The flu is a pain. Aunt Phyllis is just an inconvenience

This article by Kevin Moroso was originally published in Xtra Magazine as part of the Filling Station column.

I hadn’t been feeling well all morning. I sat at my desk at work, feeling nauseated. Every 30 minutes I needed to run to the bathroom. But I was sure it was only momentary, nothing serious.

At lunch, I met up with some coworkers and we headed to the cafeteria. As I sat down with my tray, one of my coworkers said I didn’t look so great. I was pale, sweating, and my eyes were glossed over. Whatever it was, I needed to get out of there. I went back to my desk and told my boss I needed to go home.

As I left the building, the vomiting began — all over the front lawn. For the next two days, this was my life. Even after the symptoms ended, the dehydration left me exhausted for several days more.

It was norovirus. A highly contagious virus I could have caught anywhere — from dining out, from the bus, or just about anyplace else. And no, I didn’t catch it from sex.

Norovirus is an illness I don’t want to get again, though it’s likely I will. We get all sorts of illnesses throughout our lives — many regularly. Norovirus left me unable to go to work or be meaningfully productive; so too does the common cold at times. Illness is a consequence of living. Yet we stigmatize some illnesses, and accept others as normal.

One day, a couple of years ago, I lay on my sofa watching porn. I lay there naked, stroking my cock. As I worked my hand up and down my shaft, I noticed something strange. There was some sort of sore on it. At first I thought I might have been getting too much action. Had I fucked or jerked my dick to the point of abrasion?

Then I remembered something. I paused the porn, opened Google, and did a search. As I scrolled through the pictures I realized this sore could be something else: a chancre — a symptom of primary stage syphilis.

Aunt Phyllis had never paid me a visit before. However, I was aware of her. Considering how sexually active I am, I knew it was only a matter of time before I caught it. I’d already had gonorrhea and chlamydia several times, so it was time I pulled a hat trick.

Fortunately, I had already booked a regular appointment at the HIM clinic for the following day — I go every two months to get tested for HIV, syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia.

I got the ever-gorgeous Nurse Alex as usual. His milky smooth skin, dark hair, soothing and soft voice, and emotional detachment always made me enjoy my visits. I told him I’d spotted a sore on my dick and was concerned I could have syphilis. He told me to drop my trousers, which I dutifully did. He grabbed the head of my penis and stretched it out. Hmmmmm, yes, this could be syphilis.

He grabbed a swab, wiped it around the sore, then broke it off into a plastic container. Next, he took my usual blood and urine samples. He told me he guessed there was a fifty-fifty chance it was syphilis. Otherwise, it was just a sore from too much friction.

I cancelled all my dates for the upcoming week, just in case. This wasn’t something I wanted to spread. Not only is that unethical, but I know others aren’t so diligent with their testing. I’m lucky I’m mostly a top — a sore is easy to spot on your dick but not so easy in your ass (or mouth).

Four days later, I got a call from Alex. The test had come back positive for syphilis.

I was actually kind of relieved. I had known this moment would come someday, so I was glad I no longer had to wait in dread. Syphilis was the one I’d feared the most, for a number of reasons. I wasn’t too worried about HIV — I was on PrEP, and I knew lots of people living with HIV. Syphilis, however, has an almost mythical quality to it due to its history of driving people mad.

He gave me some treatment options that would fit around my work. One was to go to the bathhouse Friday night to see a nurse there. The other was to go to the Centre for Disease Control (CDC) clinic on Saturday morning. I liked the idea of getting treated at the bathhouse but, unfortunately, that nurse called in sick, so I was pushed back to the CDC clinic on Saturday.

As I sat in the waiting area, I noticed a cute guy sitting across from me who I recognized from a gay dating app. Damn, I could’ve asked him out but, ya know, syphilis. Eventually, my name was called and I accompanied an older female nurse down the hall.

