Going Deep: A Gay Guide to Reality

This post is sexually explicit and very AIDS-y. Two states older gay men know well. Those adhering to the standard narrative I wrote about in my last post will find this content disquieting. 

So, with that warning, here goes.   

*

A few months ago, on my knees, among hundreds of bodies writhing around me, a cock in my mouth exploded with a rare load in the G-dosed molly-spiked energy of a dance party dark room. I looked up and smiled with gratitude at the guy, who nodded down at me with a satisfied grin. 

No thoughts of death or disease, just the pure ecstasy of pleasure. 

No awkward whispers of HIV status. No recent funerals. No belongings to sift through. No forever friends with months, weeks, or days to live. No wondering who will die next. No wondering if it will be me. 

Just raw pleasure thanks to drugs that now shield us from transmission–from drama. 

And as I make my way back to the main party, it hits me that this is it. This is as good as the celebration of the end of the plague is going to get: a gaping void of drama. 

It makes me wonder if my nightmare memories are true. 

Did a male nurse sit across from me in the San Diego County Health Office in 1986 and tell me that I had less than eighteen months to live and I most likely would not see the age of 23? 

That same year, did a scumbag named Lyndon H. LaRouche get Proposition 64 on the California ballot that would have placed HIV+ people into concentration camps? 

Did my best friend Alvin die the next year? Did I give my first eulogy at 22?

Was I getting bloodwork done every three months, for free, at the Edelman clinic in West Hollywood, where the new library is now? In 1991, did tears steam down my face when I looked at my chart and saw that my T-cells were about to fall below 200, the point at which all the opportunistic infections that pave the way to death begin? 

Was I the only one there to take care of my boyfriend Tony until he died because his parents couldn’t cope with finding out their son was gay and had AIDS all at the same time? 

Did I give my second eulogy at 26 on the baseball diamond of Poinsettia Park without their permission after Tony died? 

Did I hook up with a guy, use a condom to fuck him, and then a few days later see him on the street in front of the parking garage where I work when he asked casually, “You’re negative, right?” 

Did that happen again with another guy, in bed, right AFTER sex? 

Was there a constant debate about who should disclose first? The negative guys thought it should be the positive guys. After all, they had the deadly concealed weapon. The positive guys thought it should be the negative guys. Hey, you guys have the most to lose. I was always honest, always used a condom, and thought the person who cared the most should start the boner-killing conversation. 

Did I start having sex exclusively with HIV+ guys because of all that drama and the weight of possibly infecting someone else? 

Yes! The drumbeat of AIDS-driven fear was ever present. 

Like, when two guys with British accents took me into one of the cock sucking booths at the Zone sex club in Los Angeles. The sexual heat between the three of us was fierce, and I loved that they took turns using my ass. I’m still perplexed by the look on one of their young faces after he came. It turns out he wasn’t wearing a condom. His load was inside me. Was that an expression of guilt, fear, shame, or something else? It certainly wasn’t ecstasy. 

For those of us who were positive, the drumbeat pounded like a metronome: every three months, bloodwork, results, doctor visit, repeat – bloodwork, results, doctor visit, repeat.  

The guys who were HIV-negative got tested when they thought they should. Having a negative result was a reprieve, tempting these men to stretch the time to the next test when the ax might fall. 

Finding ways to get off with another guy without causing more death led to lots of jerking each other off, in-person voyeurism, and dry humping. 

Eros and death were constant companions. 

Finally, a rich and famous straight guy named Magic Johnson was infected and was willing to talk about it. This normalized the disease enough for non-gays to start understanding. “Oh, you have what Magic has,” is what a friend of mine reported his brother saying. 

Magic is how my husband, who’s almost 17 years younger than me and was born the same year AIDS was identified, learned about HIV. Hiding in his parents' room, he watched a kid's show hosting Magic Johnson. 

Going to funerals became a regular occurrence for everyone affected by the plague, HIV+, HIV-, gay, lesbian, and straight. No one was spared the losses. 

“What do you think when you’re having sex with a guy you haven’t talked about HIV with?” I asked my brutally honest HIV- best friend. 

“Are you Satan?” was his honest answer. 

So, what do you think about me? I thought. 

In places like Los Angeles, positive guys started having their own sex parties. I visited the Downey Boys party, where I met my first “bug chaser.” He was a negative guy who was so stressed about becoming HIV+ that he wanted to force his seroconversion. 

Even on the International Mister Leather convention floor, arguably one of the most sex-positive spaces in the United States, bareback porn exhibitors were banned. The wails of drama surrounding that decision are legendary. 

First, there was no treatment for the disease, and then AZT, Saquinavir, Viramune, Combivir, Crixivan, and others came out. Some needed to be taken every four hours, some with food, some without food. AZT made my mouth taste like metal all the time, and Crixivan made my urine thick and burn. 

Finally, the “drug cocktail” came out. One pill, twice a day, that didn’t make my dick burn. 

And very quietly, everyone stopped dying. 

“I wonder what everyone’s going to do when we finally have a cure?” I said to my sober HIV+ friend Randy over brunch with six other gays. “Can you imagine the party we’re going to have?” 

He leaned across the table and said in a whisper, “It’s already here.” 

He was right, but it was still easy to get infected. 

And then, PrEP (pre-exposure prophylactic) came out. An HIV- guy could take one pill a day that was more effective than a condom at stopping the transmission of HIV. 

Then we found out that guys with an undetectable viral load do not shed the virus. It was dubbed U=U (undetectable equals untransmittable). Which was a bit irritating to me because I’d been undetectable for at least five years by the time that information was made available. 

I had been less of a poria than I thought. 

The final drama tsunami came from Michael Weinstein, who ran and still runs the AIDS Healthcare Foundation (AHF). He called PrEP a party drug. He said it was dangerous and a lot of other nonsense. The man just hates sex, finds delight in curtailing it, and worries PrEP will both encourage sex and lower his client base.  

Some gays had a religious-like attachment to condoms. It was a price we paid to show our love for our brothers, they explained. To them, having condomless sex was an insult to our community. It was impossible for them to grasp a new reality where pre-AIDS era gay sex could once again be enjoyed. 

But the new reality played itself out with real-life data. The pages and pages of obituaries in Frontiers Magazine (essentially the gay press in Los Angeles) were gone from the bi-weekly publication. And once the obituaries where gone, so were the condoms. 

We let Michael Weinstein and the condom worshipers talk themselves out, and about a year later, their tsunami of drama fell to a whimper. 

And then…

Silence. 

Like having my windows open as my next-door neighbor's leaf blower groans away, I became so accustomed to the loud drama that when it was turned off, the silence was deafening. 

Like AIDS deaths and all the drama that came with it, never happened. 

To add a sexual cherry on top of this good news, we now have a drug protocol based on how gay men actually fuck, which is a lot, for preventing most of the other sexually transmitted infections PrEP doesn’t prevent. DoxyPEP uses an antibiotic that’s been around for ages to minimize the transmission of common STIs. 

So now, the only reason for a person to hate sex for pleasure is because a person finds pleasure in hating sex. 

See the Standard Narrative. 

So now what? 

First, we need to repair the damage done to our sex spaces. Let’s look at those laws still on the books requiring owners of sex establishments to go around with flashlights checking guys fucking in their venue's dark rooms, steam rooms, and rooms that aren’t allowed to lock, making sure cocks going into buttholes have condoms on them. 

While we are at it, let’s make these sex spaces communal gathering spaces for gay men. Let’s follow the European model of bathhouses where a gay can get off, then talk about it over drinks and dinner in the same venue. Let’s allow them to offer spa-like services like massage. 

These arcane rules in our liberal cities, such as Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York, need to be changed. In my post, Feeling Sexy and Socially Homeless, I argue that these spaces not only give us orgasms, but they also give us a sense of purpose and meaning, two perceptions of reality that actually lengthen our lifespans.  

