I Had to Say Something (19 page)

After about ten minutes of that, he hopped off the massage table, buck naked, and opened his backpack. Out came a new collection of sex toys that he wanted to play with.

Ted began fumbling around with what I think was a vibrator. I kept hearing a small motor go on and off.

“Mike, could you help me?” he asked. It was a good thing the room was so dark because that meant I didn't have to hide the expression on my face.
Yes, Ted, I'd love to shove something up your ass! How 'bout some honesty?
I took the vibrator and greased it up while he put some lube inside his rectum. I carefully inserted it until I could sense his enjoyment.

“Hey, handsome, does this feel good to you?”

He moaned with pleasure. Well, at least he was enjoying himself. Then, as usual, I jacked him off. I found it ironic: I literally had him by the balls, and yet I could do nothing to him. Moments later, he ejaculated. I gave him a hand towel, and he wiped himself off. Then he scurried to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

There, in the darkness of the massage room, I started to cry. This man was torturing me, and he didn't even know it. How I wished that a camera crew would magically appear while he was in the bathroom. I picked up the towel he had used and threw it in the laundry basket. Then I grabbed a tissue and wiped my eyes. If he noticed that I was crying, I would tell him that I was still upset about my mother's death.

“I really enjoy being with you,” he said to me, money in hand and lips extended for a kiss.

I was finding it hard to muster a smile. I kissed him, rubbed his shoulder, and took the money.

“You always make me feel so good!”

“Looking forward to next time, Mike.” With a big grin and eyes open wide, he sauntered down the hallway to the elevator.

I closed the door immediately after he was over the threshold. Less than a minute later, I heard the elevator door open. One moment more, and I knew he was gone.

“You goddamn hypocrite!” I yelled, raising my fist and punching the plasterboard wall in my living room. That wasn't the smartest thing for me to do, because my hand and arm hurt a bit from the impact. I shuffled over to my leather rocker and plopped myself into it. As expected, I started crying—again.

I was dealing with a force much bigger than me. How the hell could I possibly win against someone like Pastor Ted?

 

Whenever I needed a laugh, I pulled up a picture of Ted Haggard wearing a Hawaiian lei and holding his hands up to the heavens in prayer. He looked ridiculous. It was one of the only things about him that brought a smile to my face. The article that went along with the photo read: “Ted Haggard's name is not yet a household word like Billy Graham, but he's getting there,” according to the
Honolulu Star-Bulletin
.

Yeah, well, you may be powerful, but you look silly!
Oh boy, that made me feel better!

 

I had survived a metal door falling on me. I had survived baseball bats to the head. I had survived constant beatings from my brother. I would survive my mother's painful death. And I
would survive Ted Haggard. I had to keep telling myself that, because with each passing day I believed less and less that I really would survive.

I was fortunate never to have contracted HIV. Still, I'd lost a lot of friends to AIDS. During the 1980s and early 1990s, when people were dying every day, there was a huge stigma associated with AIDS and HIV. People were afraid to touch someone with AIDS. Fear spread like fire, and it angered me that as my friends and acquaintances were dying, few people wanted to hold them or touch them, including their relatives.

Possibly the best thing I provided for my friends during their final days was—you guessed it—massage. It was during this time in my life that I learned how correct my Nanny, my great-grandmother, was about the healing power of massage. These men were nothing but skin and bones, and they were hurting for the touch of another person.

I would take my massage table over to their houses and rub their ailing bodies for hours. I could do any type of massage, but what they really needed was just a gentle touch. You could almost see them come back to life once I touched them. Even some of their friends couldn't stand to touch them, but it was no problem for me. This wasn't sex, it was healing. So many people just don't understand that.

When I remember the politics of the Reagan-Bush years, which kept AIDS a dirty little secret, I still get angry to this day. When I think of how much pain my mother endured, I get even angrier that we don't have more effective treatments for cancer. And then I think of how powerful leaders, both religious and political, use their words to cut down people like me. My blood pressure goes through the roof.

I was feeling helpless, and I hated that feeling. I could give my friends a massage, but I couldn't prevent their deaths. I
could make my mother laugh, but I couldn't keep her alive. And I could give pleasure to someone like Ted Haggard, but I couldn't stop him from gay bashing.

 

The final vote on the Marriage Amendment was 49 to 48, and Dick Cheney could do nothing about it. The proposed amendment had been defeated.

Once again, attempts to write marriage into the United States Constitution had failed. But not to fear, they'll be back. The threat of two women or two men getting legally married is too great to ignore for long. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting equal rights.

I was of course happy that the amendment went down, but I was still bothered. After awhile, most people give up, but not these religious zealots. The Ted Haggards of the world aren't happy until they've browbeaten everyone into their way of thinking. “Do as I say, not as I do.” If everyone did as Ted Haggard did, I would be tired, but I would be one very rich man.

Some nights I would wake up and find myself almost mummified in my own sheets. Other nights I would be breathing so hard and sweating so profusely that my pillows would be drenched, and the air would almost choke me.

And then those goddamn migraines would start. How I hated those headaches. It was bad enough that I was hurting and vomiting and crying, but on top of all of that, my head felt like a stack of bricks. Would there be no escape from Ted Haggard hell?

 

“Hey, handsome!”

God, I couldn't muster even a half-smile. I gave him a hug and left him alone to do his hit of meth. I shuffled off to the massage room and undressed lifelessly. Standing in the low
light waiting for him, I no longer had the energy to mentally berate him for being a hypocrite. I was too exhausted.

“Can we watch a little porn?” he asked as he stood fully clothed in the doorway.

Can't you see I have a headache?
I put my clothes back on and joined him on the couch for another round of hot man-on-man action. Fortunately, our porn viewing lasted only a few minutes before he was ready to get naked.
Oh please, God, make this night an easy one!

Pulling several small leather toys and a penis pump out of his bag of tricks, he spent the rest of the hour playing with himself as I watched. I was so grateful I didn't have to do anything that session. My most exciting thought that day was that maybe I'd go to the grocery store with the two hundred dollars and buy some real food.

After he left, I went to the bathroom to throw up. It all came up, everything I had ingested over the last few days, including the sleeping pills I had started taking. Light-headed, I went to the couch and lied down. I wanted to be free of my pain, and continuing to see Ted wasn't helping. I had to do something, but I had no idea what.

 

I was fortunate enough to have a few close friends who were there for me before and after my mother died. I had offers of dinner or a movie and was invited to come over just to sit and have a little tea and sympathy. But as spring turned to summer and summer heated up, the wear and tear on me was hard to miss. My friends aren't stupid. They knew something was really eating at me, but they probably figured it was all about my mother. I wanted so much to share my entire story with them, but I couldn't. Ever since I was a kid, I felt I had no one to rely on but myself. As I wrestled with my demons,
I knew I had plenty of people who would help me, but, well, I just didn't want to bother them.

Despite my best efforts, my face was telling a much bigger story than I realized. Rather than spill the beans, I stopped seeing my friends altogether. I knew they felt slighted, but I felt I had no choice. I didn't know what was going to happen, if anything. Regardless, I didn't want them to be a party to whatever hornet's nest I might stir up. My friends deserved better than to get dragged down by my troubles, which were looking bleaker by the minute.

 

“You're okay staying home tonight?”

“I'm fine,” my father said. Dad had come to Denver for my niece's wedding and was staying with me for ten days. He was so entranced by the episode of
Diagnosis Murder
he was watching that he barely looked up when I spoke to him.

“I promise I won't make any noise,” I told him, getting the massage room ready. Once my client buzzed the apartment, I moved my father from the living room to my bedroom, where I had
Diagnosis Murder
all ready to go on the television on my dresser. He sat in there with the door closed, a glass of water, and Dick Van Dyke. My client waited patiently at the door while I got ready. I greeted him and told him that my father was in the next room, so please be quiet.

When the hour was up, I took a shower and then walked in on Dad, who was now watching
Ironside
. “Are you ready for dinner?” I asked him, wiping my hair with a towel.

“I'm not hungry tonight,” he said. Nothing seemed to be wrong, so I didn't press him.

I loved having my father around, even though we said very little to each other. That's just how our relationship was. Earlier in the week, I'd taken him to a dinner theater, and he seemed to
enjoy that. I also took him to a Colorado Rockies game, and he really enjoyed that, even though the home team lost big time.

I knew he was depressed, but he would never admit it. I handled him just like I handled my clients. If you don't tell me, I won't ask.

 

“Mike, I'm downtown. Can I come see you?”

Of all the times for him to call
, I thought.

“Is everything okay, Mike?” my father asked.

“Everything's fine, Dad,” I told him. “Finish watching your show.”

I went into my bedroom and closed the door. “Art, I just can't, not tonight.”

“Could I just swing by and give you a hug?” Ted insisted. “I'd really love to see you before I go back home.”

My mind was racing. I wanted to beat him up and berate him and take his money. But all I said was, “I can give you five minutes but no more. My father is in town for a visit.”

“Oh, bless you,” Ted said.
Bless me? Phooey!

After I hung up, my upper lip started quivering, and I started feeling like shit again.

“Dad, I have to go take care of something real quick,” I said as I grabbed my keys. “It won't take long.”

My father said nothing as he enjoyed another rerun of one of his favorite television shows.

I stood outside my building with my arms crossed waiting for Ted to show up. It would have been a perfect time for some photos of Ted enjoying all the nightlife that gay Capitol Hill had to offer.

“Hi,” Ted said as he popped out of nowhere with a big smile.

I kept my arms crossed, but I played it off as though it were chilly. I took him inside and looked around. I could take him
downstairs to the pool and sauna area, but that might be too obvious. I looked in the small billiards room off to the left and saw no one, so I decided that that was where we were going to do whatever it was he wanted to do.

I had him follow me into the small room with a pool table and closed the door behind us. Without saying a word, he gently pushed me up against the wall. Immediately, he pulled down my gym shorts and got on his knees. I think you can guess what he did from there.

I let him go on for about ten minutes. I wasn't turned on at all—how could I be?—but Ted didn't seem to mind. He just wanted to touch me.

“We better stop,” I said. Not that I would have been the first man to be caught in a homosexual act in a public space in my building.

Ted stood up and wiped his mouth with a tissue. “Mike, I just want to touch you so badly,” he said with heavy breath. “You know how much I like that.”

Without missing a beat, he kissed me on the cheek, reached into his pocket, and handed me two hundred dollars. “You'd better go,” I said as though I were concerned someone might see him. It was only then that I realized that he'd just given me a blow job with the lights on. He was either maturing or getting sloppy.

“I really needed that,” he said as he rubbed me all over. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He was taking forever to say good-bye.

Seeing him leave the building both relieved and worried me. How long could this go on? What if I reached a breaking point and snapped at the wrong moment? I summoned the elevator and went back to my apartment. “Let's go eat, Dad,” I said.

We went to the Village Inn, which is where we'd gone the past three nights. Dad liked eating there; the food was tasty and the ambiance enjoyable. We didn't say much to each other. He had little to say, and I had nothing that I wanted him to know. We sat and enjoyed each other's company.

“What are you going to do when you get back to California?” I asked him.