bearbandit

Failing the above a billionaire centenarian with a severe heart problem and lousy lawyers...

My habit is to ask which they prefer: 1. fully deodorised, 2. showered yesterday, 3. showered this morning or 4. showered before coming over. 1 forget it. I can't take the chemical stink or texture 2 probably my favourite, assuming a perfume free soap which I always use 3 okay, but let's get you sweating 4 call again tomorrow?

Not strange at all: you're basically talking about a rape fantasy in a slightly different setting. I was raped when I was 19, would have reported it to the police except at the time the age of consent was 21 and therefore my evidence would incriminate me in acts of gross indecency. Not worth the jail time. For a long time I let this traumatic event rule my life. In the end, nearly twenty years later, having counselled a number of rape victims myself (the organisation set up to help male rape victims in the UK is called SurvivorsUK, having originally been named Survivors was named by one of my clients who set it up in response to my use of the word), John commented that we really needed to a stop word. Apparently practically the entire time he had me in the playroom I used the word "no" to mean "yes". It was fucking his head up that I was apparently screaming "rape" every time we fucked, whereas as far as I was concerned I was having the time of my life. We settled on the traffic light system with "green" meaning "stop worrying and get back into role", "amber" indicating caution required and if you're going to ramp it up, take it slowly. And of course "red" being the absolute showstopper: we need to talk this one through over a drink and not in here. I found "amber" difficult enough to say when bottoming and "red" practically impossible. By that stage of our relationship he was permanently top, but if I brought someone home we used the same system and when we ran parties, ignoring a red was courting a lifetime ban. That said, actually using the stop word I found very difficult. John almost always involved cigars somewhere in sex - I had his initials on my chest for a year or so - even when I thought I couldn't go on, the shame of using a stop word kept me going, so you could almost say that those brands were against my will even though I wore them with pride. Part of the paradox of BDSM?

NLBear, I've just described almost that precise scenario in a private message. A friend is looking at a house right in the middle of Wales at present with a view to running a kink-friendly guest house. It's too far from the hospital for me to live out there and I don't have enough money to invest in it, but I'd certainly be a regular there. More personally, it would be nice to have one special man in my life. When I was ill people used to ask if it bothered me that John was out slutting, my reply was that he always came home to me. Stuart was the same, except he had another partner (because of immigration law at the time they couldn't live together, but spent an awful lot of time in each other's countries on tourist visas). It's probably greedy of me to hope for a third. But yeah, threeways, groups, basically a commune open to outsiders. (And if I end up making all that nut roast, I want a large Kenwood Chef and a dishwasher;) )

To echo what should be in another thread "Shit, but you're dangerous"

There was a highly manipulative guy (who, it turned out had just done 4 years for manslaughter). He broke one of my teeth, when I tried to leave, he was suddenly HIV+ and needed help. Discussed what had happened with people who knew him better and he was apparently experimenting with breath control, and they believe he simply took it into his head to discover what it felt like to kill someone.

When was I ever fuckin' subtle?

Practice and the enjoyment of the search for the lube that suits you. After a lot of years of topping guys who think that "vers" = "he can top me and bottom for the next one", I've decided to be selfish and take some time out as (almost) exclusive bottom. I've found that the arse that could take a litre enema just ain't there any more. Hence my little cooking class to help clean out. Get a small-handed fister to help open you up (fuck knows how many times I've done that job - I can barely span an octave on a piano, so have had a lot of bottoms pushed at me for stretching lessons). Lots of arse play. But bear in mind that some find it really horny to feel the cum dribbling out...

If I'm going to his place, which doesn't happen very often given the nature of public transport here, I make sure that two different friends will call me on the mobile fairly early on in the evening (I want to fuck not play secretary). If I'm erm... receiving it's a single phone call which gives me an excuse to blutack a reminder note to my monitor to contact someone.

MascMMan, Jizz, have you ever thought of writing together? I haven't read such common sense on my monitor for fuck knows how long! "The C21 Man's Guide to Dipping his Toe in the Water"? How about it?