But we can’t do that until we believe we deserve a place to be who and what we are. 

What will it take for us to believe that? 

What will it take to break the silence? 

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

“Hey! It’s you guys. I didn’t know you’d be on the ship!”  

It takes me two full seconds to recognize the tall, lean Italian with dark eyes and grey-speckled beard stubble before a surge of joy-filled love overtakes me. I embrace him with one arm and squeeze my husband’s wrist in the elevator bay crowded with men in costumes. 

“Dennis! Look who it is!” 

We are taking a bathroom break during the first themed dance party of the seven-day March 2024 Atlantis Events (99% gay) cruise on the Valiant Lady, a Virgin Voyages ship that left from and will return to San Juan, Puerto Rico. 

The theme of tonight’s dance party is “Tropical Heat,” we are wearing black lines of “warrior paint” on our faces, red headbands, red tights, and the one pair of black Adidas sneakers that will need to support every activity this week. 

“Oh, my gawd! It is so good to see you!” says Dennis, squeezing through the crowd to give him a full-bodied hug. 

We met this man and his beautiful husband precisely three years ago on this same ship in the Mediterranean, out of Barcelona. Our connection on the dance floor translated into two memorable visits to our private stateroom with the four of us. It was a connection unlike most of the others because of its effortless blend of intense erotic pleasure and sensitive, emotional openness. I was genuinely sad when we said goodbye in the galley food area on the last day of that cruise in 2021. 

This is what keeps us coming back. Freedom. Joy. Sex. But mostly, love. 

These cruises provide what is no longer offered on land (in the United States): a 24/7 space dedicated to gay men’s comfort and delight for all ages and body types. 

This is my seventh cruise with Atlantis, and I’ve learned that the cornucopia of activities available makes it possible for every kind of gay, no matter his age, body type, activity interests, or cultural inclinations, to have a blissful journey. 

These cruises have something for every kind of gay. 

* Circut Party Gays 

* His body and wardrobe are maximized for dancefloor impact. 

* Wearing either a minimal thong & face full of glitter, or a full-blown themed group costume with yards of fabric blowing in the sea air, posing for a group photo. 

* Often embodied in one of the most objectively beautiful physiques on the ship. 

* Pupils dilated, he sometimes never sees the light of day. 

* He emerges after dark, is at least an hour late to the party, and routinely closes down the after-party at 6:30 AM.

* Standard Narrative Gays

* Wearing the latest short-sleeved button-down shirt from L.L. Bean. 

* They are having the cruise your mom might have.

* They have booked as many excursions off the ship as possible.

* Discussion about open relationships never happened before the cruise, and they’d prefer that other gays stop bringing it up.

* Alcohol is the only acceptable drug, and there is always a drink in their hand.

* They have a persistent neurotic expression, asking, “What if pics of this get out?” 

* Old Gays 

* Wearing whatever the fuck they want, which is either complete comfort or full fabulous. 

* These men are genuinely happy to be alive and willing to engage with anyone who makes eye contact. 

* They make eye contact.  

* Many are up early, enjoying the sunrise.

* The oldest (I chatted up a 92-year-old) get decked out in the party themes of red, white, pink, etc. Find a seat overlooking the dance floor and remain transfixed for hours, chatting with the oldster beside him as the Virgin staff keep them hydrated. 

* Sluty Gays

* Wearing their best guy-getting gear. Often in St33le shorts. 

* Looking for every opportunity to suck it, stick it in, or receive. 

* Down Low (DL) sluts project all their assets: butts out on the dance floor, styled super sexy on the pool deck, etc., but need to be out of sight of their friends to “go downstairs.” 

* Open sluts, wearing something similar, will make offers and respond to sexual proposals casually, without shame. 

* Guys in Slut Mode stalk the dick deck (a part of the ship designated for anonymous sex), know the good bathrooms for hook-ups, and are always ready to “go downstairs.”

* Sober Gays

* They show up to the party ready to engage (dance, hookup, whatever) without needing their drugs to kick in.  

* They are at the dance parties early and seldom see the sun come up. 

* Their erections are much more predictable than dosing Circut Gays and drunk Standard Narrative Gays. 

* Their conversations are much easier to follow. 

* They have Bill W. meetings to assist with cruise overwhelm. 

* Twink Gays

* Rare, but there.

* Cruises take money and planning. Both are rare attributes of youth. 

* Often part of a red state May/December coupling.

* Free agent twinks also appear to be seasoned circuit party raver types. 

* They are thoroughly informed on party protocol but still new to the planet, so what you see is usually what you get. 

* Foodie & Spa Gays

* The food on this ship, in particular, is varied and impressive. On other ships, it has tasted like a bland mall food court buffet. Virgin Atlantic attracts men with sensitive pallets and inspires food simpletons like me to humbly bow in the direction of the chef. 

* The spa is an oasis within the oasis of the ship. An oasis from complementing clever outfits, commenting on the music, or sharing your plans for the evening.

* Show Girl Gays

* These cruises deliver what every audience member anywhere has ever wanted. They make you laugh, they make you cry, and they make your dick hard.

* These gays plan their day around the show. Dinner, a party, or a hookup must accommodate getting the best seat at the show.  

I’ve done Atlantis cruises as a Slutty/Sober/Circuitish/Show-Girl-Gay. 

On this cruise, I was mainly a Circuit/Sluty/Foddie/Spa-Gay who took advantage of the excellent room service options available 24/7. We only got off the ship once, for 45 minutes, to get shaving cream. 

There is so much we didn’t see. 

We planned our week's agenda to accommodate three nights of intense partying. All three party nights were followed by a day at the spa, dinner, and sometimes a show. 

That was my cruise. 

Here’s my advice: Have the cruise YOU want. No one is preventing you from doing that except for YOU. You are not required to attend anything, but everything is there if you want to taste the buffet. 

The only thing you can NOT do, is do it ALL. 

Make conscious choices, and you’ll be one of the men who crowd into the elevator on your way to your next pleasure with a smile on your face, sharing a silent nod of satisfaction with guys looking back at you who’d never look up from their phones on land. 

The ship is a magical, ephemeral space that lasts only a week (or a bit longer), where being a gay man is the norm, and straight people are there to serve you. Shared conversations occur between all types at dinner, the pool, after the show, and during parties. 

Are there some men shut down by fear & trauma and unable to communicate? Yes. Have compassion for their internal turmoil (regardless of how pretty or plain they are) and turn to one of the thousands of other men ready to embrace you. 

It’s great practice for “real life.” 

I’m glad I chose to dance with the men in front of me, ready to embrace me, rather than chase the ones I thought had the most social status because of their beauty. I made a conscious effort to refrain from trying to win the party. I’ve made the opposite choice enough times to know that kind of grasping causes me pain. 

Ironically, not trying to win the party, brought some underwear model specimens toward me for a few euphoric genuflections to Eros, giving thanks for our shared virility and their youthful innocence. It also brought me into communion with a pair of men, one 50 and the other 70. A couple I spent hours with celebrating the company of Dyonisis, allowing the wisdom of many years on the planet to inform the sweetness of the moment born from the light and shadow of life. Who, in addition to enjoying the passions of love and sex, were able to hold space for insanity and the ritual madness of our gay past the youth will hopefully never really know. 

So much is possible. 

Or maybe you’re more of a champagne brunch, drag queen, bingo kinda gay.  

Please sit down your coffee, hold my hand, and tell me all about it as the pink of the sunrise reflects off my tights, announcing the close of last night’s white party and the beginning of another day full of possibility. 

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

Easy to say. 

“You’re perfect.” 

“I see you as perfect.” 