She asked me a few standard questions and got a colleague to join her to help with the procedure — two long needles, one in each upper ass cheek. They would do it simultaneously to minimize the pain. I laid ass up on the bed as the thick fluid was injected into my ass. I got up, they reminded me not to have sex for two weeks, and I left.

I headed down the hill to my favourite noodle house, since I was in the neighbourhood. I walked in and saw my friend Steve sitting there. He waved and asked me to join him. As I sat down, I muttered, “Ow.”

“Syphilis shot?” he asked.

“Yep, how did you know?” I replied.

“Cuz we’re two blocks from the CDC and I always come here after I visit the clinic too,” he said.

Steve has much the same attitude as I do about sex. Free-spirited, debaucherous, accepting of risk. I was glad I ran into him, since sometimes I think my views are too far outside the norm and need a little confirmation bias.

I went without sex for the next two weeks. It was the longest I’d abstained in over a year. I lined up my dates for when my penile quarantine ended and I went back to living and having sex just as I had before.

My strategy worked. Frequent testing and treatment when needed prevented any of these STIs from ever becoming a serious issue. Gonorrhea? Take a couple of pills and it goes in a week. Syphilis? Get a couple of shots in the ass and it goes in two weeks. Furthermore, they had no impact on my quality of life. Okay, the no sex does affect my quality of life, but I could still go to work, hang out with friends, go to the gym and eat normally.

And yet, we freak out about STIs. Many guys feel dirty. We worry about notifying our partners and the reactions we might receive.

And we do whatever we can to avoid getting one, to the point of obsessing over STI prevention. It comes down to the shame we feel around sex. But I’m not going to play that game. I’m not going to freak out about getting an STI — I’m going to just shrug my shoulders and get the treatment.

I’m not going to do everything possible to avoid them; I’m going to accept them as natural, minor inconveniences associated with enjoying the sex for which our bodies are intended.

As for norovirus, however, I’m going to avoid that like the plague.

‘I wasn’t sure I was in the right place’

This article by Devon Delacroix was originally published in Xtra Magazine as part of the Hard Labour column.

I stare at the scrap of paper in my hand with an address scribbled on it before glancing back up at the building. This can’t be the place. I must have written it down wrong.

He called me from a payphone so I don’t have a number to call him back. Should I just wait around, hope he gets impatient and see if he calls? Or maybe he wants me to wait here and he’s going to pick me up in his car? I have no idea what my client for the evening intended by sending me to this place. But I’m fairly certain that whatever’s on the menu for tonight, it’s not supposed to be happening in a Chinese restaurant.

It’s a chilly January evening in Toronto and the streets are a mess of slush from the snow that fell earlier today. I stare across the parking lot to the front door of the restaurant. Is it possible he really did want to meet here? The place is dark, except for a few strands of blinking Christmas lights in the windows. At this point, I have nothing to lose, so before I trudge back to the subway and head downtown, I might as well take a look to see if anyone is around.

Standing at the front door, I peer inside. I can see rows of black tables with jars of chopsticks, napkin dispensers and bottles of soy sauce neatly arranged on them. A bit of light filters in from the kitchen, but there’s no hint of life.

Suddenly a man walks out of the back of the restaurant and towards me. He pauses a few feet from the door, surveying the parking lot for a sign of anyone else, before hurriedly opening the door and ushering me in with a wave of his hand — this must be the place after all.

I follow him back towards the kitchen and then he turns and just stares at me. He’s tiny and chubby, with coarse black hair deliberately swooped back with a generous amount of mousse. I’d guess he’s in his 50s, but I can’t be sure. We stand, silently staring at each other until I finally decide to break the tension.

“I wasn’t sure I was in the right place,” I say with a smile, trying to make a joke.

He doesn’t say anything.

“So, this is where you wanted to . . . meet?” I say, surveying the space.

It looks like a family business, probably opened in the 1950s, with handwritten menus on the wall, paper decorations of beaming animals with wide eyes, and a large fish tank bubbling in the corner.

