How I Survived a Plague
I survived a plague.
It once seemed unfathomable I’d ever write such words, let alone experience just such a cataclysmic event. Growing up in a bland but largely protected Southern California suburb in the 60s and 70s, I had no clue what lie ahead. Acquaintances, friends, co-workers, and lover, dead. A myriad of others infected. Who could have foreseen the years of public apathy, private sorrow? Emerging decades later into a world where few seem to acknowledge the experience occurred, let alone the toll taken. Somehow, though, I stand here today having survived the AIDS epidemic, and I still marvel at how.
In 1981, when what would eventually become known as AIDS peripherally entered our national consciousness, I was 16 years old. I’d known I was attracted to other boys as far back as I could remember. Hitting sixteen, I was able to put my driver’s license to good use, beginning weekly sojourns to a bookstore in neighboring Long Beach, CA, where I’d spend my allowance on LGBT fiction, The Advocate, and gay porn. This avid need to read and learn would serve me well, as I distinctly recall that moment when I first saw a headline about a gay cancer, attacking the New York community. 
In July 1982, at virtually the same moment the disease was being renamed, from GRID (Gay-Related Immune Deficiency) to the more accurate AIDS (Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome), I was experiencing my first sexual encounter, on a family vacation to Maui. Lying on a hill overlooking a beautiful, deserted beach cove, I finally gave myself over to the stirrings I’d long felt. Even as this older stranger initiated me into the ways of gay sex, I was cognizant of the disease attacking gay men, fully aware of the wolf at the door. Moments after finishing, I pulled on my bathing suit, quickly hurrying around the corner of the cove, only to bump into my sister, on her way to find me. The realization that mere seconds separated me from discovery introduced a gnawing element of fear to the moment. But that factor of fear may very well be the reason I’m still here.
With the release of David France’s Oscar-nominated documentary How to Survive a Plague, now on DVD, I was immediately reminded of those many years and how, for me, sex and fear became — for better or worse — inextricably intertwined. The film skillfully communicates the era’s panic and anger, as well as the resolute determination of the LGBT community to combat the virus. As I watched it, long-forgotten voices and faces materialized, transporting me to a time in which I often felt as if engaged in a secret war.
I was reminded of James, so closeted that even a meal in public was conducted in whispers. I remembered hushed conversations about who had “it;” the line between the “have” and “have not’s” never more apparent. I thought of those awkward dinners where my date would reveal his sero-status, and I would attempt to finish the meal pleasantly, as if that news hadn’t really mattered. And I remembered the first man I personally knew to die, always-smiling Jon, who went so quietly, few even registered that he was gone.
As a youth, growing up, sex had been labeled both a sin and something to treasure, and these warring contradictions, added to the lessons learned from my dysfunctional family makeup, bore in me a sense of prudery. Mix that prudishness with a lurking transmittable disease, and my sexual awakening proved not the spree of abandon I’d long imagined, but instead a series of battles, each encounter fraught with the fear that HIV could enter my body at any time, at the slightest provocation. This led me to study everything I could about the virus, to fortify myself. This quest for knowledge, however, proved difficult, as each news account seemed to give varying and often conflicting instructions. It can be spread through saliva. No, it can’t. They’ve discovered a drug. But it doesn’t work. It can’t be spread through oral sex. No, wait–it can! No, it can’t! A cure is coming. No cure to be found.
Each sex act became a scientific experiment. If one condom was effective, would two be even better? Am I using the right lubricant? What is nonoxynol-9? Is microwavable plastic wrap the preferred barrier for rimming, or non-microwavable? Such questions made it difficult to lose myself in the moment, but they also allowed passion a momentary respite, providing a window in which to turn my hyper-vigilance into action.
Desperate at seeing my community under attack, I found myself at AIDS Project Los Angeles, first as volunteer and later as staff, where my efforts centered on HIV prevention. It was my goal to keep other gay men HIV negative, but even that was fraught with uncertainty. We acted as if shamans, sprinkling our mystical educational nuggets across the landscape, but we were more used car salesmen than anything, selling the masses education we didn’t really believe in, with few of us actually practicing what we preached. We advocated using dental dams or plastic wrap for rimming. Finger cots or latex gloves for ass play. We preached using condoms for oral sex, and pretended that the flavored lubricants we hawked actually enhanced the act, as if everyone wanted to taste synthetic strawberry instead of cock.
We made every effort to keep our messages “sex positive,” to ensure we didn’t add to the years of shame gay men had suffered, being made to feel less-than. While fear had proven an effective deterrent for me, “scare tactics” were frowned upon. Marketing campaigns depicting those ill or dying was forbidden, so as not to offend those with HIV, or to imply that death was a foregone conclusion. Instead, we repeatedly insisted that not only was safer sex hot, but it could be even hotter than sex without condoms. As if anyone believed it.
To sell this vision, we created workshops around enhancing intimacy and building self-esteem, the theory being that by feeling better about oneself, more care would be taken around sexual health. If you care about yourself, you’ll use condoms. But that message was faulty, as the reverse would also be true: If you aren’t using condoms, you’re an unfeeling asshole who doesn’t about anyone, especially yourself. Which led men to again feel shame. Guilt trips are rarely effective.