All you need to do is let go of all the thoughts, beliefs, emotions, mental constructs, advertisements, comparisons on social media, and the tap tap tap of that nagging voice that says, “Don’t fall behind. You can still catch up. You can still win!” 

Just follow your breath. 

Well, notice it first. 

Can you? 

That thing you do every moment of every day. That very first thing you did when you slipped wet and cold into existence. That thing that will be the very last thing you do before it all ends or you move on to another plane of existence. That thing my father’s body tried to do even after he’d died. 

“Be here now.” Thanks, Ram Das. But how do we do that without trying? How do we try without judgment? 

How do we believe it’s okay to see ourselves as whole and happy? Unbroken. 

If I’m not seeking “healing” what is there left to do? 

Without trauma, addiction, and neurotic narcissism, what do I do with my day? 

Who will understand what I’m talking about? 

Unbroken. Whole. Complete. 

The red pill or the blue pill? Which one is the true fantasy? 

The earth, the moon, the stars. The sun that will be eclipsed by the moon today over North America. The galaxies, and clusters, and all the missing matter our current comprehension of math can’t explain. 

Without a creation myth, how do I cope with consciousness? To know I am, but little else? 

It’s not reason or math or science or myth that will bring peace. 

It’s faith. It’s jumping into the unknown, the unreasonable idea that I’m good and complete no matter what the other bags of muscle and bone and emotions helplessly tell me and sell me. Forgive their ignorance and my complicity. 

It’s an inside job. 

One bag of bones at a time. 

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

Just feelings. That’s what this week is about. 

Preparing for an ayahuasca plant ceremony is an opening of the raw self. 

It’s day 6 of taking away most of the things that help me avoid feelings. Coffee, weed, alcohol, refined sugar, red meat, lots of other things… and, wait for it, ejaculation! Yup. 

Just sit there and take it bitch! 

Worried about your substack, your husband’s struggles, your relevance in gay men’s culture, your mom’s reality without your dad, your other mom’s torments, your sister’s well-being, your health, turning 59, your motorcycle’s dead battery, that pain in your lower back? 

Just frackin feel it! 

Being present is no longer masked by distractions; it’s full presence, moment to moment to moment. I’ve even taken the suggestion of staying off social media, well, except Grindr. Is that a social app? Sure. Look at all those bodies and be a tease, “Not today, sorry.” 

What’s left is, well, everything. ALL the feelings. This is what it is to be human, buddy. 

Is this what it felt like to be a hunter-gatherer? Before tech and know-how brought us all the fat, meat, and sugar we wanted? Tears of joy and grief while digging in the garden? Well, I guess they didn’t have gardens. They were on the move. 

But they were tied to the earth. 

And being tied to the earth is why I’m going back. That’s why I’m doing my third plant ceremony. After experiencing a mushroom ceremony, I learned about an ayahuasca ceremony in my new neighborhood, on the same communal soil where I bought a condo two years ago, the same neighborhood where I have always hung out with leathermen. 

Pacha mama. Mother earth. During the last ceremony, I met You for the first time. 

The morning after, in the cool, bright morning Silver Lake air, I touched the bark of a tree growing near a 1920s building. It spoke to me. Much clearer than any wonky telepathic crap Counclor Diana Troy ever used on Star Trek The Next Generation, I was, and still am, connected to everything the tree is connected to. Words fail. But let me try. The expanse of an all-knowingness, a knowingness that is experiential, not intellectual. The tree, the earth, the water in the sky and the seas, each heartbeat in Silver Lake and all those around the world, each being that moves, and all those that grow, and all the essence of earth and sun and stars that have brought us into being. I touched it. It touched me back, and there was no longer a separation between any of us. 

Oneness with everything. 

A sustained joy bursting from inside me and holding me safe all at the same time. 

I guess that’s worth skipping coffee and ejaculation for a week or two. 

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

Moments after the door to my condo closed behind us, the stranger I’d cruised on the subway locked his mouth on mine. I eagerly accepted. The tension of 30+ minutes of eyeing each other in the train car, up the escalators, down Sunset Blvd., to this moment, piqued our primal need to engage. 

He pulled at the bottom of his shirt.  

I leaned away from kissing his scruffy face and said, “Hold on, can I get that for you?” and I slowly pulled his shirt up, revealing his bare skin, happy trail, belly button, chest, nipples, and finally, his masculine shoulders. The inside-out collar of thin cotton material moved up his throat while the bulk of the shirt acted as a temporary blindfold. As the shirt released from his head, I looked into his eager eyes – the t-shirt hanging relaxed in my hand. 

“Your turn,” I said. “Take your time.” 

Rather than ignoring all this erotic energy and racing towards orgasm with the intensity of an Olympic sprinter, I’ve learned to lean into erotic tension and savor its rare pleasures. 

This is a departure from the avid Sport Fucker practice I once thought was the height of sexual pleasure and liberation. 

Sport Fucking is about having sex for its own sake. Keeping a score sheet (even if it’s just in one’s head) of the numbers, variety, and status of sex partners is what it’s all about. Commitment and emotional depth are not part of the practice. An ass up, no talking, jackhammer fuck n’ go is its hallmark protocol. 

It allows us to protest against the heteronormative standard narrative: All sex outside of a monogamous relationship is bad. 

It also satisfies our need to seed, and be seeded by, as many individuals as possible. Sperm competition, as outlined in the book Sex At Dawn by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá, provides evidence that our genes are programmed to both give and receive as much sperm as possible. The one who gives or receives the most wins the genetic prize. 

Sport Fucking is still in my sexual repertoire, but it is only one musical genre with which to play the music. Sometimes, I want a nasty two-minute country tune by Dixon Dallas: “No strings attached, I’ll arch my back and let you do what you want.” At other times, I want an hour-long Deep House Anjunadeep Edition 434 with Marsh DJ session: “Reach inside me. Gonna take my love in,” that transports us on a multilayered sensory/emotional/spiritual journey. 

Each encounter is usually a variation that mixes a bit from each style, depending on my partner’s proclivities and how our energies mix.

If I’d taken this guy to a stairwell to seal the deal, a long, drawn-out connection wouldn’t have been practical. But we were in my place, and I had more than two minutes. 

Until the moment his shirt came off, and I felt the heat radiating from his torso, my attraction to this guy was almost entirely visual. It was tied to what he was wearing, especially his grey sweatpants and the shape of the underwear seams framing his butt cheeks as he shifted his weight, side to side, only one escalator step ahead of me on the long ride up and out of the deep Sunset-Vermont subway station, my heart pounding all the way. 

I was returning home from my workout, where I’d seen lots of Hollywood hotties dressed in their best gym gear hugging all the right places oh so coyly, never to be touched. (Well, not never, but that’s another post.)

This was an opportunity to actually touch, smell, and taste the tantalizing essence that is usually off-limits. 

Why throw all that on the floor? 

Both shirtless, we moved to the playroom.

It had become clear to me during our makeout session, while my hands massaged the raised underwear seams through his sweats, that he preferred to let me take charge. 

I didn’t let that stop me from dropping to my knees to explore the cause of a raging boner still inside my jeans. 

As an aside, for a long time, I lived with a made-up rule that tops don’t kneel for their partners – that maintaining dominance requires insertive, taking energy only. I was wrong about that, especially the kneeling part. Down on my knees, there is a lot of pleasure to give by actively taking what he generously allowed. 

Undressing a man slowly, like the beautifully wrapped gift that he is, moves that spark of erotic energy up and into every power zone of your body. Without an immediate release (a quick orgasm), the energy expands its way from that space between your balls and your butthole, through your gut, your heart, your throat, your mind, and out into the Universe. The vibrational energies of your whole self, the energies that the Great Yoga Sages called the seven chakras, become available mojo for your eventual climax. 

