Note to readers: For our interview with Daniel Bauer, follow the “related articles” link at the end of this story

I had extremely low expectations sitting in the darkened theatre at New York City’s Cap 21 waiting to see Daniel Bauer’s Beyond Belief. While there may be a few great tricks that leave you pondering for days, I find that the majority of magic shows leave me feeling a little empty.  As soon as the lights came up and Daniel sat on a wooden stool and he addressed the audience, I knew I was wrong and was in for something thrilling. 

It is hard for me to call this a magic show. Don’t get me wrong, there was magic and it was fun, funny and sometimes confounding. But this show was so much more than that. It was Daniel’s personal journey from childhood to Houdini’s successor, from testing positive for HIV and drug addiction and losing it all to where he finds himself today. He cleverly intersperses magic tricks to aid him in his story telling and that helps to lighten the mood during the darker parts of the evening.   

I found myself completely enthralled by the stories he wove. So much so that before I knew it, I was shedding tears, laughing out loud and amazed by his acts of magic and escape. 

It was a truly fascinating and heartbreaking performance. Daniel’s message is one of strength, courage, hope and most importantly an inspiring struggle to keep chasing your dreams, no matter what stands in your way or knocks you down. 

Daniel Bauer is as charismatic as he is handsome and as funny as he is moving – and all this while he conjures up a magically unforgettable and emotionally charged evening. 

For more details check here. 

Follow Daniel on twitter @LvngPozitively

Ah, the First. No, I am not referring to the final foe of Ms. Buffy Summers. Even though this particular First can cause as much carnage and mayhem as The First Evil, I am referring to the First Love.  You know, the boy that broke your heart so bad and no matter how many evil things he might have done, you still remember him fondly. And even though I wasn’t meant to spend the rest of my life with, I am somehow cosmically connected to. Yes. That First. 

He wasn’t the first guy I dated. That happened when I was sixteen and just coming to terms with my sexuality and I was lucky enough to find another fledgling gay boy. So, obviously it was love  - or at least that is what I thought. This ridiculous notion seemed to carry me through my next couple of relationships in college. 

Right after I went to college I was kicked out of my house for being a friend of Dorothy, so I needed to find a place to live over the summer break.  It was divine providence that I ended up in Northern Ohio, on Lake Erie. Yes, I was working like an immigrant in the early part of last century, but I lived on a peninsula surrounded by beaches and worked in an amusement park. It was quite an amazing way to spend a summer. This is where I met Jared, my First. 

Scruffy, rugged, aloof, and basically everything I was looking for in a prospective beau. He wasn’t “traditionally” attractive. In fact,  throughout the years my friends would refer to him as “the mongoloid”. But he had this sparkle in his eye - a glint that flashed the mischievousness of a five year old. This is why I was so taken with him. Plus he was an artist. More specifically he was a metal sculptor with extremely strong and rough hands. Sigh. 

We dated off and on for six years and every time we broke up he crushed my heart so deeply I thought I never was going to recover (where was Buffy when you needed her?). 

Through the years we have had a strange relationship. We would always turn to each other during the most horrific moments of our lives. He was one of the first people that I confided in when I tested HIV-positive. He called me the night after his mother died. On both of these occasions we talked on the phone for roughly eight hours. Now we talk occasionally on Facebook and very rarely we’ll call each other.

When he found out I was having my debut cabaret performance in New York, he was determined to attend. I was a little floored, but I thought it would be nice to see him again. 

He was still the same scruffy, rugged, and aloof person I fell for all those years ago. After my performance, he and his current boyfriend joined me and my friends for dinner. We sat next to each other so we could get caught up on each other’s lives and he informed me of his current artistic endeavors. Pornography. I was again staggered. 

He smiled and flashed his childlike eyes as he saw my inquisitive expression. He told me his first film was already in circulation. I was ever so grateful he told me about it because, if I had seen it, I would have probably peed my pants if I had come across it and not had any idea. Jared said there would be little or no chance of me running into it, unless I was into fetish films. Fetish films? My curiosity propelled me to drill him for more information about it. 