As months became years, what began as a quiet war eventually grew to a loud roar. Nights in West Hollywood were an endless cycle: handing out condoms at bars, engaging in street protests, attending meetings for QueerNation or ACT UP, and leading courses in safer sex. We screamed until hoarse and marched until we couldn’t stand, then went out dancing all night and had as much sex as possible. I recall seminars such as Marianne Williamson’s A Course in Miracles and Louise Hay’s Hay Rides; more than once wondering why I was there. Many of those attending were HIV-positive, searching for healing. I was there because… what? Was I seeking community? A sense of belonging? To cruise hot guys? Or was I searching for a cure for what ached in my soul?
Ultimately, however, why I was there wasn’t important. The important thing is that I was there.
Shane Sawick was HIV-positive when we met, with a t-cell count of less than 200, which technically meant that he had AIDS. As we began dating, technical became actual very quickly, and within two years, he was dead.
When I’d first heard through a friend that Shane was interested in me, I was flattered, but didn’t give it much thought. He was HIV-positive, after all, and while I acted like it didn’t matter, it did. There was little hope back then, and I knew what the road ahead held. I had no desire to go down that path; I was afraid. Not for my physical health, as by then I was as knowledgeable as most doctors, but I feared what such loss could do to my soul. How can one begin to indulge in loving fully, knowing there is an expiration date? Why experience what you know will be fleeting? And how can you ever move forward again, having loved and lost?
The idea of a relationship with Shane scared the shit out of me, but I knew I had to face that fear, however messy. I’d beaten my fear of infection through education, and thought I might beat my emotional fears by confronting them. I chose love, in all its complexity, and found myself rewarded. Connecting to another, giving fully, putting his needs ahead of my own — these molded me into the man I am today. Experiencing horrific pain and sadness through his death and that of my friends created shadings within, deep pockets of understanding, ultimately making me a better human being, partner, and father.
Throughout the crisis, I met countless number doing everything possible to educate, empower, and eradicate a deadly disease, while a much larger number of people did nothing. Those of us engaged in the fight might not have done everything we should have, or could have, but the mere act of doing is what kept me sane, and maintaining a healthy respect for the disease kept me HIV-negative.
Love, mixed with more than a little bit of fear, is how I survived the plague.
Kergan Edwards-Stout’s debut novel about one man’s battle with AIDS, Songs for the New Depression, was winner of the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Award in the LGBTQ category, shortlisted for the Independent Literary Awards and named one of the Top Books of 2012 by Out in Print and others.
Photography: Kergan Edwards-Stout as a child and in Hawaii (provided by author); Paul Staley (How to Survive a Plague); Kergan Edwards-Stout in a condom ad (Today Condoms) and performing in an AIDS Project Los Angeles safer sex education campaign as Biff Boffum, to Lawrence Jurado’s LaToya Latex (Ed Freeman); Shane Sawick (Ed Freeman); the author today with his family, Russ Noe, Mason and Marcus Edwards-Stout (Sara+Ryan Photography)
Cross-posted on Huffington Post and LGBTQ Nation.
New Review says “Songs for the New Depression” Shines!
Very grateful for a new review in Arts & Understanding, a magazine devoted to HIV/AIDS, on Songs for the New Depression. The review (found on page 48) notes “the laughs make the book deceptively breezy. SONGS shines with psychological truth and historical accuracy.” Love it when folks “get it!”
A Golden Memory
Posted the evening of the Golden Globes:
I had one of those weird “a-ha” moments just now, when, while cleaning, a wonderful memory returned. One of the best nights of my life, EVER, happened in February 1993. I have been a fan of Stephen Sondheim as long as I can remember, so when I heard they were doing a one-night only, 20th anniversary original cast reunion performance of COMPANY at the Long Beach Terrace Theater, I immediately bought two tickets. My good friend at the time, Cheryl Dolins, was also a Sondheim fan, and we couldn’t wait to go.
Another friend, Gary Kalkin, called just after we’d bought the tickets, and invited me to the Golden Globes after-party; I was crushed at the conflict. He said to stop by afterward, if we could, and at least say hello.
Cheryl and I loved COMPANY, and I was amazed, watching Dean Jones perform “Being Alive”, at how pitch perfect and emotionally charged his performance was, 20 years later. The entire cast was phenomenal, and goes down in history as my favorite night ever in a theater, bar none.
Exhilarated, Cheryl and I rushed back to LA. Walking up the red carpet at the Beverly Hilton, there were a few photographers, trying to figure out if we were “someones” and, to us, we felt we were. When we got to the check in desk, the woman apologized, saying the party was just about over, but if we wanted to still go in for a quick drink, we could. Dejected to have gotten there so late, we still went it, looking for Gary. There were only about 12 people in the entire room. Aside from Gary, there was Anthony Hopkins, Emma Thompson, Al Pacino, and Rodney Dangerfield. Cheryl and I were completely beside ourselves, hovering with the others around the few platters of food left, but kept acting as if hanging out with this crowd was an everyday occurrence.
Cheryl and I have sadly lost touch, and Gary died of AIDS just a year or so later.
I hadn’t thought of this in years, but just did. That was exactly 20 years ago. Thank you, brain cells, for reminding me…
Just a few of the brilliant lyrics…
ROBERT:
Phone rings,
Door chimes,
In comes
Company!
No strings,
Good times,
Room hums,
Company!
Late nights,
Quick bites,
Party games,
Deep talks,
Long walks,
Telephone calls.
Thoughts shared,
Souls bared,
Private names,
All those
Photos
Up on the walls–
“With love.”
“With love” filling the days,
“With love” seventy ways,
“To Bobby with love”
From all those good and crazy people, my friends!
Those good and crazy people, my married friends!
And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
That’s what it’s really about,
Really about!
