote my time to writing, which may in fact be no longer possible given the unlimited time and lack of distraction? I cannot comprehend how anyone could face the empty screen full-time. Should I throw a party at some unsuitable venue, like the historic site of the Mineshaft, to which, oddly enough, I have never been?
My main concern is how I can work this to my advantage. Are there ways to exploit the system that has already exploited me beyond all reason? Can I get reduced-price tickets to the next Saint-at-Large party based on reduced T-cells? Is there a disability rebate through the phone company for certain grossly expensive exchanges ? Will public assistance pay for poppers?
A major problem with the proposed definition is that gynecological manifestations of AIDS are not addressed in an adequate fashion. As I adopt my most paternalistic tone of male privilege, I state these poor beleaguered women with pelvic inflammatory disease and chronic vaginal candidiasis should be thankful that they won’t be saddled with the additional stigma of having AIDS while I shall have to suffer this undeserved diagnosis. Who needs health care when we have cranberry juice? Readers of
NYQ
already know about the pitfalls of the proposed definition from previous articles by members of ACT UP/N.Y.’s CDC working group (one of whom is coincidentally on the editorial board of NYQ, which may lead one to wonder whether the coverage of a recent demonstration by the CDC working group was balanced). Nonetheless, inspired by the somewhat controversial tactics of the CDC working group and my own increasing anxiety, I am planning to handcuff myself to my own personal health-care practitioner on April 2 until the end of the AIDS crisis.
The proposed new definition still focuses on infections white gay men get, as opposed to intravenous-drug users, people of color, and women. Unfortunately, in the egocentric world I live in, I’m freaked. David B. Feinberg, This Is Your Life! Like Jaws
II:
This time it’s personal. It took me two years to get used to being HIV-positive. I don’t know if I’ll have another two years to get used to having AIDS. Why can’t we go back to that equally ridiculous construct, HIV disease? It’s such a vague, amorphous term, not likely to attract dismal connotations simply because it is such a compound term. I suppose all terminology is problematic: “Homosexual” is a clinical mix of Greek and Latin affixes; “gay” is a unisyllabic male-leaning term absurdly conjoined with a nearly defunct adjective seemingly chosen at random; “fag” is an angry appropriation of a self-loathing epi thet ; “queer” is a gender-neutral term with perhaps even more self-loathing.
Several years ago, ACT UP had a demonstration at the National Institutes of Health. Members of ACT UP/N.Y’s Treatment and Data Committee had placards that said “200 T-cells = AIDS.” There was and still is an argument that by adding the 200 T-cell criterion to an already burgeoning list of diseases, one would be able, in one fell swoop, to cover all of those whose immune systems were sufficiently impaired. It didn’t seem possible to keep up with all of the potential malfunctions of the immune system. It made sense to me at the time; but then again, I was in the 400 to 500 range. Although HIV test results are confidential in some states (but not others), there currently is no confidentiality anywhere when it comes to T-cell tests. T-cell tests are much more expensive than the HIV-antibody test. T-cell tests to be used effectively should be monitored over a period of time so that trends can be noted and T4/T8 cell ratios compared. People traditionally overlooked by the current definition—specifically, people without access to health care—will also be overlooked by the new T-cell-dependent criterion.
The real problem is that the official CDC definition of AIDS is used not just to diagnose AIDS, but to determine benefits. It’s another political football. The science is sketchy and the research is incomplete. Health-care and disability benefits may depend on an AIDS diagnosis. I have friend who was constantly getting sick with minor ailments: He finally got his doctor to lie that he had thrush so he could get on Medicaid and disability. At this point in time, I would graciously offer to switch blood-test results with him (those lab-test mix-ups are common) if he needed additional certification.
But I’m left with the fact that I am probably going to get AIDS on, if not April 1, some other unspecified date. Yet nothing has changed. It’s only a word. I want to scream. I prefer to be known as a PWLTC (Person With Lousy T-Cells) instead. Still, I’m terrified. These are absurd times. It’s Wayne’s World. We only live in it.
Ultimately, I didn’t get my AIDS diagnosis until January 1, 1993. The CDC delayed enacting the new definition due to protests. It eventually added two gynecological manifestations to the list. Oddly enough, I feel that things began deteriorating for me in January.
Bleeding Gums From Hell
 
My gums bleed.
Sometimes this happens when I brush my teeth with the vigor of a street cleaner’s brushes gone mad. I remove the toothbrush from my mouth to rinse off the foamy Colgate and notice that the bristles are tinged pink. This I can handle. Worse is when this happens spontaneously. I bite into a McIntosh and see the lipstick imprint on the apple crater. I rush to check my lips for excess makeup in the bathroom mirror and then I remember I don’t do drag.
I am hardly prepared to register myself as a personal site for religious pilgrimages. It’s not as if I bleed only on days of holy saints and Good Friday.
I’m not particularly fond of any of my bodily fluids.
I always carry a portable battery-operated liquid Dustbuster to instantly mop off those unsightly semen spills from the masturbatory bedsheets or the stomach of the occasional boudoir visitor. I pick at a wart on my index finger and five minutes later have stuffed my hand in a blood-soaked pocket. If mucous contained HIV, I would probably kill myself. I have interminable postnasal drip: My Barbra Streisand imitation wouldn’t be complete without it.
At times I feel my body has been transformed into a factory of infection, a vessel of virus. The wheels and cogs are constantly turning, manufacturing more toxins and poisons. My body is merely the host.
But now my greatest fear is deep-kissing a stranger, and as our tongues mingle, tasting rust, I abruptly excuse myself to dash to the bathroom to spit blood.
 
I follow the regulations promulgated at the Sixteenth Annual International Conference on HIV Risk Reduction: Before putting your mouth on any organ or orifice of a prospective ex-boyfriend, use mouthwash, skip the toothpaste, and, above all, don’t floss.
 
My mother had bad teeth. She would floss constantly: after dinner in the kitchen, in the living room in front of “All in the Family.” My father preferred a toothpick, which my mother felt was lower-class. She made him go to the bathroom to perform this vulgar act. I didn’t understand the difference. I never use dental floss.
 
 
My primary methods of seduction rely upon the hands and the mouth. Hands are for physical contact of any sort, from brushing against a stranger’s thigh to rubbing a gentleman’s neck to slowly tracing his spine. My hands, alas, are wart-besotted. The mouth is used for a series of outrageous lies and unbelievable promises, exaggerated store-bought flattery mixed with home-grown cynicism. Lips can caress the lip of a bottle of Bud, anticipating other lips and other cylindrical objects of affection.
At its worst, my mouth is reduced to several dozen bloody Chiclets.
So for the longest time, these two items rested at the top of my personal to-do list:
1. Get Rid of Warts.
2. Stop Bleeding Gums.
 
I have a bad history with dentists.
I close my eyes in the dentist’s chair. I’m Dustin Hoffman in
Marathon Man.
Laurence Olivier drills into my mouth without using anesthesia. “Is it safe?” he implores.

Other books

A Larger Universe by James L Gillaspy
Damaged Goods by Heather Sharfeddin
Marjorie Farrell by Autumn Rose
Destroying Angel by Sam Hastings
Sweetness by Pearlman, Jeff
The Calling by Inger Ash Wolfe
Elvissey by Jack Womack