“It’s no exaggeration to say that ACON probably saved my life.
In early 1985 I was 21 years old. I had moved out from living with my family in the Sydney suburbs, and I was exploring my new adult independence in a straight share house close to the city. Deep down I knew I was gay, but with the arrival of AIDS, this was a scary time to admit it to myself; and an even scarier time to act on my sexuality – death and discrimination were front of mind. Also, in NSW, male homosexuality had only just been decriminalised, and societal (and police) attitudes hadn’t caught up.
I timidly went to a few gay venues (The Roman Baths, King Street Sauna, the Oxford, and upstairs at the Midnight Shift) to get a feel for the scene and my potential place in it. I still hadn’t committed to being gay, and physical contact with another man, when it happened, was tentative and fleeting.
At this time in the epidemic, in the wider community, there was a paucity of practical advice about avoiding infection. AIDS was primarily affecting a sub-culture of gay men in the inner-city, so such advice didn’t make the mainstream. But I had the hyper-sex-drive of a 21-year-old, so abstinence wasn’t going to cut it! I delved deeper into the sub-culture.
This is where ACON first came into my world. In at least late 1985, I recall that gay venues were my sole source of information about safe sex and AIDS. And pamphlets and posters produced by ACON provided that information, for which I was hungry. This was augmented by ACON’s outreach people, who directed me to gay-specific health service providers like the Albion Street Clinic.
By late 1985 I knew enough to decide to accept myself and to follow my natural inclinations as a gay man. I also decided that I should find myself a boyfriend and settle in to a monogamous arrangement – this was a work-around in response to fear of AIDS – it seemed reasonable at the time, even though it meant curbing the kind of sexual exploration that would otherwise be natural for a young man; and which had been the experience of other young men who had arrived on the scene before me and before AIDS.
So, I started my search for a boyfriend.
I took two weeks off work, and I went out every night for those two weeks, on the prowl, checking out the scene and looking for the one. I was a serious young man on a serious mission. I found my man on the last night of that two week search.
When John entered my field of vision on the dance floor at the Midnight Shift, I knew in an instant that he was the guy for me – blokey, solid, moustachioed – a classic ‘Clone’, as men with that look were called then.
I spent time watching him – I didn’t cruise him in the traditional sense, because I was still naive to the ways of gay cruising. So John was kind of surprised when I strode up to him at the bar and asked him for a dance. The connection was mutual and immediate.
With ACON’s safe sex messages seared into my brain, I went home with John that night. We talked about and negotiated safe sex – behaviour that ACON had started to promote at this crucial time in the epidemic. With talk came bonding, and the start of a safe-sexual relationship. Six months in to that relationship, John and I committed to each other, and decided to get tested, together, for HIV. It was important for us to know our status before stopping condom use.
In those days, testing was a fraught affair, not least because of the drumbeat of fear and the incitement of gay-hate by media, some religious leaders, and some conservative politicians. It was a dark time to be gay – many allies in the wider community fell away.
We found a gay doctor who could ensure our anonymity and see us as a couple. As I recall, I think blood samples had to be sent to the USA for testing – results took about two weeks.
John and I saw the doctor together, to get our results. John was HIV-positive. I was HIV-negative.
Naturally, a period of anguish followed. Initially, John didn’t want me to be at risk by staying in the relationship – he wanted to end it. There was still so much we didn’t know about HIV at that time. Was safe sex really safe? Was it certain that HIV would develop into AIDS?. Would there be a cure? We pondered our potential future together.
Love won. Our direct experience was that safe sex worked. We would ride out the storm together, awaiting the inevitable cure. We recommitted to each other. Thus we proceeded to navigate the unchartered world of a sero-discordant couple in a society that, in the mid 80s, was increasingly hostile to gays and the HIV-positive. We made a beautiful life together.
Fast forward to 1994: On 10 January, John succumbed to AIDS. He died peacefully, in my arms. His weakened body could no longer sustain his beautiful spirit. I home-nursed John in his final two years, when he became ill. I moved into his hospital room in his final three days, and took on his palliative care – it was a beautiful and gentle death. As we had planned, just the two of us, as he slipped away.
In the months after John’s death, I was in despair. I was 30 years old. In the first eight months of 1994, not only had John died; I lost the home that we shared; I lost my job; claims were made on John’s estate that effectively denied that John and I were partners; and my best friend Peter, suicided, (I found his body).
Peter supported me in the months after John’s death. He truly was an angel. We were in contact daily. Peter had AIDS. Like so many gay men with AIDS at that time, Peter preferred to seize control by ending his life on his terms. Peter died in August 1994. (There is no record of how many gay men with AIDS suicided – they’re not counted as AIDS-related deaths – in my experience, there were many suicides like Peter’s.)
I was at rock-bottom after Peter’s funeral. My mental health was shattered. It wasn’t just the obvious losses. Straight society couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge the depth of my loss or the validity of my relationship with John. This was evident in many dealings that I had to undertake in the aftermath of John’s death. In 1994, our relationships were not equal with straight relationships. Sure, there was some measures to equalise under the De facto relationships laws. But in general, gay relationships weren’t considered of equal value – they were trivialised – I was considered little more than John’s roommate – and John’s blood-relatives were given primacy in many matters affecting his post-death affairs. I think John would have been horrified at the lack of decency and respect shown to me at my most vulnerable time.
AIDS was a constant throughout my 20s. It permeated so much of my life. I lost count of how many funerals I attended – how many times I rushed to the hospital bedside of friends — how many times I was called upon to help a dying friend put their affairs in order. So many truly tragic and painful memories. I have a photo taken at a party when I was about 27 – it is a group of twenty-five young gay men, including me – all friends having a fun time – only two of us in that photo survived the epidemic to be alive today.
At this, my rock-bottom, ACON came to my rescue. In 1994, ACON provided free counselling to anyone affected by HIV and AIDS, including partners and carers.
I had lost everything in 1994. Survivor Guilt and PTSD are common amongst many gay men who went through the epidemic. It wasn’t just an epidemic of disease – it was an epidemic of discrimination and fear and loathing. With the help of counselling provided by ACON, I re-built my life. I got my head together; found a new home; went back to university in my late 30s; and forged a successful career.
I’m now 61 years old. ACON has been part of my life for its entire 40 years. At various times, over the years, I’ve volunteered for ACON, most recently to provide social contact to older gay men in public housing and aged care facilities. I’m also a paid-up member of ACON – a way to keep in touch with this organisation which has done and meant so much for me and my community.
I remain HIV-negative. For this alone I could be considered one of ACON’s many success-stories.”