Dipping my fingers between the cotton waistband of his sweatpants and the formfitting elastic of his briefs, nuzzling the swollen mound straining the fabric beneath his sweatpants, looking up to see how this is being received via his eyes, expressing gratitude in mine, inching the sweats down to reveal his previously hidden tight undies, feeling the heat of his contained junk that had been walking down the street with me, now pressing on my nose and cheeks, smelling the epicenter of his pheromone production, allowing the sweatpants to gather at his feet, fanning anticipation by leaving his underwear on, overtly looking him up and down, from his bright brown eyes to his pants that are now a heap around his ankles. 

Pro Tip: To remove his pants with just two sweeping motions, I find the leg opening behind one heel, allow him to shift his weight to the other foot, and pull on the seam of the leg opening. Most pants will easily slide off one leg at a time. This avoids the struggle of pulling the pants at the waist and having them turn inside out, causing awkward logistics that break the sultry trance. 

“Your turn,” I said.  

Whatever we do next will be charged with intimacy and understanding, which clears a path to mind-bending release.

While undressing each other, we transmit and receive information about what turns the other guy on, what doesn’t, and what’s meh. We just need to look, listen, and feel for it. 

It also builds erotic tension. 

Cum denial, as it’s called in parts of the fetish community, or semen retention, as it’s called in various eastern spiritual communities, leads to an altered state of consciousness. Senses are heightened, and the mind focuses. Done in a community of men, it fosters heart-centered connections and a willingness to be vulnerable.

I first experienced this state with Tantra 4 Gay Men during a weeklong retreat near Joshua Tree, California, where I went nearly two weeks without ejaculation. 

The point is that building erotic heat without release creates a heightened mental state. 

Invest in that state, and you’ll have an insanely intense orgasm—a frighteningly powerful full-body release.

It’s a rollercoaster ride that’s worth the wait in line. 

The undressing ritual gives you a tiny glimpse into that euphoria, that connection to Everything, to the Divine. 

You just need to be emotionally brave enough to speak your truth. Communicate what you want. Probably non-verbally. Say and accept “no” as helpful information so that everyone can lean into their erotic and emotional desires and needs, sometimes called fantasies. 

The jackhammering may still happen, but if it does, it becomes a well-timed crescendo rather than the entire piece of music. It’s a dynamic highpoint, igniting the root charka, blasting energy up through the now energized spiritual centers, including the crown chakra where it’s possible to touch Divine wisdom, imbuing your cum shot with a melding of primal and sacred certainty. 

We know joy. 

We know peace. 

Strangers we meet on the train leave happy. 

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

My last post, Love, Contempt, and Leather Contests, ended up being a lackluster whimper that confused a few people. Thank you guys for the feedback. “Where’s the contempt?” they asked. And they were right to ask. 

In haste to meet my publishing deadline (on the 1st and 3rd Thursdays), I rushed a piece that was not ready for release. 

I also let an effort to be magnanimous prevent me from being brave. I am afraid to hurt the feelings of people I have grown to care about, even love. 

But sometimes, we need to tell our loved ones what’s keeping us from taking their calls. 

So here’s a remix with a heaping helping of contempt regarding certain aspects of leather contest culture. 

As I said before, I got interested in leather contests, thinking it would lead to instructions for handling a sexy boy kneeling at my feet. 

My leather contest contempt grew out of the impatience I felt waiting for the real world of leather to reveal itself. The one we’re all talking about during leather contests. It’s the world outlined in books like The Leatherman’s Handbook by Larry Townsend, Ties That Bind by Guy Baldwin, and Mr. Benson by John Preston. Where was the heat and eros of Tom of Finland? Why wasn’t I seeing guys like that kneeling boy who got away? Where was the 19-year-old marine at a bus station craving a bondage fuck scene mentioned in Townsend’s book? I kept hearing stories about Old Guard, Master/slave, Dom/sub, and dungeons filled with hot men negotiating power exchange scenes. Where were those men? 

The leather contests appeared to be crucibles where men were tested to see if they had what it took to represent the real leather world. So, I signed up. 

There were (and are) few ways for contemporary men to test themselves as a rite of passage into manhood, so maybe I was also trying to scratch that itch. Put me in, coach! I’m ready to play!

I assumed that the real world of leather men would become available to me if I proved myself on stage. 

After I won the Mr. Los Angeles Leather (LAL) 2007 competition, and at the prodding of the LAL producer, I went to Cleveland Leather Awareness Weekend (CLAW) to pursue my goal of winning International Mister Leather (IML). 

On the CLAW workshop schedule, I found an offering from a group called the Kennel Club. They claimed to know everything it takes to win a leather contest, so I attended the offering along with 30 to 40 other guys headed to IML to compete. 

The large conference room was set up in a traditional authoritarian configuration. A table in front of the room, behind which sat several men, facing the large group of attendees, all wearing leather vests bearing patches of the clubs they represented. A few empty chairs facing the crowd sat to the left of the presenter’s table. 

One of the men behind the table asked if anyone wanted to do a practice interview. 

Most competitions give the interview score double the points of any other contest aspect. If the interview sucks, it’s nearly impossible to recover. It’s typically done in private, not in front of spectators. 

During the pause after his question, as each man decided if he wanted to put himself on the spot in front of the same guys he’d be competing against at the biggest leather contest on the planet, I raised my hand. Why not? If you’re gonna make a mistake, make it here. 

I wanted to learn, and these guys had credited themselves with knowing all the answers. 

Who knows what was really said and done nearly seventeen years ago, but this is how I remember it going down. And it did go down, as in, south, as in, badly. Much of it is covered in my short story, A View From The Podium. 

I stood in front of the mock judging panel because I knew from experience that I should not sit during an interview. I waited for the exercise to begin, vaguely wondering why they didn’t cover the whole standing versus sitting protocol thing. 

I looked at my mock interview judges with curiosity.

They were definitely enjoying the session, but the joy was contained to their table. None of my fellow contestants were smiling. They were intensely focused. 

From their seated positions, the mock judges grinned and whispered to each other while pointing at a page in one of the many matching binders they’d brought with them.

Later, I learned the binders were for sale. 

“What’s the leatherman’s code?” asked a young, pudgy-faced man.

I couldn’t remember.

“Oh, man. I know this one. Wait! It’s not Safe, Sane, and Consensual, is it? Or Risk Aware Consensual Kink?” I exhaled in defeat. “Okay, I guess I can’t remember. What is it?” I asked. 

“You really need to know this. It’s really basic.” Said the pudgy-faced man, now looking happier than ever. 

“Yes. I know. This is a workshop, right? Can you please just tell me what it is? I asked. 

“No. You need to go figure it out and get back to us.” He said. “Have a seat.” 

Embarrassed, uninformed, and full of rage, I found my seat. 

These guys couldn't have cared less about what I was about. They didn’t ask me what I love about leather, kink, or the contest itself. They didn’t affirm anything I was doing right. They had decided what it takes to win a contest, and I needed to fall in line with that vision. 

This attitude reminded me of a dinner with an entrenched self-appointed kingmaker connected to the Mr. Los Angeles Leather (LAL) contest. We’d met for dinner after I won LAL. I’d brought all my ideas, in writing, for improving the Los Angeles Leather Coalition (LALC), the producer of the LAL contest, and my ideas for how I’d present my authentic self at IML. The self-appointed kingmaker simply handed my written material back to me without looking at it and then handed me a list of questions that judges might ask me, proper answers included. 

The message was clear. You know nothing. Without me, you will fail. 

An hour after my aggravating session at CLAW with the Kennel Club, I saw the same pudgy-faced man walking down a hall toward me, arm and arm with the LAL kingmaker. They looked at me and giggled. 

