teeth, then undressed on opposite sides of the mattress, nonchalantly stripping to our underwear, then stripping off that as well. Sex had become as automatic for us as breathing. When we met again under the covers, however, I placed my hand against his chest and looked into his eyes for a moment. I liked him again. I was glad to have his body back. If this Bill ever flowed into the Bill of the vertical world then our affair would be more real, but also disruptive, even dangerous. We resumed kissing and nothing else mattered to me except seeing his face go blank with bliss one more time.
Afterward, we turned out the light and fitted ourselves together. It often takes a night or two for my body to grow accustomed enough to another person for me to sleep comfortably. Bill promptly dozed off, holding my arm across his chest like a teddy bear. I quickly joined him.
I woke only once that night, when he began to twitch and moan in his sleep, like a dog dreaming of punishment. I rubbed his chest and drew him to my side, and we sank back down into oblivion.
8
W HO’S THE REAL ENEMY? We cannot forget our real enemy. Not Jesse Helms. Not that two-faced coward in the White House. Not the turncoat Log Cabin queers of the Republican Party. No, our most powerful, scurrilous foe in the war against AIDS is—John Cardinal O’Connor!”
The drumroll of names by the speaker, a young woman with the short speckled hair of a baby chick, prepared us for a fresh new villain, not that tired old bogeyman in skirts. There were enough ex-Catholics in the audience, however, for the claps to outweigh the yawns. In the aisle seat beside me, Nick seethed like an ulcer.
This was my first ACT UP meeting in over a year. Numbers had been dropping when I dropped out. They no longer needed the Cooper Union auditorium in my neighborhood for the weekly general meeting but had moved back to their first home, the assembly room of the Community Center in the West Village. Even here, under the white tin ceiling and cast-iron columns as thin as birthday candles, half the folding chairs were empty.
Meetings were once as exhilarating as the trial by sansculottes in A Tale of Two Cities —if you were a sansculotte—their energy almost compensating for the hours required to reach the simplest decision. Now people actually took turns to talk, not because they were more disciplined but because they had less to say. Gone were the speakers who hoped to piggyback this cause with campaigns against racism, sexism and class. The humpy beauties no longer came either; there were few licorice black leather jackets tonight and no sixty-dollar haircuts. Despite their torn jeans and earrings, the two white boys facilitating tonight’s meeting suggested a pair of student-council presidents. When they opened with the ritual announcement that police or FBI agents were required by law to identify themselves, Nick had grumbled, “As if such people would waste their time here.”
Nick had pressed me hard this week about joining him tonight. It was already February and I was definitely going to Miami. I attended the meeting thinking that it might be good for me, like going to church. I listened piously, sheepishly, but my chief emotion was nostalgia for the old illusion that sitting through long-winded debates and occasionally being hauled off in plastic handcuffs were all that was needed to set things right.
“I am disgusted that the Education Committee can propose we sit and reason with that bastard. About getting safe-sex instruction into their hospitals? He’s not going to meet with us. Even if he did, he’s not going to listen. And if he did listen, it’d mean kissing the devil’s anus.”
“If, if, if,” muttered Nick.
I couldn’t understand why he’d been so insistent on my coming tonight, unless he wanted me to see firsthand what made him so frustrated and ill-tempered. Concentrating on committee work, even Nick often skipped general meetings. Peter had never
Afterward, we turned out the light and fitted ourselves together. It often takes a night or two for my body to grow accustomed enough to another person for me to sleep comfortably. Bill promptly dozed off, holding my arm across his chest like a teddy bear. I quickly joined him.
I woke only once that night, when he began to twitch and moan in his sleep, like a dog dreaming of punishment. I rubbed his chest and drew him to my side, and we sank back down into oblivion.
8
W HO’S THE REAL ENEMY? We cannot forget our real enemy. Not Jesse Helms. Not that two-faced coward in the White House. Not the turncoat Log Cabin queers of the Republican Party. No, our most powerful, scurrilous foe in the war against AIDS is—John Cardinal O’Connor!”
The drumroll of names by the speaker, a young woman with the short speckled hair of a baby chick, prepared us for a fresh new villain, not that tired old bogeyman in skirts. There were enough ex-Catholics in the audience, however, for the claps to outweigh the yawns. In the aisle seat beside me, Nick seethed like an ulcer.
This was my first ACT UP meeting in over a year. Numbers had been dropping when I dropped out. They no longer needed the Cooper Union auditorium in my neighborhood for the weekly general meeting but had moved back to their first home, the assembly room of the Community Center in the West Village. Even here, under the white tin ceiling and cast-iron columns as thin as birthday candles, half the folding chairs were empty.
Meetings were once as exhilarating as the trial by sansculottes in A Tale of Two Cities —if you were a sansculotte—their energy almost compensating for the hours required to reach the simplest decision. Now people actually took turns to talk, not because they were more disciplined but because they had less to say. Gone were the speakers who hoped to piggyback this cause with campaigns against racism, sexism and class. The humpy beauties no longer came either; there were few licorice black leather jackets tonight and no sixty-dollar haircuts. Despite their torn jeans and earrings, the two white boys facilitating tonight’s meeting suggested a pair of student-council presidents. When they opened with the ritual announcement that police or FBI agents were required by law to identify themselves, Nick had grumbled, “As if such people would waste their time here.”
Nick had pressed me hard this week about joining him tonight. It was already February and I was definitely going to Miami. I attended the meeting thinking that it might be good for me, like going to church. I listened piously, sheepishly, but my chief emotion was nostalgia for the old illusion that sitting through long-winded debates and occasionally being hauled off in plastic handcuffs were all that was needed to set things right.
“I am disgusted that the Education Committee can propose we sit and reason with that bastard. About getting safe-sex instruction into their hospitals? He’s not going to meet with us. Even if he did, he’s not going to listen. And if he did listen, it’d mean kissing the devil’s anus.”
“If, if, if,” muttered Nick.
I couldn’t understand why he’d been so insistent on my coming tonight, unless he wanted me to see firsthand what made him so frustrated and ill-tempered. Concentrating on committee work, even Nick often skipped general meetings. Peter had never
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