Page 66 of Like a Love Story
“But they could...” I trail off. Hurt us. Judge us.
“Reza, we live in New York City,” Art says withsudden delight. “If we can’t kiss each other in this city, then where can we kiss each other?”
Are we going to kiss each other? The thought of it makes me soar.
“San Francisco,” I joke.
“Shut up,” he says, as he swats me playfully.
“I just wish we were somewhere private,” I say, an ache in my voice. I want to be somewhere that is just ours. I want to pretend we’re the last two people on the planet.
“Privacy is overrated,” he says. “I want to scream from rooftops right now. I want the world to see how beautiful you are, how right we are together.”
He moves his head closer to me. I close my eyes, and I’m in darkness. Private. I can feel him inching closer to me. His warmth, his breath, his scent, all slowly making their way to me. Until our lips are almost touching.
“Is this really happening?” I whisper quietly.
Then he kisses me. Our lips meet and our tongues start to explore each other. I feel like there is electricity inside me and I’m all lit up.This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
And yes, this is really happening.
May and June 1990
“A lot of people are afraid to say what they want. That’s why they don’t get what they want.”
—Madonna
Reza
I think about sex almost all the time now. It’s like something inside my brain that was locked has been unlocked by Art, by his closeness. I used to think about sex sometimes, but now it’s an unstoppable force. I think about Art’s hands on my body, my cheeks against his, his lips pressed against mine, his body on top of me, crushing me with its weight, at once making me feel weighted down under its mass and freely soaring above the world, like a cloud with wings. I can’t even sleep anymore, because my thoughts about Art are racing around my brain.
Maybe the reason I think about sex in a continuous loop is that, despite being with Art for months, we have still not had sex. Yes, my hands have touched his body. His lips have touched my lips. But that’s all. I haven’t let anything else happen. The moment I come close to doing more—I feel the fear and instantly think about disease, death, blindness, and lesions. It paralyzes me.
So I justthinkabout it, and then I make him stop when he wants to put his mouth where I know it should not go, and his fingers where I want them to go.
“Clinical trials are like motherfuckin’ golf clubs,” Jimmy says. “Only rich white men allowed.”
We’re at an ACT UP meeting. The community center is packed with people. Men in tight leather pants. Women in blazers. Men with suspenders and no shirts. Drag queens. Men who look like they will die soon. People who seem to come from a different planet than the one I have known all my life.
“Apologies to the rich white men in the room,” Jimmy continues. “But y’all know it’s true, and it’s got to change.”
“No apology needed,” Stephen says.
Hearing Stephen use the word apology is hard. We had to apologize to him multiple times before he forgave us for what we did to Judy. But eventually he confessed that he saw our side of it, and he said his life was too short to punish himself by not seeing Art.
“Girl,” Jimmy says, “I wasn’t talking to you. You may be white, but you’re not rich. You burned through whatever you had ingay Paree.”
This is what we do on Monday nights. Art refuses to miss a meeting. He considers this romantic. I would rather be kissing under a Christmas tree.
“Focus,” a woman with a shaved head says. “This protest must feel focused. The government wants nothing more than for us to be off-message. But we will be clear.The NIH must include women and people of color in medical trials. How the hell are they supposed tohealour bodies when our bodies are not a part of their research?”
It’s so hot in this room that our palms are sweating profusely. We clutch each other’s hands here, in this room surrounded by other people like us. In the outside world, the straight world, I sometimes pull away from him when he touches me. At school, I fear the bullies. On the streets, I am terrified of being beat up. I wish for Art’s courage as his sweat merges with mine. I look down at our hands, his fingernails painted in different colors of the rainbow, glittery and bright. Optimistic.
The facilitators of the meeting—Jimmy, the woman with the shaved head, two other men and one other woman—lead a discussion about the group’s next action. They will storm the National Institutes of Health in Maryland. They will demand changes to medical trials. They will shine a light on the lack of inclusion, on the inherent corruption of AIDS research. I can feel Art’s body fill with excitement as the protest is discussed. He loves this, and I love watching him love something. He’s a force.
“Maryland isn’t New York,” Jimmy says. “There aren’t as many angry queens and fierce feminists there. We need to encourage people to get on the bus and haul their asses down there. This action is vital.”
I close my eyes and wish for just one hour without the fear of AIDS. I think about what I would do with this one hour, how I would get enough of Art to last the restof my life. How I would fill myself with his fearlessness and passion.