I said, “Hey, Geroge,” to the kingmaker and received a cursory nod back as they passed me without slowing down. 

Ironically, the leatherman’s code, the answer to the questions I was asked, is Trust, Honor, and Respect. None of which I saw exhibited by the Kennel Club or the LAL kingmaker at CLAW in 2007.   

It’s these “betas” for which I have the most contempt. 

Unlike the authentic old guard leather club leaders I believe were real, the alphas, who enjoyed their power by setting an example that others wanted to embody and follow, the betas found their power and authority because of the void left when the plague of AIDS wiped out nearly all of the heavy players. 

The guys who had been allowed in these groups to run the projector in the back of the room suddenly found themselves at the top of the kinky gay men’s social network. After sweeping away the ashes of what remained of the old guard into urns we were then asked to worship via their tutelage, the betas established a leadership foothold in the leather scene. 

Their reign is animated by the dark side of leadership. It’s the shadow side of mature masculine King/Soverien energy outlined by Carl Jung. Rather than blessing and affirming the talents of newcomers, they come down on all threats because they are terrified of their own inadequacies. 

The result is a stranglehold on the growth of leather culture, leaving a diminished community where talented newcomers are neither blessed nor affirmed. Instead, they are controlled or pushed aside from fear of being replaced. Old clubs remain bereft of new, powerful, and sexy members. Clubs age in place while possible newcomers use new alternative venues and tools for exploring and celebrating radical sex that did not exist in the days of the old guard. 

It’s the reason hot men, like the ones I read about in those books and, more importantly, the ones I saw littering the streets of West Hollywood where I lived, were seldom, if ever, in attendance at the venerated clubs or the contemporary leather contest world. 

In addition to the void of hot guys, there were other problems, including contempt for male expression. 

I watched as leather contest political trends moved away from celebrating kinky gay male expression, choosing instead to be platforms insisting on safe space for everyone, everywhere, all at once.

Having any boundaries or criteria for a contest was reframed as oppression. 

Leather contests became magnets for broken-winged individuals rather than radical sex enthusiasts. The leather stage became a place for competitive suffering. “Pick me! No one ever has suffered as much as me!” 

From the costumes I saw, the speeches I heard, and the perfume I inhaled, I came to realize that leather culture was no longer a place to pursue secrets that make a sub-boy’s heart sing when he’s on his knees in front of you. There were too many distractions. Mr. Leather contests had become another LGBTQIA+ megaphone screaming at the world for acceptance – not something celebrating kinky gay men. 

That’s what I saw at the last Mr. Los Angeles Leather contest I attended.

Standing there, wearing my Mr. Los Angeles Leather vest, I felt like I didn’t belong anymore. Maybe I never had. 

As I was standing there, processing that feeling, another titleholder whispered directly into my ear, “I don’t want to be part of this.”

I agreed. 

It was a sad moment. 

The fury and vitriol I saw on social media following the LAL contest sealed the deal, and I have not been back to a Mr. Los Angeles Leather contest since. 

The contest shows us who we are.

I was already feeling homeless after my home leather bar, a two-stepping country bar called Oil Can Harry’s, closed following the death of its owner, Bob Tomasino. He created Mr. Oil Can Harry’s Leather, and my life changed as a result. The Mr. Los Angeles Leather part of the legacy he gave me now felt foreign. 

I thought, Mike, we’re done with this. I mentioned this disillusionment towards the end of this Fireside Chats interview with Douglas O’Keeffe (54:16). 

After that, I no longer paid attention to the leather contest calendar. 

*****

“I’d like to talk to you about working with a contestant,” Hunter said on the phone as I rode the escalator up to Crunch Gym in West Hollywood. 

Hunter is a producer of OFF SUNSET, an insanely good cook, and husband to Charlie Matula, the owner of Eagle LA, where many of the leather contests in Los Angeles take place.

Are you kidding me? Don’t you know I think this is all a joke now? I’m focusing my attention on spaces where men get together with men and find that reason enough to throw a party. Why should I waste my time?

I said that in my head.  

“Who is it?” is what I actually said out loud. 

He told me. 

Of course, I’d seen Marcus at the Eagle! He’d been there forever. I had also done the AIDS LifeCycle with him, and, maybe most important of all, I’d always found him intensely fuckable. 

“I’d be happy to talk to him,” I said. 

This is how I ended up back in Chicago for IML in 2023, this time as support for Mr. Eagle LA 2023, Marcus Barela. He competed and won the International Mister Leather 2023 contest, making him IML#43. 

A little leather brother to my IML#29 designation.

Marcus is perfect for today’s leather political realities, so I just encouraged him to be himself, kept track of the contest timeline, and stayed out of his way. 

His victory was inevitable.

Rather than draw a line of contempt in the sand so I could stand on one side and marinate in my self-righteous anger, I did my best to accept the contest as it was. 

Now, Marcus is thriving as IML43 in the same leather world I mentioned above; he’s perfect for this moment. That fact is why he teaches me so much every time we talk. 

About six weeks ago, my phone rang again. This time, it was Charlie, the owner of Eagle LA, which is now a seven-minute walk from the new condo I bought with my husband, Dennis, two years ago. 

“I’d like both of you to be contestant handlers (den daddies) for this year’s Mr. Eagle LA Leather contest.” He said. 

I’m glad I said, “Yes.” 

Being part of that bar contest, in a service capacity, was a surprise homecoming that touched me deeply, especially as an older man. I didn’t have to give any scores or make any speeches; I just helped four bright-eyed contestants while they showed me what bravery looked like. All while surrounded by people I’ve known for nearly two decades. 

It felt like home.

That experience brought me to the realization that the contest itself, its liturgy of Meet & Greet, Interview, Speech, Bar Wear, and Jockstrap, has its own power to reveal who we are individually and as a community. 

It’s why I wrote some glowing things about gay leather contests in last week’s piece. 

Maybe I’m just old and getting soft. 

Still, with the remnants of old clubs withering on the vine, the most challenging truth to accept now is the fact that the real leather culture of today is the leather contest system itself. 

I will work within that system, having faith that celebrating kinky gay men’s culture will have the power to bring us home. 

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

Overwhelmed by crowds of geared-up men at my first leather event, a Tom of Finland “Butt Boy” party in Hollywood, I escaped to an outdoor patio for a cigarette. I was in my late 20s, in the mid-1990s, wearing gear I’d purchased specifically for the event: a harness, armbands, a classic leather cap, leather shorts, and boots from an army surplus store on Santa Monica Blvd. With my naked back against a cool brick wall, I watched as men drifted between rooms while I pulled casually on my cigarette, hoping to look like I belonged. 

Apparently, I did. 

A beautiful shirtless blonde guy around my age, in jeans and boots, caught my eye and walked toward me. 

While I was still trying to figure out what to say to him, he got on his knees, clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed his head, causing an intoxicating wave of sexual arousal to wash through me. I discovered a new reality. Clouds parted. The skies opened. The leather gods smiled down upon me. 

At least that’s how it felt. 

Instinctively, I reached out and stroked his short-cropped hair. 

“Thank you, sir!” He said. 

And then…I had no idea what to do. No. Fucking. Idea. 

I honestly don’t remember what happened to that guy. All I know is he disappeared. And that scene played itself in my head repeatedly for over a decade. 

Searching for answers on my own got me nowhere, so at 41, I entered my first leather contest because I wanted to know what to do if that opportunity presented itself again. 

For the non-leather-folk “muggles,” it may be necessary to give some context to these rituals. Just like the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, the Leather World has its own press, its own houses, and its own politics. 

Each contest (each “house”), from Eagle LA to International Mister Leather (IML), sets its own rules for who is allowed to compete, the criteria for winning, and the responsibilities of the winning titleholder. 