As soon as I got home, I cracked open my laptop and searched him by his porn name. A name, might I add, he stole from a character from the TV show “Full House.” The movie was full of harnesses, whips, gags, a sling, a bondage rack and, of course, clothespins. 

I would have thought that seeing him spread-eagled on a bondage rack while his master was removing clothespins from all over his body, including his cock, would have completely altered the perfect image I had of him. But it didn’t. As I was watching his balls being tortured I couldn’t help noticing that he still had childlike glint in his eye.

Our cosmic connection was still intact and all was right in the world.

As I re-entered the world of singledom, after the South African, some things became disturbingly clear

I realized that I have a post break-up habit.  Some people get a drastic hair cut. Some people gain or even lose 15 lbs. For me, after a relationship ends I tend to become a true believer in free love.   During which I made good use of all of my gentleman’s socializing networks. I could be found chatting with guys at the gym, at work, at home.  I would even travel the length of Manhattan to partake in an extra long lunch break. Just to clarify, this was NOT my prior lunch date.  Within the midst of my newly rejuvenated spurt of free love, there were a couple observations that shocked and confused me. 

Way before the South African existed in my word, I chatted with this handsome Brooklyn Boy. We met on OkCupid and we tried to set up a really real date on a couple different occasions. Unfortunately it never really worked out, so we both just gave up. While on sowing my newly found wild oats, I came across the same Brooklyn Boy, on a slightly different website, Manhunt. We chatted again and this time we were determined finally to make our date happen. Since we were chatting on a site that had the byline of “Get on, Get off” I thought I should come clean with my status. He quickly became excited and he said, “So am I, now you can fuck me raw!” Clearly, I should’ve given him a different nickname with the initials B. B. I politely declined and then literally got off. 

There was another guy, who I chatted with for quite some time.  We talked about everyday random stuff and not just about a mutual love for our freedoms.  Finally, we decided to finally set up a time to meet. Again, because we didn’t meet on Manhunt and I wasn’t sure what his intentions were, I told him my status and lo-and-behold he said he was also poz. Ok, great. There should be no weirdness. Oh, was I wrong. I also told him that I always play safe and he proceeded to tell me that he never uses protection and he basically apologized saying that he hates “rubbers” and he would never have sex with someone who insisted on using them. 

I was baffled. I know I talk a lot about my disappointment and frustration with negative guys who turn me down because of my status, now I was turned down by a positive guy who didn’t date me because I always use a condom! I felt like I had just stepped into some bizzaro universe. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I completely understand the allure of this particular practice, especially with another positive person.  But forgeting  the personal risk factors involved, I think people tend to forget that there are other STDs out there. I have a hard enough time expressing my status to a prospective date; imagine adding Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, Herpes, or Syphilis to the mix! 

Another thing that completely perplexed me was the amount of people that ask me if I "parTy". I am not that naïve that I am completely unaware of this practice and on prior occasions I have been asked if I "parTy and play". And I would be remiss not to mention I did try meth once. Luckily for me the only addictive substance my body will let me consume is chocolate.  But day after day, I found myself bombarded with that question, “Do you parTy?” No, “Hello.” No, “How are you?” Just “Do you parTy?”

I would respond: “Why yes I do! When my niece turned five, you should have seen me tearing up that Disney karaoke.” 

I love my oral fixations too much to give myself meth mouth and I love my penis way too much to swing it around at every Tom, Dick, and Harry without any protection. You can call me a fuddy-duddy, but I still head the advice given to me Mr. Jiminy Cricket and I always let my conscience by my guide.

After the lackluster first sexual encounter with Martin, I was determined that it would indeed get better. After all, we are both attractive men in our mid 30s and we like each other, so there is nothing stopping us from having no-holds-barred-animalistic sex. Right? At least that is what I was hoping for. I like Martin, I really do and I want us to work. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, but we all know that sex is a fairly large component in a new relationship.

I’m sure you know me well enough by know to know that I had a plan a brewin’. This what I finally decided upon: First, I would stop off and get two gourmet cupcakes. Who doesn’t love a good cupcake? Secondly, I would meet him at his apartment and I would say “First I want to ravage you. Then I want to ravage these.” Brilliant. Sexy. Fun. Sweet.

