One day at Orphan Andy's in 1992, I turned away from a table of men who'd just placed drink orders. I rarely got sick, except for that ear infection that put me in the emergency room, or those annoying night sweats, and that weird spot on my leg that I continually obsessed over. I took vitamins and had a gym membership. I'd convinced myself that I was robustly healthy. I got tested back in LA, but was too afraid to get the results. Sprinkled throughout were the walking sick: gaunt, frail, sallow-skinned men, unable to keep pace with the hurried throngs, sometimes escorted by a partner or caregiver, but mostly alone. When the diner was slow, I'd watch the endless parade of strange and beautiful passersby. As men were dying, I'd come to feel invisible, like an out-of-focus extra on the set of someone else's nightmare. It was okay if it didn't lead to a hookup, there had at least been a connection, a mutual sense of "I see you," a measure of validation. I hadn't lost anyone close, but I grieved for how life had been-the smiles I used to get from men on the street, the lingering eye contact, the exchange of glances to the crotch. I refuse to watch another person wither." "After you die, old man, I'm not going to make any new friends. ![]() ![]() ![]() "I refuse to go another goddamned funeral," said Gary, a 76-year-old leather man.
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