The Rainbow Hour: An Interview with Kergan Edwards-Stout
I’m so thankful to GSHRadio’s Rainbow Hour for including me on yesterday’s show, in honor of World AIDS Day. What fun, to follow the hysterical “America’s #1 Tupperware salesgal” Dixie Longate! The hosts, Victor, Otto, Gregory, Steve, and I chat about HIV/AIDS, my novel, as well as my piece on Huffington Post, “Please Defriend Me,” which has had almost 130,000 facebook likes.
My section starts at 48:28! 
Thank you all!
It’s World AIDS Day. Does Anyone Care?
On March 5, 1995, the day I turned 30, I admitted my then-partner Shane Sawick into the hospital. He would not come out alive, dying just two weeks later, on March 22. While AIDS was the war he battled, he was ultimately done in by a skirmish with PML (Progressive Multifocal Leukoencephalopathy), a rare but usually fatal disease, which quickly took away Shane’s ability to speak, move, or even blink at will, though his brain continued to think, and process, and feel. It was devastating to watch a loved one undergo such a debilitating experience, and yet that act, of being both lover and caregiver, thoroughly transformed me as a human being. Indeed, I would not be the husband, father, writer, or person that I am were it not for that period of crisis during which my partner and friends died. As we head towards World AIDS Day, I find it perplexing that few seem willing to embrace, or even mention, the epidemic which so greatly impacted and altered the LGBT community. What is it about that era that frightens us so?
The easy answer might be that disease and death make people uncomfortable, which, to some degree, is understandable. Prior to Shane’s death, my best friend of eight years and I were inseparable (I’ll call him Pete.) At the time, I couldn’t have imagined a better friend. Pete made me laugh, kept me company, and ushered me through my West Hollywood “coming out.” Once Shane got sick, however, Pete disappeared. He never called, or came to visit us in the hospital, despite knowing that I was there 24/7. Whenever queried by friends as to his absence, Pete would say, “Oh, you know–me and hospitals. I just don’t like the idea of sickness.”
It wasn’t until the day of Shane’s memorial that I next saw Pete. He came up, noting “Great service!,” before the next words came out of his mouth: “Wanna hit Happy Hour later?” Needless to say, I chose to end that friendship, as well as others in which people could not grasp the emotional magnitude of what had happened to me, and others like me. The depth of my experiences caused a change within, which required a new support system willing and able to tackle the “hard stuff,” no matter how unpleasant.
For some, the era of losing friends and loved ones has been difficult to revisit, due to the emotional toll taken. Many have gone to great lengths to separate themselves from the pain, moving from the most-hit urban centers to smaller, more rural towns. Others have gone into emotional hiding, losing themselves in drug or drink, or in simply shutting down, so as not to feel the ache of such loss. And some have, by necessity, focused on rebuilding their broken circle of friends.
New causes, such as marriage equality, have replaced AIDS as our community’s priority, and it is hard to argue that rallying for wedding cake isn’t more fun that protesting for HIV drugs. Still, we should not have to choose between the two.
These days, activism for many means little more than clicking “like” on a Facebook post. While thousands stepped into the streets in the aftermath of Prop 8, we’ve not seen anything on that scale for HIV/AIDS in years. At what point did we become complacent? Is having a drug that makes the disease “manageable” really all we want? What happened to a cure–or a vaccine?
Today, people still die from AIDS. While drug advancements have substantially decreased that number, it has also created the false-belief that contracting the disease is essentially meaningless. To some, taking one pill a day is an easy trade-off to having to wear condoms.
Most disturbing, however, is the sheer number to whom AIDS just doesn’t matter, having relegated it to a page in history. When I mention having lost a partner or friends, I’m most often met with a blank stare or a cursory nod, with no real emotional acknowledgement of what that time meant, and continues to mean.
During the AIDS crisis, the LGBT community rose to the occasion, stepping in to take care of our own when the government, pharmaceutical companies, and other organizations couldn’t–or wouldn’t. LGBT people exhibited incredible bravery, tackling huge monoliths with acts of daring creativity and passion. Were it not for our take-no-prisoners approach, we would not have the HIV drugs we do today.
The crisis temporarily brought together both genders, as women stepped into vacant leadership roles and helped those stricken by acting as caregivers. Today, that gender divide has returned, with little reciprocity from gay men for the causes dear to lesbians, such as breast or cervical cancer. In many ways, we’ve gone back to being strangers, with a debt left unpaid.
Other communities, devastated by tragedy, have managed to turn such markers into rallying cries, and the LGBT community must find a way to do the same with AIDS. Just as the Jewish people dealt with the Holocaust, and the African American community responded to slavery and the civil rights struggle, so too must our community find a way to embrace that era, fully honoring both those we lost and what we gained.
For we did gain much. We learned that, far from being the weak and passive individuals many of us had been stereotyped, we actually had strength, passion, and guts, and we fully demonstrated that to the world. We took on “the powers that be” and created real, tangible change. We literally bloodied ourselves for the cause, and yet today, speaking of AIDS feels almost taboo.
Does that have anything to do with the disease being sexually transmitted? Having worked so hard to combat the myth that being gay is to be “sick,” did the emergence of a sexually transmitted disease take us back to a place of shame? Does that shame still linger?
To be clear, I am not remotely nostalgic for the days of the AIDS crisis. I lost too many, and it hurt too much. But at the same time, I’m thankful that I was able to play a part in helping to educate others about HIV, through my work at AIDS Project Los Angeles. I’m grateful to my dear friends who allowed me to be with them during their final days. I’m profoundly changed, for the better, for having ushered my partner Shane to his death. And I’m forever in awe of the efforts our community took to respond to the crisis in unimaginably creative and lasting, impactful ways.