Ok, ok, ok, ok, maybe I stole that from an episode of ‘Sex and the City’ where the jazz player says to Ms. Bradshaw “I want a bourbon and I want to go down on you.”

Only the execution of my plan wasn’t so brilliant, sexy, or fun. I picked up the cupcakes. One double chocolate with caramel and chocolate ganache and one red velvet with cream cheese frosting. So there I was waiting for him outside of his apartment with cupcakes, all amped up… and he texts to tell me he was going to be late.

Damnit!  I was on a mission and I was quickly loosing my resolve!  About twenty minutes later he finally shows up and I was swiftly back in the game. He kissed me and I coyly said, “First I want to ravage you. Then I want to ravage these.” and he said “What?” He didn’t say this out of confusion, he genuinely didn’t hear me. I repeated myself, but lost all of my tenacity.

Regardless, my second attempt did the trick. He kissed me hard and led me to his apartment. We quickly tore off each other’s clothes and jumped into bed. The fire between us died as quickly as our clothes came off. I was dumbfounded. As I laid there and ate a cupcake, I couldn’t help thinking that it was incredibly sad that those cupcakes were the best part of the evening. They were great cupcakes but, come on!

The next day or so we exchanged a couple emails and Martin told me that he was back in his head and that it would be best if we cooled things off. He said that it had nothing to do with my HIV status, it was him. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Two weeks later and without even seeing me, he decided that his emotions weren’t “growing” for me and it would be best if we stopped seeing each other. I wasn’t crushed. I wasn’t even a little hurt. This is so uncharacteristic of me. I mean, I usually lock myself in my apartment and have mini breakdowns after every bad date singing “Could’ve Been” by the mall queen, Tiffany. This lack of a brokenhearted feeling made me realize that I wasn’t really in love with Martin.

Apparently, I was just in love with the thought of being in love.

And just as ceremoniously as I deleted it I poured myself a glass of wine and again downloaded Grindr to my phone. (Well, Grindr, Manhunt, and Adam4adam – I’m playing the odds). 

Even though after Martin returned from his mini trip to Montreal and squashed most of the craziness that was circling around in my brain, we were still having a hard time getting together. And by getting together - I mean having sex. He was busy with school,  I was working a lot and our schedules were not quite meshing. I had never felt so chaste in my life!

I was invited to my friend Mark’s 30th birthday party the Saturday after Martin’s return.  I know that turning thirty is a big deal, but I was selfishly about to decline the invite because that was the only night that Martin and I could get together.  And yes, by “get together”, I mean have sex! Martin convinced me to go to the party and promised to  meet me there and then we could leave whenever we wanted. Perfect.

On Saturday afternoon Martin called and said "Not to be to presumptuous, but if you want to, you can pack an overnight bag." Ha. Once a Boy Scout, always a Boy Scout.  My bag had been packed for days!

I went to Mark's party with my overnight bag slung over my shoulder. As soon as I got there I was ready to go, but seeing Martin make his way through the crowded room to give me a kiss was totally worth the wait. It was time to be social. social. OK, so maybe we really weren't being that social. We had our little nook where we were pressed up against each other. We were just waiting to have spent a respectable amount of time at the party before we could make our exit.

After what felt like hours, we left and made our way back to Martin’s apartment in Hell's Kitchen.  Our clothes were torn off in a furry of passion. I noticed that there seemed to be something quite reserved about his interaction with me. There were awkward kisses and his mouth never ventured anywhere south of my neck. It almost felt like I was doing all the work and he was just a passenger – and truth be told a not so willing passenger.

The next morning I woke up and was surprised to find him ready to go at it again. I say this not because of any lack of ability on his part, but all night the only thought plaguing my mind was, "Oh fuck, I guess he's not really that OK with me being poz." The “second-go-around” was indeed better than the night before. The kissing was a little better and at least his lips made their way as far down as my nipples. I know that this is an odd statement, but  I’ve never been the biggest fan of receiving blow jobs. but to be honest, I still want to have the option. I don’t know what I would do if there were no more in my life!  Martin’s lack of southern travel plans further solidified that I could never be with anyone who would be afraid to touch me. Never.