Thanks getting them treated - they're a real pain. Though it can be romantic to pick them off each other and throw them into a woodburner, if that the sort of territory you live in ;-) I often used to compare the risk of barebacking to that of riding a bike - guess who crippled himself last year when he trashed his Bandit? Last news I had was "forget bikes, be grateful you can still walk. And by the way we don't expect that ankle will ever heal" My balance is too fucked to ride pillion, to rub dirt into the wound. In the grand scheme of things crabs are nothing. Go for what you want and enjoy yourself - it's all meant to be fun (except for the fundies - they got their fun in the name) "Deep sick and beautiful" - you been watching my dreams? ;-)

A sudden memory brought to the foreground by tonight's tea (five spice chicken). When I was in hospital being prepped for a colonoscopy, they took two days over it. first day: a cola/mocha flavoured drink that's probably not available outside of hospitals. Next day: tea with milk permitted, can't remember the midday meal but a roasted chicken breast with a few new potatoes (best meal in the whole three weeks!) and a high protein jelly for pudding. Day before: milky drinks not permitted (and the hospital shop didn't stock herbal teas goddammit!). Again I can't remember the midday meal, partly I suppose because in the real world I tend not to eat during the day, and in the evening a few thin slices of pork a little gravy and a few new potatoes. In the UK you get to watch the camera going up your arse because we're too mean to put people out for the procedure. It all looked pretty clean to me (somehow "you said you wanted to fist me? Well, I'm in the endoscopy suite of this hospital" just doesn't sound tactful The anaesthetic (midazolam didn't work at all - I remember everything). But, for me, the best bit was the day before when the straight guy on the HIV team of doctors came to explain what was going to happen. He'd got past the second sphincter before I said "so far you haven't told me anything I haven't done for fun". Poor boy put his head in his hand and said "too much information"... I heard later that he'd bitched to the consultant who told him "you wanted the job..."

I'm pretty much the reference model for side effects at my hospital. Yes, the meds can kill you. But so can a handful or two of paracetamol and a bottle of whisky. The difference is that the meds have a more than 50% chance of keeping you alive. I demonstrated this for myself when my last partner died. I didn't feel that I could keep adherence up so I stopped altogether and lost 70 t-cells per month, taking me almost to my nadir. If it wasn't for Spencer's work I wouldn't be here now. I'm very much with JizzDumpWI: many of us who got through the eighties and nineties, and especially those of us who have HIV probably do have some form of PTSD. When life becomes a rush between caring for different friends - I even got sent home from work one day when my next door neightbour came down with PCP and needed stuff from home - and choosing whose funeral to go to is it any wonder? One of our self-help mechanisms was always to attend funerals dressed for the bars ("otherwise he wouldn't recognise us"). If I choose to give up and stop ARV medication that will be my choice. And I expect that choice to be respected. Dasher, are you aware that most drugs released in the 90s we knew next to nothing about and that they were therefore prescribed in massive overdose? The reason some have been on the market for a long time is that the correct dosage has been worked out: I now take 100mg per day of ritonavir instead of 800mg. I ended up with diabetes through that one. HIV pharmacology, although it's developed like no other pharmacology before it, is still in its infancy. A drug previously thought to be one of the safest around (tenofovir) is proving to be dangerous with long term use. Eighteen months ago I was built: now I have osteopenia and a host of kidney problems, yet tenofovir is considered successful, because it's the best out of a bad lot We're still at the beta phase of HIV drug testing and nowhere near enough is being done to identify people like Spencer Cox who end up simply no being able to take it any more. Don't get me wrong: I'd love to see this obscene virus wiped from the face of the earth, but I seriously doubt it's going to happen in my lifetime. While it's around, I'm up for any clinical studies to eradicate it. The early drugs did a pretty good number on me, what's a little more?

This guy is a fool of the highest order. 1 truvada pill isn't enough to raise a side effect, let alone have any effect on HIV. Basically he's stealthing the bottom. If a single truvada pill worked we'd be looking at a very different world.

Which begs the question why you're hanging around a board populated by the people you've left behind. Does your wife know you're here?