There’s obviously no bed, not even a couch. Maybe there’s a room in the back? Or maybe we are supposed to meet here and then go somewhere else? Right now he seems incapable of speech. Does he just want me to leave? That happens sometimes. Prospective clients can get wrapped up in the fantasy of what it’s going to be like being with a guy for the first time. But when the opportunity presents itself, they freeze.

“Did you want to . . . um . . . ” I pause, looking around. “Where were you thinking we would . . . um . . . do it?”

He’s still silent. I guess he didn’t think this through very well. Was he imagining we’d do it standing up?

“Maybe if you have a blanket or a towel or something, we can just lie on the floor?” I say.

He nods, walks to the back and returns with what I’m guessing is the kitchen fire blanket. Safety first. He pushes some chairs out of the way and lays it down between the tables. I put my arms around him and pull him into me. I’m thinking I’ll go in for first kiss but he just places his head on my chest like we’re slow dancing. Cautiously, I ease him down to the floor. He lies back on the blanket and I curl up next to him.

His eyes are closed and his body is totally stiff. I unbutton his shirt slowly and run my hand up and down his hairless chest. He doesn’t make a move to touch me at all. I slide my hand down to his crotch and I can feel his cock is hard. Normally with this kind of passive vibe I’d just assume someone wants a more dominating character. But he seems so tense, so closed off to the experience, I don’t want to freak him out, so I just lie beside him.

This is typically the kind of situation where I might try to initiate some dialogue, just to get the person relaxed. But, as best as I can tell from our previous phone conversation, his English is pretty limited. Instead of speaking, I just lie next to him, running my hand up and down his body, staring at his face for some sign of pleasure. His dick indicates that he’s turned on but besides that, he seems more like he’s bracing himself for an uncomfortable medical procedure than getting ready for a sexual experience.

Our phone conversation had been hurried, in part because of the language barrier and in part because he seemed rushed. I’d assumed that meant he knew what he was getting into. In my experience, virgins usually want to take more time to talk. Experienced guys, even if they’re extremely closeted, tend to be more straight to the point. But unless his idea of a pleasurable sexual experience is lying completely motionless while someone strokes his chest, I’m guessing this is the first time he’s done this.

Whenever I realize I’ve got a virgin on my hands, I put a special priority on trying to make sure they have a good time. If they don’t enjoy themselves with me, my fear is that they’ll think it means there’s something wrong with them. I’m always happy to talk through those things, assuming there’s an interest in having the conversation. But right now it seems like all I can do is get him off and hope the experience gives him what he needs.

I unzip his pants, pull them gently down and start to fondle his cock through his white cotton briefs. I ease them down, letting it spring free, and he gasps.

“Suck,” he says, his eyes still closed.

I smile.

“You want me to suck you?” I say.

“Yes.”

The other thing with virgins, no matter their age, is that you want to avoid getting them off too quickly. The sexual energy can be so intense that they shoot right away and then they lose out on the pleasure that can come with delaying orgasm. I take his cock in my hand and begin to gently stroke it. He moans and his head arches back.

“You suck!” he yells, like he’s warning me of an impending emergency.

Okay. Fine. Have it your way.

I sit up and bend to bring my face to his crotch. My lips are barely touching him when he shoots in my mouth. He lies back, panting softly. I guess we’re done?

After a minute, he pulls his pants up and we stand. He fishes around in his pocket, and then hands me a crumpled wad of bills with a silent nod. Whether he’s conflicted, elated, or riddled with guilt, there’s not going to be any discussion of how he feels right now. That kind of work is usually included as part of my fee. But I can see by his demeanour that he doesn’t want a therapy session. He just wants me to leave.

We walk to the door and he lets me out without a wave or a kiss. Halfway across the slushy parking lot I turn to look back, but he’s already gone from the window. Was this the first time he’s ever been with a man? Will it be the last? Did he enjoy it at all? These aren’t the kinds of questions I can answer. And probably neither can he.

I brace myself against the wind and start walking back to the subway.