I just wished others cared as well.
Kergan Edwards-Stout’s debut novel, Songs for the New Depression, was loosely inspired by his partner, Shane Sawick, and his experiences during the AIDS crisis. It won the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Award in the LGBTQ category, and was shortlisted for the Independent Literary Awards in the same category.
Cross-Posted on Huffington Post and LGBTQ Nation.
New Review Calls “Songs for the New Depression” a “Gem”
I’m so grateful for the wonderful review of Songs for the New Depression in the Examiner by noted author Alan H. Chin, calling it “a gem.” Under any circumstances, that alone would be high praise, but what most people don’t realize, though, as I normally don’t discuss it, is that–from beginning to end–I published the novel largely by myself, making the accolades even more meaningful.
In December 2010, after 12 long years of on-again, off-again writing, I finally finished the novel in order to be able to give it to my partner, Russ, as his 50th birthday gift. After meeting my deadline, I then began trying to sell the book in the traditional manner. I approached over 250 literary agents, and was rejected or did not receive a response (which is the same thing as a “no”–just less polite) by every single one. I sent the manuscript to publishing houses, large and small, and was again rejected. I took every route possible, and was told “no,” time and again. It was incredibly demoralizing, to have written something which I felt so passionately about, only to have my baby repeatedly deemed ugly.
Finally, I received two rejections which sent me off on an entirely different path than anticipated. One was from the agent who represents Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Cunningham (The Hours.) She’d read the novel, enjoyed it, and had shared with other agents in her office, calling the writing “contemporary, fresh, funny,” only to then let me know that she couldn’t “sell it.” There was a glut of literary fiction on the marketplace, she noted, and marketing a book such as this would be difficult, at best. While that should have been disappointing, it really wasn’t. Neither was the next rejection letter I got.
An esteemed editor and publisher, Don Weise, who used to run Alyson Books and now heads the LGBT press, Magnus Books, also read the novel. Again, I got the same response, which essentially said,”I love your book, but literary fiction just ain’t selling!”
While no one likes rejection, to have been told by two well-respected sources such as these just how great they thought the book was proved a huge boost to me, launching my “make-it-happen” instincts into overdrive. My feeling was, if these amazing folks love it, but there just isn’t a marketplace for it, why not create my own marketplace?
Thus began a huge leap into the world of indie publishing. I had no money, so leaned on friends to help me edit the novel. I learned how to make videos, in order to create my own promotional tools. I learned code to be able to build my website. I wrote my own press releases, contacted reviewers, acted as my own shipper, and more, in order to both publish and promote my book.
While the novel may never make me rich, that was never the intent. I wrote a cautionary tale of love, loss, and redemption, and for those folks who’ve read and “gotten it,” my hope is that the novel will feed and nourish their souls. Happily, most of the letters I’ve received tell me that it has. Others won’t like it, and that’s okay, too. I’d rather have written something which is polarizing than to have written something bland.
This particular reviewer, however, “got it,” and I feel so grateful.
Songs for the New Depression isn’t the story of my partner, Shane, though he inspired it. This is really my emotional journey, entirely fictionalized, of going from self-serving to self-loving. Of going from a person I hated into one in whom I now see value. Going from someone scared of taking leaps into one for whom leaping has become mandatory.
Each and every person who reads and appreciates the journey means that my learning and efforts have not been in vain.
For those of us who choose the lonely road, it is a hard one, but the rewards at the end are also ours to savor…
Please check out the full review here, but following are a few lovely quotes:
“This is a sad story brushed onto the canvas with insightful, dark humor and touching flourishes…
Gabe is not a likable character, yet the author skillfully presents his protagonist in such a way that the reader understands why Gabe chooses to push people away, even people he loves. Also, the three snapshots are told in reverse-chronological order, so the reader builds up sympathy for the character while he struggles with AIDS, and then in the end, reveals the sexual incident that derailed Gabe’s life, to finally bring understanding. Reversing the order was a stroke of genius.
The author presents a story that is heartfelt and authentic, and told with great skill.
If you are looking for a gushing mm romance with a happy ending, keep looking. If you are looking, however, for a well-written, intelligent, bittersweet tale of love and overcoming a troubled past, then I can highly recommend this gem of a book.”
Author Spotlight: David G. Hallman
When I lost a partner to AIDS in 1995, I immediately found myself adrift in a sea of ever-changing emotions, which with I wasn’t yet equipped to deal. I didn’t have the tools needed to properly channel and process my chaotic state, until I tried writing about my experience. Author David G. Hallman suffered a similar loss when his partner of 30 years was diagnosed with cancer, only to die just two weeks later. He too used writing as a way to explore his emotional state, and that commonality helped us forge a friendship when we were fortunate enough to finally meet at the Rainbow Book Fair in New York. His memoir, August Farewell, details the death of his partner to cancer and was noted by The Advocate magazine as one of the 21 Biographies or Memoirs You Should Read Now, calling his novel Searching for Gilead “an honest examination of questions about God, injustice, love, and death.” It was a pleasure to speak with him recently about his life and journey to author-hood.
Kergan Edwards-Stout: Hi David. Nice to talk to you again.
David G. Hallman: Good to connect with you too, Kergan. The last time was over martinis in New York after the Rainbow Book Fair! I remember getting fortified so I’d be in good shape for the Black Party that night.