Each house has its own special magic and wants to know if their contestants have the magical qualities that their house values. The judges of the contest act as the sorting hat. 

If I sponsored a contest, I’d let the judges know I’m looking for men who like sex, power exchange protocols, dancing, empathy, directness, self-reliance, respect, loyalty, and honesty. I’m not great at all those qualities, but I would enjoy being with men pursuing them. 

A different house might focus on people who like quoting leather history, fundraisers, hyper-inclusivity, etc. 

Every house (club, organization) gets to be exactly what they want to be. The contest doesn’t care. Go ahead and put it in the blender. We’ll see what comes out. 

Most contests follow the same format, which I have come to respect as a ritualized liturgy: Meet and Greet, Interview, Speech, Bar-wear, Jockstrap, and Announcement of the Winners.  

The liturgy provides a structure for us to sort out what’s important to us individually and collectively. 

It provides an arena for confronting questions like: Who are we as a community? Who am I as an individual in this community? Do I belong here, or am I just trying to fit in? 

It’s the kind of self-reflection that happens in private therapy sessions, meditation retreats, or when laying awake at 3 a.m. wondering, “What’s the purpose of my life?”   

Most often, a sense of community, meaning, and purpose is evoked, which is why we keep doing it. 

However, sometimes the message from the contest is, “You guys are not aligned on what’s important, and you’ll suffer until it’s sorted out. You have work to do!” 

Even when contests have melted down, the leather community has learned important lessons. Do our judges reflect our values? What are our values? Are we curious about new ideas? Do we have limits? Are we communicating our expectations? 

My personal relationship with the contest has fluctuated wildly from joy to contempt and back again. I won three competitions and enjoyed being famous, thinking it would fix all my doubts regarding my sexuality and self-worth. It didn’t. 

The contest taught me that I had work to do. I had to decide for myself who I am and find the organization where I belong instead of petitioning organizations for membership that require me to change something about myself to fit in. 

I also learned, and I’m not sure where, how to accept the gift of a beautiful sub kneeling at my feet. I can leave my hand there on his head, neck, or shoulder while I finish my cigarette. No words are necessary. I can give him a task, like nuzzling my boots or another body part in front of him. I can instruct him to stand for inspection, hands on his head, eyes down, while I run my hands over his body, taking what he wants to give. I can ask him if he’s prepared to service me in the dark room. 

The contest has helped me sort out my own values. It has taught me to use discernment when asked to participate in an organization. It has shown me the power of showing up, the power of being absent, and the power of speaking my truth with empathy. 

The contest liturgy is robust enough to take all the leather and kink worlds can throw at it and still create a sense of home, belonging, and meaning for those involved. 

Whether it’s love or contempt, the contest will show all those involved who they really are. 

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This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

“I blink, and you’re hooked up with someone!” My husband says with his testosterone-fueled competitive voice.

I get a wonderful turn-on when I see this side of my normally deferential, even-mannered, Vulcan-like boy. It’s dangerously delicious. His full 42-year-old, tall, masculine body radiates primal testosterone. Men turn me on, so seeing him charged with desire and vexed sexual frustration is intoxicating. It makes him sexually vibrant and desirable. I feel like a badass. And he confirms, with his horny, competitive frustration, that we’re still on the same page regarding our sexual desires and agreements. 

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He’s an ambitious high achiever, a man who pursues measurable, quantifiable tools and protocols for reaching success. So my success, as he frames it, must be a simple matter of following some sort of playbook of which he is unaware. 

He doesn’t want me to change my behavior. He doesn’t want me to stop hooking up. He just wants to be better at it than me. 

So, for him and all the other high achievers out there looking to sharpen their “game,” here’s what I know. Your mileage may vary. 

Hone your Battlefield Awareness. 

That’s a term we used in my day job when I was a Special Events Coordinator for the City of West Hollywood. While babysitting gatherings like WeHo Gay Pride, Halloween, and the collection of Oscar Parties held by Elton John, Vanity Fair, and HBO (all on the same night), we needed to know where to focus our attention. 

The same situational awareness translates into navigating crowded sexual playgrounds. It’s the ability to focus an endless aggregate of variables into a small, actionable list of choices.

As an aside, I am uneasy applying the term “Battlefield Awareness” to our sexual playgrounds because I want our unique spaces to be collaborative spiritual playgrounds. Not a place where there are winners and losers. 

However, for the uninitiated, these gatherings may feel like battlegrounds because of incursions on their personal space, an internalized sex-negative worldview that says one sexual partner forever means “good” & many sexual partners mean “bad,” or the newness of the social sexual culture for which they have yet to find a vocabulary. And, although relatively rare (compared to the number of good players), we have bad players among us. For whatever reason, self-shame, a truly toxic “force it” idea of masculinity, or some other reason, they feel they need to grab what they want instead of negotiating it like a Sensitive Slut.

My husband’s remark got me reflecting on how I handle myself in social sexual environments.

What follows is a deconstruction of my modus operandi that has evolved over nearly four decades and countless visits to these places. The venues are public (buy a ticket) play parties, dance parties, kink events, and, to some degree, public hunting grounds designed for non-sexual purposes, like gym steam rooms, or the dick deck on a gay cruise.

Reconnoiter: Get the lay of the land. 

Even when I’m familiar with a venue, I like to walk the perimeter to get a feel for how many rooms there are, how big they are, how they are set up, ingress and egress (getting in and out), and how they’re being used. 

If it’s a new venue, I will do this before visiting the clothes check. I may not want to stay. 

Guest inventory: Who’s there? 

I put people into boxes. Yep. I make up stuff about the guys based on what I see and what my intuition tells me so that the mob is more comprehensible. A dozen categories are easier to organize in my head than 200 to 2,000 individuals. 

Daddies, twinks, jacked muscle guys, athletic guys, porn stars, influencers, glitter divas, ethnic clumps, full fetish & gear guys, sexual tourists (new or non-identified with sexual spaces), it’s all about the music guys, look-at-me players, and mystery men. 

Party favorites: Identify and name potential playmates. 

During the reconnoiter, I mentally tag my favorites. These are guys I plan on cruising to determine if we are both on each other’s “yes” list. Nicknames are an easy and fun way to keep track of a few men in a sea of potential partners. 

Bandana Boy, Trucker Jesus, Equinox Jesus, Brillo Boy, Slutty Swarthy Guys (couple), Black Ken, White Ken, Mr. Floppy, Almost Asian, Greyhound Boy, Gold Chain White Boy, Dog Catcher, Faded Dreds, Swarthy Baseball Hat, and Well-Preserved Daddy, are some of the monikers I’ve assigned. 

With a clear vibe, guest, and fashion assessment, it’s easier to decide if I’m staying, if I’m going to dose, and if I’m wearing my booty shorts or going ass out right away. 

Now, armed with information and dressed for success, it’s time to dive into the party.

Consent. 

Consent can be sexy. It’s about getting to “yes.” It occurs when someone is actively encouraging what's being done to them as opposed to tolerating what’s being done to them.

Consent is not about manipulating men into play; it’s about finding guys who are a match.

We are all uniquely shaped puzzle pieces with grooves and nobby bits. Bottom, top, dom, sub, sides, switches, mild, wild, exhibitionist, demure, sober, rolling, etc. Finding a perfect fit that occurs when complementary contours smoothly snap into place is what it’s all about. 

Find it; don’t force it. 

These sexual spaces are open to everyone, but no one is required to hook up with anybody. 

Sorting each other out requires communication (usually nonverbal) that involves asking and answering the question, “Would you like to get physical?” It’s a question appropriate for the venue. It’s not easy, but being able to give and receive “no” gracefully is key to setting a proper vibe that will move you toward a guy you really click with, and it keeps the play party playful. 