I used to have one of the bright yellow Waterboys t-shirts: guy wearing a t-shirt (and nothing else) with the slogan "save water" and a guy in front of him obviously enjoying the drink. Bought it at Folsome St Fair between 94 and 96 (not been since). On average I'd say it got me more sex than disapproving looks.

If you've never had red in a tattoo before, be aware that red is the commonest colour for allergies: a friend of mine has a barbed wire armband and the drops of blood from it are still three dimensional and itchy twenty years later...

Barebacking, whatever its results, is just as transgressive an act as gay sex was in the seventies. I was lucky enough to live in one of the gay communes at the end of the seventies, a period I value greatly, not because we were having parties every night (most of us had conventional jobs), but because of the sense of community and care for each other. "Ultimate Intimacy" by [damn I should note down the names of authors whose books impress me - search it on Amazon]. even though it's ten years old now, still has a lot of valid points. If you believe in the theory of homosexuality that every tribe needed some gay men because there were too many kids and old folk needing their parents' protection, then it makes sense to use the passing of semen from one to another as a means of bonding. Some tribes in Africa make a ritual of receiving the tribe's semen as a bonding mechanism. HIV has shown us the dangers behinds this, but we'll be around a lot longer than HIV as we learn more: my first dead-by date was 1992. It'll be interesting to see how things work "after the cure". Before we were aware of the presence of HIV it was a joke that because Brian had played away with Chris who live with Frank, that made Frank and Brian sister's in law: I think there's always been that pull to congregate and show fealty to the group, whether it be the twinky example I just gave or in the choice of which bike club to invite to our annual run (always held somewhere where there was a suitable fuck-space...

It wouldn't be the first Sunday morning I've had with the neighbours calling round to ask if there was a fight last night "and, ooh!, the language!"

If you've got a good drawing style, do a cigar brand. I admit it needs topping up every few weeks as it it heals but (eventually) becomes pretty much permanent. I had, for quite a while, my partner's initials branded on my chest. The only reason we stopped was that I was getting sick and therefore less able to tolerate the burns (my lack of endurance through illness, nothing intrinsically to do with being ill).

Glad I ended up staying in - miserable day yesterday. The book I was remembering was Entertainment for a Master. I've only glossed my way through it as I'm reading something else at present, and that's definitely the book I was thinking of. Good luck getting rid of that fucking virus...

Much as I'm into the empowerment of people with HIV a tattoo of the words "aids whore" is messy. Watcha gonna do when the new classifications creep over to the USA: "HIV C3 whore"? Open as I am about having HIV, I'd have second thoughts about leaving a club and getting into a taxi with you. There's a time to be cheap and nasty (woohoo), and there's a time (he says thinking about needing help to cross roads) to be cheap and polite. When you can't fix you own meals, your friends have given up on you, who're you gonna turn to (and the answer isn't "ghostbusters"): volunteers and social services, that's who.

Definitily not Mr Mr Benson, even though that the book that everyone remembers. I'm pretty sure it's its one of the "... for a Master" series which turned up last week. I know I've read and enjoyed the damned book! (As well as having got some damn good ideas from it). Since I won't be going to Pride this year (it's in a muddy field, my balance is bad, even with the stick, and I prefer to keep my mudwrestling private) I'll see if the story is one one of the novels I unearthed last week ("I? I did all the moving and humping for it" "Yes, and as I remember I've got practically no fingers from ripping your tits of while you watched ff porn!") Arthritis is a bastard and neuropathy makes it worse for delicate jobs like TT)

Einathens - I knew there was a reason I liked you... ;-) (apart from the fact that we seem to think alike) I went through my conspicuous bruises phase before digital photography, but, fuck, did I offend people at Gay Switchboard, where I was a volunteer. "put a shirt on. Cover up those bruises" "You have no idea how proud I am of these bruises or of how I got them". Historical note: I was the one who got SM lifestyles added to London Lesbian and Gay Switchboard's Statement of Purpose.

In 1980, before we knew about HIV, many seroconversion rashes were siagnosed as Syphylis 2: The Sequel. I was sent home with a bottle of calamine lotion and an appointment for the following month "to prove it wasn't syph". Pretty much all they could do at the time...