KES: Yes, the rest of us were a bit in awe that you were heading out to dance all night after being at the book fair all day!
DGH: Well, I’m not a father of two kids like you and your partner, Russ. That takes an impressive amount of energy. I bow to you in the personal stamina department.
KES: As you mention stamina, you’ve been through quite an emotionally exhausting journey. While you’d written other books prior, you wrote your memoir, August Farewell, after the dramatic death of your partner, Bill, from cancer. When you began writing, was it as a cathartic outlet or were you intending it to be a book?
DGH: I never intended anyone else to see it. Bill was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer in August 2009 and died two weeks later. After it was over, I started panicking that I would forget the details of those excruciating, intimate, heart-wrenching, spiritual, god-awful sixteen days that were, at times, punctured by Bill’s uproarious sense of humor. So I started writing the story of those days and spontaneously began integrating vignettes from our thirty-three years together. I wrote nonstop for six weeks. But I only did it so that I could have that record to go back to and relive our time together in the years to come. Just like how we treasure photo albums.
KES: Why did you decide to publish it? (more…)
Kergan Edwards-Stout and Gregory G. Allen in HIV Plus Magazine
Grateful for the inclusion in HIV Plus Magazine’s May/June issue, especially being mentioned alongside my writer pal, Gregory G. Allen!
Am I a Slut or a Prude?
The other day, a friend who had just read my debut novel said, “Wow, Kergan, I didn’t think you were that sexual!” His reference was to the amount of sex which occurs in the book, which admittedly is a lot, but his assumption about how that translated to my own sex life prompted, on my part, some self-examination. And not with a dildo.
You see, to set this up properly, I am a 47-year-old gay man, with a few pounds of extra fat, and am rarely viewed these days as a sexual being. I long ago entered the Invisible Era, which, for gay men who work out regularly, occurs at age 28. (It is several years earlier for those who do not.) In my daily life in suburban Orange County, CA, those I interact with see me primarily as partner to my not-legally-wed-hubby, Russ, and father to our two boys, Mason and Marcus. As such, our days are filled with school, work, home, and sports, with me serving as glorified chauffer, cook, maid, tutor, nurse, and personal shopper. That I have had, and continue to have, sexual thoughts and experiences never seems to cross most people’s minds–though they rarely leave mine.
Perhaps sexual longing, past a certain age, makes some uncomfortable. Perhaps it brings up images of our parents. Perhaps people assume I can no longer get it up. Perhaps the visual of me tucked with my toes behind my ears, belly bulging even more than normal, isn’t appealing. Or perhaps, more likely, people just don’t care one way or another about my sexual cravings.
But it wasn’t always this way. In my twenties, I was a Professional Gay, living in the gayest of gay cities, West Hollywood, where the prospect of sex was all around me. During the day, I worked at AIDS Project Los Angeles, running a safer sex program, where thousands at Pride witnessed me pulling strangers out from the crowd, strapping a dildo onto them, and rolling a condom down it with my mouth. (Yes, I’m highly skilled.) But, strangely enough, that prowess didn’t directly translate into getting dates. Instead, each night my friends and I would perform our mandatory WeHo welcome wagon duties and circulate through the clubs, our route never varying. My constant fear was that if I didn’t go out, that would be the one and only night Mr. Right would be there, and I’d have missed him. So I went out relentlessly, always hanging self-consciously on the periphery, fearing rejection, and invariably returning home alone.
Still, I did manage to have lots of sex. In fact, if being a slut is determined solely by the number of people with which one has slept, I clearly win the crown, as my number is quite staggering. But sex for me was always in the context of a relationship, or in a test-run of a potential mate. There was always the expectation that the sex would or could lead to something more, which allowed me to separate myself from others. In my mind, what I was doing was quite different than simply hooking up, and somehow “better.” I looked down on those who fucked without introduction, as if the simple addition of a shared meal or movie substantially altered the meaning of the encounter. The irony, of course, is that while this self-serving world view allowed me to remain “pure” and above the common sluts, I may have had more sexual partners than they ever did.
I was both slut and prude, at the same time.
There is a part of me that regrets such prudishness. I would’ve loved to have more fully explored all the sexual pleasures available to me. There was so much I didn’t do, but I wonder now if that prudish hesitation is what kept me alive. So many others from those days, including my partner Shane, weren’t so lucky. But the combination of my own judgmental nature and my stellar HIV education kept me firmly in check, with condom in hand.
Today, in the Grindr Generation, there are so many issues with which men grapple, I’m not sure I could navigate love and sex. Putting all of my physical stats out there? No, thank you. Photos of my cock? Not until MiracleGro expands their product offerings. Figuring out what “type” I am? Well, I could be a bear, given my extra weight–or do my 6 straggly chest hairs and full head of hair immediately disqualify me? And let’s not even get into whether I am a top or a bottom. I’ve always hated having to categorize myself, but the lead character, Gabriel, in my novel expresses my feelings better than I ever could:
Although far from butch, I really like to fuck. And, though not incredibly femme, I also enjoy a hard dick shoved up my ass. That these acts should somehow become confused with personal characteristics was both unfair and misleading. In my not-so-distant past, I have been fucked silly by a rather overweight bald man, who favored lavender and pearls and, the very next day, served my saucisson to a ravenous French marine. Both proved thoroughly enjoyable, but what label did these experiences warrant? (Please don’t say “whore.”)