When I got myself home I realized that I left my bag of toiletries at his apartment. Subconsciously or consciously? Who knows, but I needed to go back to retrieve them so I can look pretty the rest of the week!

Later that evening I stopped by his apartment.  He made us tea and we sat and just chatted about our day.  Suddenly  he turned to me and said that he wanted to explain something. My initial thought was, “Oh no. He's going to end it.” Instead, he proceeded to tell me that earlier on Saturday evening he had bitten his lip and that was why he was so apprehensive about kissing me.

The light bulb came on and everything started to make sense. He didn't want to go "down town" on me because he was afraid of his bitten lip!

I know that it took him a bit of courage to tell me and I do respect him for his candor. So I won't hold it against him. On second thought, maybe I will hold it against him again just to see how he does the second time around. Although I guess, technically, it would be the third time around!

I was still on Cloud  9 for days after my first date with Martin, the South African. Unfortunately for me, Martin, who was in the process of getting his MFA in creative writing, had absolutely no free time. And to make it worse, the following weekend he was going on trip to DC, then had houseguests, and was then taking a long weekend trip to Montreal to visit his sister. Needless to say, we were hard pressed to find any time to hangout.

Thankfully, he was able to shuffle things around in his schedule so we could spend a couple hours together.

He met me in Madison Square Park after work and we took a nice stroll through the city watching the night sky turn black. We stopped off at a little independent Coffee shop for some treats, but really the treat for me was his company. We spent two hours just talking. Talking about everything and nothing, playfully flirting and gently pressing our knees together.

We decided to leave and walked back out into the crisp night. As we started walking, he grabbed my hand. I was so surprised that I almost tripped over my own two feet! Instead, I managed to just smile as we walked hand in hand through Chelsea.

When we reached the corner of my departure, he grabbed my face, pulled me in close and gave a deep kiss that shook me to the core. I was so dazed that when I walked away I tripped and stumbled into the middle of 6th Avenue. Thankfully, an angry cabbie honked me back to consciousness before he ran me over.

“You begin to get weak in the knees. Your head's in a whirl. And then you feel light as a feather, and before you know it, you're walking on air. And then you know what? You're knocked for a loop, and you completely lose your head!”

When I got home I promptly told Martin about my HIV status because I knew the next time there would be a kiss like that, it wouldn’t end with just a kiss. I was beyond relieved to find that my status was not an issue for him.

Ok, we were on the right track. But it was feeling almost too good to be true, and this is where the wheels typically come off the cart for me.  My brain goes into hysterical over-drive.   As I mentioned, Martin and I would not be able to get together for a while - almost two weeks - and this allowed me ample time to drive myself crazy. My particular favorite brand of crazy is the kind where I run scenarios in my head over and over again depicting where our relationship might lead.  

Wouldn’t you know it, this would be the same two weeks where most of my friends found themselves incredibly busy and thus leaving me all alone with my thoughts. This is never good. My scenarios started easy enough, just your typical lustful encounters. Then my daydreams got a little more vivid and out of control: I quit my job and we moved to South Africa to pluck sheep and milk chickens, or whatever you do on a farm. At one point, I even convinced myself that he was only using me to get his green card. Oh yes, I became Andie McDowell and he was Gérard Depardieu sitting at that piano banging away while reciting a poem about poor children with no trees.

It is fair to say that I should never be left alone with my thoughts.

He promptly called upon his return and his simple “Hello” managed to dash all the craziness that had been circling around my brain for two weeks.  A couple days later he invited me to accompany him to see a play in Brooklyn. Before the show, we met at South African restaurant where he greeted me with a kiss and a box of chocolates he picked up at Suite 88 in Montreal.  Chocolates?!?

That night I deleted Grindr from my phone.

“And that ain't all. It could happen to anyone, so you'd better be careful. It could happen to you...and you, and...Yes, it could even happen to you!”