As I said before, most of this communication is nonverbal. “No” or “not now,” may be a glance, having a back turned on you, or seeing them create distance from you. All ways to communicate, “no.” 

If it reaches the touching stage, “no” is moving a hand away or hearing, “I’m good.” 

Cruising: Making your move.

The following approach is appropriate in just about any circumstance and unlikely to offend most gay men who are not closeted. 

In another post, I’ll go deeper into what I know about cruising more specific types of men, such as daddies, doms, subs, trophy boys, racially different guys, “I’m with my friends guys,” tall and short guys. 

For now, here’s the one size that fits most. 

THE HORSE APPROACH: This is especially good for super hot guys and guys unsure how to set their own boundaries (so they keep people at a distance). 

I’m stealing most of this from Morgan Freeman. When pressed about his success with women, he made this horse analogy on CNN. Basically, you make it known you’re available and let them check you out. 

These guys have a lot of experience having their boundaries ignored; they are unceremoniously touched, grabbed, and clothing tugged on; they have their conversations interrupted. 

They respond well to respect. 

These guys are usually in well-lit areas with room around them to move. If on a dance floor, they are often within a group of guys making a huddle designed to limit access. 

DO NOT chase these guys. They don’t like surprises. Don’t stalk him from behind and grab him. Don’t jump in uninvited with your funny story. You’ll be on his “no” list for the rest of the night. 

DO THIS: 

Put yourself in his line of sight. If his back is to you, find a way to move around him so that he can see you from a comfortable distance. 

From a comfortable distance, square off with him. This means facing him straight on. You’re face to face, chest to chest, crotch to crotch. 

Let him make an assessment. 

Body language that catches his attention is a confident, calm, often dude-like attitude. 

See if he will move to the music with you. Move the way he’s moving. That creates rapport, a sense that you’re on the same wavelength. 

See if his eyes meet yours. Maintain eye contact with an even, friendly, curious expression. See if his face is communicating anything with you. 

Don’t make stuff up in your head.

Your gut will tell you if he’s interested. It may be a smile, a nod, or he might make it easy on you and move toward you. 

The night my husband made his remark, I noticed one of the guys on my “yes” list, a swarthy baseball cap guy, was dancing near us as we chatted with friends. He was dancing with a guy, and we made eye contact. He seemed interested, so I moved closer, squaring off with him and seeing if he’d dance with me from a distance. About five feet. 

He didn’t match my moves. 

He moved closer to his dance partner but still looked at me. This told me, “not now.” So, I continued to enjoy time with my friends. 

When I looked up and saw Swarthy Baseball Hat guy moving towards the dark room, I decided it was time to see what was happening in there.

Since I’d checked out the room before it got busy, I knew how to scan it for a fury-faced man in a baseball hat.

I found him sitting on a banquette, watching one guy receive a furious blow job from another. I got close, being sure not to crowd the scene. He looked up at me. I looked at him, at the action, and down at my crotch. He gave an affirming nod. 

And that’s how the blink happened. 

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

I was recently at an all-gay birthday party, standing in a small gaggle of well-known friends comparing ages. The birthday “boy” was 44. I let the group know I will be 59 this April. 

Then said, “I’m old.” 

“You’re not old!” One of them insisted, his eyes confused. 

I stood my ground and insisted that, by the numbers around life expectancy, I was in the final 3rd or 4th of my life. His expression changed to befuddled surprise. He then scanned me up and down before saying, with some exasperation, “But you’re not ‘old.’” 

It was an attempt to be gracious, so why, even as I write this, does it piss me the fuck off? 

Isn’t that what we all want to hear? Isn’t that what we all want to believe? Isn’t that polite? 

The response was all those things, and I still want to discuss it. 

But when I push the subject, and I don’t fawn over the Emporor’s forever young clothes, even when I’m the one wearing them, the frigid response I receive tells me I’ve broken a social contract by saying the word “old.”

One reason I want my olderness confirmed is because getting old, especially gay-old, is so disorienting. 

I shouldn’t be struggling with this. I was supposed to be dead at 23. That’s what the doctor said when he told me I was HIV+ at 20. Decades and decades ago, AIDS was supposed to kill me. It didn’t. It still hasn’t. In fact, by the numbers of my regularly measured blood work, I’ve never been healthier. 

I need help figuring out how to be this way, how to be gay, out, male, alive, and old. To be me. Right now. 

What the fuck is going on? 

Disorientation turns into fear, and fear turns into anger.  

Yes, gurl, she’s old. Calm down! 

We have collectively created a culture where death only comes from a bullet, a bomb, a space phaser, a drive-by, a drug overdose, a medieval ax, or a superhero’s pummeling. That’s how we see it play out in the media. 

It doesn’t come to good people who have followed all the rules, bought all the supplements, and stretched through every yoga class. 

Except that it does. 

That’s reality. 

Another reason I want my age acknowledged is because I know I’m invited to a themed party called “Aging, or Olds, or Elders,” one that includes big ideas, deep love, and fleeting beauty that is usually only witnessed by those left behind at funerals. 

Every gay knows (or should know) that it’s rude to attend a party and not participate in the theme. 

I want to pack, wear, and inhabit the most stunning version of the theme on offer. Please don’t ask me to show up wearing what I arrived wearing 35 years ago. First of all, it doesn’t fit. More importantly, it’s not as interesting as the metaphorical garb this new adventure called “aging” suggests. 

How cool would it be to have a role in my culture because of my proximity to the end of my natural life cycle? Not in spite of it. 

I’d like to live in a village described by Don Kilhefner in a White Crane Institute essay, Gay Adults! Gay Adults! Where Are You? where each stage of life has its own gifts and responsibilities.

If you’d like to hear me in conversation with Mr. Kilhefner, we discussed “Boy Energy vs. Man Energy vs. Elder Energy” and several other topics on my podcast. 

“Cultural anthropologists tell us that whenever and wherever humans are found, there seems to be a patterning of life into four stages called youth, adult, elder, and ancestor. Moreover, each of these stages has significant social roles to play in the village. There is a profound and fundamental interdependence between these stages and societal roles upon which the health and vitality of the village or tribe are largely based.”

Unfortunately, American culture, and especially gay culture, doesn’t recognize its youth, adults, elders, and ancients. We don’t celebrate the challenges and gifts unique to each stage of life. We don’t mentor up or down the age spectrum. We simply have young people and old people. 

The young are celebrated and left alone to sort out life, while the old are cloaked in invisibility.  This allows the olds and the youngs to maintain a kind of magical thinking – a fantasy where the culturally imposed indignities of being forgotten and deemed useless are shielded from witnesses – like a curtain pulled in an emergency room to separate both sides against witnessing the vulnerability, pain, and death, we close our eyes to the realities of aging and mortality. 

Unfortunately, attention, let alone deference and respect, are only given to elders in movies, not in real life. I’m Daddied, in a good way, on the dance floor and hookup apps, but it’s not the same thing as having a role. It feels more like a superficial outfit assessment than a social role. Like I’m now wearing a United Federation of Planets Starfleet Captain’s uniform instead of the Spiderman costume. No fundamental role changes, just a different look. 

I have a fantasy of being a respected elder, but I don’t know where to do that or with whom. 

And, to be honest, I  don’t want to leave the dance floor. 

I’ve scoffed at the idea that I have Peter Pan Syndrome, a Neverland desire to stay forever young. Still, aside from Cher, I don’t know many 60-year-olds wearing body glitter under psychedelic lights as they dance to booming music until four in the morning. 

Maybe I’m paving a road forward. Maybe a mentor will appear and guide me. Maybe I’m in the wrong room. 

Since nobody is old, it’s hard to find fellow travelers. I feel lost and alone. I keep dancing. 

