It's a kind of oxymoron, Gay and depressed.
I dreamt about the gorgeous Italian--not necessarily THE gorgeous Italian, Luca (sp?), but about the archetypical gorgeous Italian--young, handsome, smiling, desirable and desired by everyone who meets him, even those who deny it. My dream was in a resort atmosphere, everyone was busy running from one celebration to another, they all looked happy and they smiled more than I thought humanly possible. (They must have fine strands of fishing line implanted behind their dimples, I thought, tied off somewhere above, maybe under their masses of thick perfect hair.)
The Italian began only vaguely interested in me, but became more focused. Eventually, he moved close. We touched casually. He smiled (as usual) and batted his giant eyelashes. We were standing beside the stairs on the second floor in a guest house. The house was built into a hill; at the bottom of the stairs was the front door, which faced the street, but upon ascending the stairs one found oneself facing a sunny patio in a tiny garden behind the house, where many gay men--all carefully groomed and elegantly laughing--were gathered amid umbrellas in the sun.
My dream appeared to take place in Provincetown, the front door faced Commercial Street. The patio was in heaven. However, immediately before the guest house scene, I was in a dark city amid skyscrapers, loud traffic, and crowds of anxious, rushing people. But I don't remember the trip in between--that's the beauty of dreams, you can get there without the trip.
Anyway, there was another guy in the dream. He seemed to be working at the guest house, and chatted amiably with me and the beauty. He fit in, was kind of attractive, but not off-puttingly beautiful. Bland, in a pretty way. Soon, the beautiful Italian was ready to go, and in a parting gesture, he gripped the bulge in my pants, which was as hard as glass and big (as it only ever is when I am alone and asleep). Apparently satisfied, the delicious young man departed on a vague promise of 'I'll be in touch.' But the beauty did not leave toward the patio, out into the light; he disappeared down the shadowy corridor that went past the room in which my father was staying. (Yup, even Daddy was in this dream.)
So despite my disinterest in him (or maybe because of it, or because I thought the pretty Italian boy might be down the hall riding my father in the dark) I started making-out with bland-boy. He didn't seem to notice we were kissing, and continued talking--between kisses. The bland one spoke of me and the beautiful one in tones of possibility, as if gorgeous-boy and me could be a couple. He said everyone who knew both of us thought so.
As I continued my utilitarian smooching, I thought of a paradox, and wanted to go find a computer so I could write it down. I thought perhaps with the support and encouragenment of this group of gay acquaintances, the beautiful one and I could actually be together. But I could never have their support or encouragement--or the gorgeous Italian, for that matter--if they knew the truth; I was HIV-positive. I was thinking, if bland-boy knew, he probably wouldn't be kissing me, and if all those happy men in the sun knew, they might not think the dark-eyed beauty and me would make such a good couple after all. I was thinking that the dark-eyed cock-gripper would certainly forget his interest in me once he discovered my secret.
In the dream, HIV was a double edged sword. Without it I was afraid to go anywhere near such a beautiful place teeming with beautiful, kind, happy people who might make me want to open up my heart. But with HIV, I could risk such a trip, and if warm feelings of attachment, affection, or feelings of (eeek!) falling in love began to emerge, I could whip out my status and hold it up like a crucifix in the face of a demon.
I sooo wanted the luscious Italian, but I was utterly terrified of him, too. I would never have dared to touch a disarming darling such as him if I had not first embraced the potent repellant of an incurable infectious disease.
It made sense in the dream. Really.
I ran back to my room (which was the other way from the direction the Italian-stud went) looking for a computer to write all this stuff down. There wasn't one, and I realized I'd have to go through the whole rigamarol of setting one up, and by the time I got that done, I would have lost the paradox of embracing the bug. Then I awoke, and there it was, a computer. It's only one of the things I wanted in the dream, and it's the least important one. But the more important things, I was too afraid to have.
Of course, the dream is not reality. In the dream, no one else is positive. In the dream, the division is blurred between intimacy and sex, or entirely erased. In the dream, there is a guest house in Ptown without a computer! And in the dream, my status was still a secret.
In reality, HIV does not repel intimacy, but only those who would waste my time.
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