To say that I am simply “versatile” is also misleading, as it implies that I am capable of performing stupendous circus tricks at will (“And, folks, you should see what he can do with a cantaloupe!”) Basically, “versatile” means you have no morals and will open your ass for anyone. Although I am not always incredibly picky about my choice of partners, I do like to think that I have guidelines, however mutable.
As a younger man, my head was filled with such guidelines, but as I age, the lines between what I view as proper and improper have blurred, more than just a little.
Our eldest son, Mason, recently had the sixth grade “health talk” at school. While the school nurse, understandably, focused on anatomy, conception, and health risks, we took this as an opportunity to speak with him further about all that sex is and can be. We talked about love, and lust, and urges. We talked about knowing when the time is right, and the importance of expressing feelings not only through actions, but through words. And, most importantly, we talked about respect, for both our partners and ourselves.
At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter if you think me a slut or a prude, for it is how I view myself that matters most. The number of sexual partners we have isn’t as important as how respectfully we treat them–and how we feel about our actions later. After all, one can have sex with a thousand people and still be a prude. And, if you’re doing it right, you can have sex with only one, and still be a slut.
Cross-Posted on Huffington Post and Bilerico Project.
Indie Reviewer: “Songs for the New Depression”
I so appreciate the wonderful review of my novel by Indie Reviewer. There are times, even now, when I wonder if what I’ve written is as intended, and it is only through reviews such as this and the lovely notes and emails I’ve received that I can see that it is indeed having the desired effect. Thanks, Indie Reviewer, for your understanding and appreciation. I’m very grateful…
Songs for the New Depression by Kergan Edwards-Stout
“I’m leavin’ my fam’ly
Leavin’ all my friends
My body’s at home
But my heart’s in the wind
Where the clouds are like headlines
On a new front page sky
My tears are salt water
And the moon’s full and high”
(Shiver Me Timber by Tom Waits, 1974)
Kergan Edwards-Stout’s debut novel, Songs for the New Depression, is the poignant and darkly humorous story of Gabriel Travers who is HIV positive and convinced that he’s dying despite his doctor’s proclamations to the contrary. His viral load is undetectable, his T-cell count is up, but according to Gabe one glance in the mirror tells him everything he needs to know. “His ass, once the talk of West Hollywood, now looks suspiciously like a Shar-Pei…” Faced with his own mortality, Gabriel’s first person narrative takes the reader on an emotional journey as he recounts his life experiences and relationships, reflecting on the choices that he’s made along the way and questioning his treatment of the people in his life.
“It seems impossible that my choices have led me here, to this spot, drained of every ounce of life. Despite my long-held belief that one’s journey – or ride, if you will – holds more importance than one’s destination, I am no longer cocksure. For if I, at age 17, had been handed a snapshot of myself as I am right here and now, providing the gift of foresight, isn’t there a chance I might have chosen a different path?
…Perhaps I would have ended up here, regardless of choice. Perhaps it was destiny. Fate. An unlucky draw of the straw. Whichever, it is much too late to ponder, for no amount of wishing can change who I am or what I have done.”
The title of the novel is taken from the Divine Miss M’s 1976 album of the same name. The story spans some two decades, from 1976 to 1995, and unfolds in retrospective but begins and ends in the present with the Prologue and Epilogue. Divided into three parts, each section of the story delineates a specific period in Gabe’s life, and each is thematically linked to a particular song from the album. Part I of the novel (Shiver Me Timber by Tom Waits) takes place in the near present (1995) as Gabe ponders his life and mortality. The reader is then taken back in time to 1986, Gabe’s 20s and a time of love, money and sex (Samedi et Vendredi by Bette Midler and Moogy Klingman) and finally to 1976 during Gabe’s adolescence and the determining events that occurred during this period time in his life (Let Me Just Follow Behind by Moogy Klingman).
Songs for the New Depression is beautifully written with a rich narrative and resonant characterization. Gabriel is written with honesty and depth. While he is self-absorbed and can be insensitive in his treatment of others, at the same time, he is both generous and sympathetic. There is an authenticity to this character that makes him altogether accessible to the reader. I loved Gabriel’s sarcasm and manner of viewing the world and there were many laugh-out-loud moments throughout the story, including his description of his somewhat zany mother, her new wife Pastor Sue and their wedding. Most heartfelt, however, is Gabe’s narrative in respect of his relationship with his partner Jon, and his first love Keith.
The author peels the proverbial onion one layer at a time when it comes to Gabriel as he looks back on his life. From the beginning we are aware of Gabe’s often-difficult relationship with his parents but are unsure as to the reasons. There are also hints early in the story as to a life-altering experience in high school that still affects him as an adult and of course the pivotal importance of Keith in his life. All is slowly revealed as the story progresses and the present-to-past narrative is extremely effective in not only emotionally enveloping, but also deeply investing the reader in Gabriel’s journey.
This story touched me on such a personal level that it was difficult for me to immediately put my thoughts out there via review without feeling exposed. While I finished reading this novel a number of weeks ago, I needed a level of emotional distance from the story before putting my thoughts on paper. In many respects I believe that I was blind-sided by Gabriel. Lulled into a false sense of emotional safety by his sarcasm and acerbic wit behind which he hides. But Gabriel wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily. Even with an extremely engaging character and his humorous descriptions of some of the events in his life, this story remains one of a 36 year-old man facing the sheer horror and trajedy that he’s dying of AIDS. As the story progressed to its fruition and the many mysteries of Gabriel’s life are revealed, including the heartbreaking circumstances surrounding his HIV infection, so did the blurriness of the pages increase.
