Edmund White at the Paris Review:
The thing about gay life is that you have countless mini-adventures, which years later leave only the faintest grooves on your cortex. The handsome big blond with the sweetest smile and strongest Boston accent I’d ever heard, who wanted to get fucked only and moved out to San Diego, where he caught the eye of many a sailor, got infected with AIDS, and died.
The young Kennedy-style gay politician whom I invited to dinner after yet another bad affair, on the principle that I should shoot high and aim for the top. He came to dinner more than once, we had “sophisticated” (i.e., cold) sex, and he got AIDS and died.
My French translator, a skinny boy with an enormous dick and fat lips and an encyclopedic knowledge of the French classics from Rabelais to Benjamin Constant, called on me in New York and I immediately groped him—which he thought (rightfully) was disrespectful and unprofessional. I couldn’t explain to him how every male in New York was fair game. He got AIDS and died.
more here.
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