Is it time to throw in the towel and give up the intense maintenance required for physical beauty and sexual relevance? Do I capitulate to aging and settle for the comfort of a sloth-like existence in front of the TV? Like all the waves of hotties I’ve seen at the gay gym over decades, rise to their peak of beauty, reign in our gay social sexual circles, and then, as the beauty slowly fades, disappear? 

Time is running out. 

The Centers for Disease Control says men will live until 73.5 years old. That gives me 14.5 years left. 

Adding the words “gay men” to my Google search was very depressing. It says we need to reduce that life expectancy number by 20 years, giving me 3.5 years left. 

My mom is now the only person in my bio-family older than me. All my grandparents, my father, and my older brother are dead. The gay men closest to me in my 20s are dead. My best friend Alvin, my 12-step mentor Gustav, and my boyfriend Tony, all men 5-10 years older than me. All gone. 

That’s reality. 

We spent so much time, focus, and energy on survival that we didn’t have a chance to think about what this existence would look like.

I see clearly, like it or not, that this being old thing is a new frontier for out gay men. 

Like the Mattachine Society in the early 50s (the first queens to take on the United States Postal Service and win a Supreme Court decision allowing ONE Inc., a news magazine about gays, to be distributed through the mail), we need to find a new way forward. With that magazine, the Mattachine Society created a virtual gathering place where we could see and be seen as queers, paving the way for all kinds of queer thought to be sent through the mail. 

We, Olds, need to decide who and how to be at this age – because the examples shown by the non-gays are pretty grim. Most fatal gunshot wounds are self-inflicted by straight men suffering from that construct. 

We liked the Golden Girls, and that’s not a bad family model to start with. 

Whatever we’re doing, I refuse to pretend to be something that I’m not. I didn’t when I was a young gay and won’t as an old gay either. 

If we can’t say and hear the word “old,” we’ll never learn to navigate its reality.

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Two years ago, while in my 57th year, I began going out to dance parties again. To my surprise, reentering the gay dance party scene at 56 proved to be, and continues to be, a much more edifying experience than it was in my 20s. 

I give credit for this transformation to decades of seeking with my MFT therapists Karen, Jim, Winston, and Sharon, a Forum-like intensive called The Experience, MKP men’s retreats, meditation retreats, yoga teacher training, coaching training, Tantra training, a personal meditation practice, and drugs. 

Of course, none of that would be possible if I did not have the willingness to look into my heart and unpack the results of the Idaho-Mormon-gay-AIDS trauma I’d internalized. Walking through all that trauma history with a wide array of teachers is why I am able to enjoy the cornucopia of pleasure, self-celebration, and connection I now enjoy everywhere, especially on the dance floor with my brothers. 

Everyone’s life is different. Everyone’s amount of trauma is different. My trauma required lots and lots of work. Some gays, like my husband, who’ve had relatively little trauma, have the ability to find contentment without all those programs.

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Nearly 30 years ago, when I was 28, I went to my first White Party in Palm Springs. It was a big deal back then.

I had resisted going for several reasons. I’d only been sober for two years, it was still more expensive than I could afford, and most of all, and most pertinent to this post, I didn’t think I could compete with all the hotties I saw in pages of Circut Noise Magazine, the magazine covering circuit events pre-internet. It contained pages of evidence that I needed to be something other than who I really was. Someone confident, excruciatingly beautiful, and ready for a photo op with ten equally beautiful men.

You know, guys who were winning the party.  I’d need to reinvent myself to be one of them. 

I felt like I needed permission to be on the dance floor.

“What if you got paid to go?” 

I was prodded by my workout partner, Adam, to join the scene. He had connections with the producers, custom design skills to create our Bad Bunny gear, and a body and cock that demanded attention. He made it possible for me to get paid to go, including a shared hotel room at Motel 6. All I needed to do was work a couple of doors and dance on a box at the military-themed nighttime pool party.

Adam thrived on the scene. He was a huge fan of the spotlight. Any spotlight. He also ran with other spotlight seekers, so I was sure to be surrounded by the top tier of circuit party meat sacks who had also prepared for the dance floor with Olympic-style workouts. We’d have outfits made by Perry, a talented queen who later went on to work for Lady Gaga.

 How could we not win the party? 

At the military party, we climbed our separate camouflaged riggings and had our very own spotlights to shine on each other from across the sea of men and into the crowd itself, which garnered lots of attention. 

I had the body. I had the attention. I had the outfits. I had the validation of knowing I was on a towering box at what was then one of the biggest parties in existence. Guys who seldom gave me attention at Gold’s in Hollywood were looking up at me, smiling. I’d met Boy George. I’d visited one VIP hangout after another at the various parties. 

But when Adam turned his spotlight on me, I felt something unexpected. Something other than joy. I certainly wasn’t happy. I was confused, irritated, and empty.

I felt betrayed by the feelings that came up. This was supposed to make me happy. Wasn’t I dominating the party? Isn’t that what makes a gay happy? Why wasn’t I fucking happy? 

This continued to happen as I attempted to win the party at the Probe (later called Icon), at the Zoo Party in San Diego, and on the small stage on the edge of the dance floor at Fire House (which is now The Chaple at The Abbey). Time after time, I gave my power away to men and boys who were strangers. Attachment to their approval was my primary source of validation and dignity. 

The holy grail of permission granted by dancefloor domination left me empty.

Nearly 30 years later, I learned in my yoga certification training what was causing the problem. It was one of the “5 Kleshas,” all 5 cause suffering. I was experiencing the suffering they predicted is caused by grasping.

It’s important to note that pain is not optional. Sorry.

But the suffering is.

This is how #3 of The Five Kleshas works.  

Attachment/Grasping (Ragga)Grasping = Suffering When I get X, I’ll have happiness. If I can get that hottie to dance with me, I’ll be okay. If I can get 1M followers, I’ll be content. If my body reaches X size, the world will love me. Yup. All sources of suffering, according to Patanjali, the Sage who wrote all this stuff down.Non-grasping = Contentment I find peace with the world as it is, with what and/or who is in front of me at this moment. I let the world flow around me and go with it. I recognize “no” and honor it, then make a course correction towards love. I hold my own boundaries and say “no” with love and dignity. My contentment is not reliant on the actions or reactions of others.

On the dancefloor, in a sex club, and while navigating LA traffic, the pain of not getting what I want can pop up and last a moment and then be gone, or I can try to force it to be something different than what it is, grasp for something other than what life has put in front of me, and suffer indefinitely.

When I feel that icky vibe, I say to it, “Thanks for sharing. I hear you. What’s really going on?” And because that’s my ego talking, not the real, perfect me the yoga sages wrote about, I then ask my real self, “Is there something I can let go of?

There usually is.

Now things are different.

Like the wrapper of my favorite Dove dark chocolate candy says, “Your vibe attracts your tribe.” Since I no longer show up trying to dominate the party, I am no longer surrounded by narcists unable to connect with anything outside their own agenda.

I no longer need permission to be on the dance floor. When I stopped grasping for that permission, I was able to own my 58-year-old, cis, white self and go where the love is.

There is no longer a need to have a designer create outfits for me that will wow the other partygoers. I wear the same jock and booty shorts to nearly every party. My husband and I are often the only two men dancing in paratrooper boots. They are a nod to my kinky side, make me taller, and support my old ankles. More importantly, they are an extension of my authentic self.

The party is big enough for all of us. When I’m at my best, I am not attached to a need to have the entire venue, the entire community, or the entire country give me permission to be who I am. That comes from inside.

Somehow that makes me better able to celebrate the other guys on the dance floor who are doing what’s authentic to them. The muscle guys bobbing up and down in their jeans with their stern faces, the sexy queens flashing smiles while twirling in skirts, and Asian guys in their sensible outfits huddled together for solidarity are all things to be celebrated.

They are not competition. They are family.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe