Untitled News

Every time a brother I know
Dies from AIDS
My dick gets hard.
Now I know that seems
Like a contradiction,
But it ain't.
I mean, my temperature rises,
My blood boils,
And my dick gets hard.

Actually, it only gets hard
If I knew the brother
Was sex-positive
And gay — well, gay.
It's sort of an anger thang.
I could have, and will continue to march,
In the streets, during Gay Pride,
African-American or Puerto Rican Day Parades
And anytime to 
Stop The Church
"O'Connor says don't fuck!
We say fuck you!!!"

But when my brothers
Transcend this life —
Their flesh and bones
Turn first to ashes and then to dust —
I feel it's my moral duty
To testify on their behalf.
I get spiritual,
Wanna start signifying like Angelou
"I hate to lose things."

It's a metaphysical,
Political, mental,
Psychological, demographical,
Kind of thang.
You know, not a regular hard.

Okay, maybe it is a regular hard.
I become more like my name
Than ever before hunting down trade.
My nose reels in the scent,
Like a male dog in pursuit of any bitch in heat
I sniff any and all glutei maximi, derrieres,
Behinds, or booties.
I smell ass!
I lick and poke
All in an effort to claim my right
To do the nasty the way I want to — the way they did.

Like the time L. had gone
(I'm only using initials to protect the innocent,
You know, the boy's lover who didn't know what was going on)
Well, when I heard L had passed away,
I went hunting,
Cause L. was a Fenway-creeping, bathhouse —
"No, you can't spend the night" — versatile diva.
And I did the best I could in his honor:
I went to the closest X-rated movie house
I could find and carried on.

And when M. left, shit, that was a challenge!
Cause he was a bicoastal, international —
"Show-me-yours-and-I'll-show-you-mine" kind of guy.
Well, I had to buy a plane ticket.
The point was you couldn't do it in the city where you lived.
And if I don’t know their sexual histories,
Well, I do a little solo job.

Now you can sit and judge or laugh if you want to.
We all gotta do what’s right for ourselves.
And honey, I’m not just like this when they die.

I was sitting at the ice cream store
On West 4th Street
When my boyfriend, lover, friend,
Relationship for that week
Told me, right in the middle of my double fudge 
Mint chocolate chip sundae,
That he found out that day
He was positive.
He then proceeded to tell me, and I quote,
"I’m gonna die."
Shit! we finished those sundaes, paid the bill,
And I marched that man right back to my apartment,
Straight into my bedroom.

I ripped off my clothes and his,
Leaned back, threw my legs in the air,
Grabbed the tube, tore open a condom,
Slapped that bad boy on his dick,
And demanded to be fucked.
"You gonna fuck me!"

It wasn’t about roles.
I wanted to prove to both of us
That we didn’t have to give up
The lust that lives between lovers.
I had to make sure he could 
See my face, look into my eyes
See my love.
I needed to be sure he could hear me whisper.

You see I —
Brrring, brrring!!!
Excuse me, someone's on the phone.
Hello? E? What?
You just got over a bout of PCP.

© B.Michael Hunter 1993

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