“Voices call to me. Soft whispers, beckoning, offering tales of the sea. Suddenly I am in the sails of a pirate ship, adjusting my cap, a gull perched at my side. The wind cools my sunburned face.
Below, the men, my brothers, count towering stacks of gold coins while eating gigantic turkey legs. It is odd, though, that the turkey heads and bodies are still attached.
Even odder still is one pirate in a wheelchair, dressed as a mermaid. He looks to me, knowingly.
Though I cannot place his face or the long ringlets of hair, I am certain we once shared a meal or conversation.
The bell clangs as I glance to the stern, my father at the wheel. He winks at me, playfully, before turning the boat toward open sea. As he does, a purr, sad and resigned, plays through my head.
Shiver me timbers, it whispers, and before I can fully grasp what is happening, I find myself sailing away…”
Songs for the New Depression is both heartrending and bittersweet without melodrama, or attempts by the author to manipulate the reader’s heartstrings with cliché. This, coupled with the sincere and textured depiction of Gabriel, who is altogether human, demonstrates respect for the character and his story, but also for the reader. It is a deeply soulful account of a man coming to terms with having AIDS and his eventual death from the disease, of redemption, and ultimately of both human fragility and enduring spirit.
“What I wouldn’t give to once again experience such brazen, all-embracing delight. To hold Jon in my arms, heart racing, and say nothing. Just to feel a flicker of sunshine, a spark, some reminder, of our love. A love that lingers, now only as memory. The weight, the truth of it, I am no longer capable of feeling.
And if all feeling is gone, I ask myself, what, then, remains?
With a jolt, the elevator completes its descent, doors opening. The influx of wind sends the sounds and regrets of Paris coursing through me and, pulling my jacket tighter against my throat, I step into the waiting city to begin my life anew.”
Songs for the New Depression by Kergan Edwards-Stout received the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Award in the LGBTQ category and was also short-listed for the 2011 Independent Literary Award in the same category. The novel is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble, and through Indie Bound in print and ebook formats.
Memories and Memorial Day
On Monday, here in the United States, folks near and wide will be gathering to celebrate Memorial Day, although many may not know what, exactly, it is that they are celebrating. Originally intended to honor the Civil War fallen, the concept of Memorial Day has since expanded, becoming different things to different people. For some, it is now a day to honor all U.S. veterans, fallen in combat. For others, it has morphed into a celebration of family, long weekends, and the return of warmer weather. For me, however, Memorial Day is about honoring not only those who died fighting for our freedom, but also those closer, lost to far different battles, particularly AIDS.
This Monday, as others unpack their picnic or place flowers on a veteran’s grave, I’ll be thinking of Edward, cracking jokes in his room at Cedars Sinai, bullwhip at his side, so pale and thin, with a smile that belied his true condition. I’ll think of David and our cherished time at his cabin, out on his deck in the dappled sunlight, singing along with Bette Midler’s Bette of Roses CD amidst the fresh scent of pine. I’ll remember Jon, a guy I’d dated, who simply disappeared one day. I later learned that he too had died of AIDS, but kept it hidden beneath a cloak of silence, from all of those who loved him. I’ll acknowledge, too, cynical Howard, who wasn’t always easy to like, but whose presence is still missed. I’ll think of these, and many more, but most of all, I’ll think of Shane.
Prior to his entrance into my life, I was a vastly different person than I am today. Back in the early 1990’s, I was living a stereotypical, self-obsessed L.A.-lifestyle, where I pursued my entertainment dreams by day and the men of my dreams at night. All of life was about pleasure and its pursuit, as if the obtainment of such esoteric things could actually fill the ache I felt inside.
Shane Sawick was an entirely different type of man from others I’d dated, which both intrigued and unsettled me. While he was tall, handsome, and charming, he also loved denim overalls, which didn’t remotely fit into my West Hollywood aesthetic. Witty and urbane, Shane was a New Yorker through and through, and his fiery, sophisticated sarcasm was an odd counterpart to my laidback, Southern California calm. He was HIV-positive as well, which was also at odds with my own serostatus.
In those days, we didn’t have the HIV medications we now have. Being HIV-positive was still considered a death sentence, and I was warned by well-meaning friends against getting involved with Shane. They were concerned about not only my becoming infected, as “you never know” how transmission occurs, but they were also concerned about the potential toll it could take on me; a self-absorbed actor-type, suddenly thrust into the role of caregiver to the dying. Neither they, nor I, had any idea that being a caregiver would ultimately be the best thing that ever happened to me.
With Shane, not only did I find myself plunged into my first real adult relationship, but I discovered that someone could value me for my authentic self, not the façade I’d built up for years. Shane taught me what it meant to be a true partner, how to communicate, and, indeed, how to love selflessly. He introduced me to foreign lands, to artists of all varied stripe, and to countless experiences far removed from my previously-sheltered life.
And when, after only two years together, Shane began his decline, I learned more about myself than ever before. I learned that I could face my fears, experience my darker emotions, and walk through the tumult to the other side. What had seemed insurmountable became conquerable, giving me a better appreciation of my own strengths and abilities. In loving and caring for Shane, I learned how to love others, and myself as well.
Today, I find myself worlds removed from that time of illness and fear, where death seemed to be around every corner. My partner Russ and I have two amazing boys, and our lives now are focused almost purely on living.
I’m often asked how Russ handles the ghost of Shane, given how much I refer to him. But Russ understands fully that, without Shane and his influence, I wouldn’t have become the partner, father, or writer I am, were it not for that transformational experience of loving him.
And so, this Memorial Day, I’ll pause and honor the many of my own troops who have fallen in battle. They may not have had the uniform or the recognition of our armed forces, but the wars they fought were just as valiant, and I, for one, am richer for their many, varied gifts and sacrifices. In honor of this Memorial Day, I salute Shane, David, Jon, Edward, and even Howard, among countless others, lost far too young.
The debut novel of Kergan Edwards-Stout, Songs for the New Depression, was loosely inspired by his partner, Shane Sawick. It recently won the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Award in the LGBTQ category and was shortlisted in the same category for the Independent Literary Awards.
Cross-posted on Bilerico Project, Huffington Post, and LGBTQ Nation.
AIDS. Remember Me?
On the morning of my thirtieth birthday, I checked my then-partner, Shane Sawick, into the hospital. He would not come out. Shane died just two weeks later, suffering from Progressive Multifocal Leukoencephalopathy (PML); one disease, among many, battled in his long war against AIDS. Once in the hospital, the illness quickly progressed, and in just a matter of days, he could no longer speak, blink, nor respond in any way. Through it all, though, his mind still raced, and processed, and thought.
Long before that ill-fated sojourn, I remember lying next to Shane one night, reading, when he suddenly grasped my hand. “Will you remember me?” he asked. I smiled and nodded benignly, “Of course,” as if this were a given. He more firmly squeezed, focusing his eyes on mine. “No,” he insisted, “I want to be remembered.”
At the time, the notion that knowledge of him would remain when so many others before had died, largely forgotten, seemed almost lofty. And yet I instinctively knew that I needed to find some way to pay tribute, for I too had felt that same desire: to have walked the earth and for it to have mattered.
Since then, my life has changed dramatically. My partner of nine years and I are the proud fathers of two amazing boys. My days have gone from being filled with parsing out pills and leading safer sex workshops, to ones focused almost exclusively on the kids’ schooling and sports, where the most traumatic of incidents can often be cured with a simple kiss. And yet I am also fully aware that my ability to be both parent and partner is directly formed through my experience as caregiver for Shane and my friends. Were it not for them and that tumultuous time, I would not be the writer, father, lover, or person I am, and I owe a debt of gratitude to those lost during those tragic years.
More often than not, that period is often spoken of as if it were a purely historical event, a footnote in our collective history. There seems to be an unwillingness to delve more fully into that experience, to examine it, and discover its inherent value. Indeed, something about the reticence of the LGBT community to fully explore the AIDS epidemic reminds me of Shane’s catatonic state. Just like him, there are emotions and thoughts coursing throughout, just under the surface, even if unacknowledged.
Kergan Edwards-Stout and Gregory G. Allen in The Advocate!
A special thank you to the staff of The Advocate Magazine for featuring Gregory G. Allen (author of Well With My Soul) and I in an interview on our commonalities and differences. It was a lot of fun to do, and I appreciate the opportunity!
Read the full interview here!
30 Years of AIDS
As we note the 30-year mark in the ongoing battle against HIV/AIDS, it seemed an appropriate time to publish this short story. I dedicate this to all of my friends, gone, but not forgotten, as well as those still fighting.
HOLES
A short story by Kergan Edwards-Stout
Jeffrey gazed up at the ceiling and, again, he began to count. It didn’t matter that he’d counted them before, or that he knew the number of holes by heart — 3,016. It also didn’t matter that he always counted the same square, never changing. The number of holes was constant; as constant as his mother sitting numbly in her chair, stumbling through her crossword. What mattered most to Jeffrey was that he knew it. And since he knew it, it could never be taken away.
He sighed, though no one heard it, and thought of Kevin. Blond, handsome, studly Kevin. How had everything gone so wrong? Jeffrey’s mind raced over the details of their relationship, sifting through the rubble for clues. The beginning, middle, end.
No one thing stood out as wrong or imminent or foreboding. When Jeffrey’s suspicions were confirmed and it did end, there were the expected rows, and tearful apologies, and scenes in restaurants. But no one could have foreseen the agonizing pain that would come to Jeffrey. He’d gotten through it, eventually, and now Jeffrey was alone. Sadly alone.
He filled his time well, though. Going through his Rolodex and renewing friendships. Making dinner plans, and festive theatre outings, and endless gym workouts–anything to stay away from that apartment. The reminders. The memories. (more…)
In Memorium: Shane Michael Sawick
Without a doubt, the most pivotal moment of my life was meeting and the time I spent loving Shane Michael Sawick. Quite simply, without having been lover, partner, and caregiver to him, I wouldn’t be the human, writer, partner, and father that I am today. I am forever grateful to all that he opened me up to, both in terms of new lessons learned, and to the more fully authentic emotional connection I have with myself and with others.
Today, Memorial Day, as we celebrate those we have loved and lost, I hold up Shane.
To help honor and keep his memory alive, today I launched a special Tribute section to him on this site. It includes a biography, photo gallery, Shane in his own words, as well as essays I wrote around the time of his illness and death which were inspired by him (Different?, Who Am I Now?, and A Year of Goodbyes). Most importantly, there is also a page designated for you — whether you knew Shane or not — where you can share your memories, stories, or thoughts.
I envision this to be a living memorial, which we can all add to, to more fully complete a picture of Shane, for all who visit here.
As fully as I knew him, I was only with him for two years. Many of you knew him far longer. I’m looking for your stories, your memories, your photos…
Let’s add to this, celebrate, and share with others, the extraordinary life of Shane Michael Sawick. Taken from us all, far too soon…
Your Voices