Over and over, footage of Rock Hudson standing next to Doris Day was playing on television, and he looked ghastly. His skin was wrinkled and sunken as if by very old age. It was 1985, and it was one of the last close-up images most of us would ever see of the movie icon. And it was terrifying. 

My heart was pounding, and I tried to listen to the voice-over, which spoke of the sudden illness of Rock Hudson and speculation that he might have AIDS. Throughout the newscast, memories of a night in 1982, nearly three years earlier, sprang to life. The images taunted me and screamed at me and said gonna getcha gonna getcha gonna getcha …

Charley and I had recently moved to Los Angeles and the city still held such mystery and promise for us. We were excited about spending our anniversary at the gay restaurant New York Company, where you got a candle on your table and mushrooms on your prime rib and they would probably sing to us or bring a special piece of cake.

No sooner had we settled at our table and ordered drinks than Charley started nudging my arm and staring at something behind me. I glanced in that direction, and was stunned to find Rock Hudson seated there, talking with another man.

In our short time in Los Angeles, I had developed the attitude that famous people deserved their privacy and one shouldn’t ogle them. I thought it was cool not to care they were there, even though I was dying to look. In any case, Charley was staring across our table in a gay restaurant directly at Rock Hudson and I wanted him to stop right this minute.

I was definitely jealous, not only of being upstaged by a movie star at my anniversary dinner, but because I wanted to look at him so badly myself, and Charley had the perfect view. So I pestered poor Charley for the next ten minutes about how rude he was and how I couldn’t believe he found the man so fascinating and why couldn’t he pay attention to me on this special night and all sorts of other such lies.

“You men having any fun?”

There was no mistaking the voice, and I looked up from my pouting stance to Charley, who was grinning across our table at the man behind me. “Sure,” Charley managed to say. I turned around and Rock Hudson was smiling at me. I was a star struck boy and there was no hiding it now.

“Yeah, me too,” I said. How completely embarrassing.

“You sure?” he asked, “Because my friend and I were just discussing it, and I was saying that the two of you were having a fight.”

Rock Hudson was discussing me. Rock Hudson was discussing me.

“Uh no, not at all,” I lied, jumping in before Charley had a chance to say what a bitch I was and how I thought you shouldn’t ogle movie stars. “I think we’re just kinda tired. As a matter of fact, today is our anniversary and we’re celebrating.”

“Yeah,” said Charley, “we’re doing fine. How are you tonight?” He was playing along, had forgiven me, and was asking Rock Hudson a question. This was unbelievable.

“It’s really wonderful that you two are having an anniversary. How long have you been together?”

“Three years,” we said in unison.

“That’s just great. Congratulations.” At this point he introduced his friend, who went “way back” and who’s name I couldn’t tell you in a million years, and then he offered an invitation. “Come sit with us, boys. Have a drink. It’s a special occasion.”

I looked at Charley, holding on to my “protect their privacy” stance for a few more seconds, but he had already risen to join them. What the hell. Like I would have refused. I took my spot beside Rock Hudson because I would have broken Charley’s arm if he had tried that seat and he knew it. Another round of drinks appeared, and the star launched into clever stories that I don’t quite remember but were more than fascinating at the time.

The conversation wandered onto Trivial Pursuit, the game which was then new and all the rage.

“Yes, I’ve heard of that,” Rock said. “I haven’t played it yet.”

“We’ve got the game, Rock,” Charley said. “You should really come over some time and we’ll play it with you.” I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He actually called Mr. Rock Hudson “Rock.” Furthermore, my partner had just invited this man “over some time,” like that was really in the realm of possibility.

More drinks arrived. This man can drink like a cow, I thought, and not even show it. He was playful, though, and shot a few looks my way that I would have taken quite differently if it weren’t clear I was celebrating my anniversary with the man to my immediate left.

“It’s a great game,” I found myself saying. “You wanna come over and play it with us?” I was a teensy bit smashed, no doubt about it.

“Yes, I would.”

I’m sure there was more to it, more of a rationale as to why he felt comfortable crashing our anniversary evening, but I don’t remember. His friend kindly begged off of the event, and it was decided that Charley would take his friend home while I rode with Rock so he had no problem finding our apartment. I still will never believe he parked his classy import on Edgewood Avenue, because it made me nervous parking my car there. Once inside, I found a full bottle of Scotch, poured him a drink, and gave him a tour of our tiny apartment until Charley got back.

I was no fool. What we had here was a prescription for something… unseemly. But I was barreling through these bizarre circumstances and wasn’t weighing the specific possibilities. That’s a lie. I was pursuing it because I suspected what was to come.

We played the game for a couple of hours, Rock winning and drinking. Before it was over the Scotch would be history and I would offer to roll a joint. “Pot makes me horny,” he said, “so I don’t know if I should–” and of course I was passing him the joint faster than you could say Star Fucker.

He talked about movies. And sex. And people he loved and hated. The juiciest tales began with “I was really drunk one night when” and the meanest had to do with people he thought had treated him badly professionally (“You need Julie Andrews like you need a knife in your back,” said he).

Charley had taken it all in, but knew when enough was enough. He excused himself quite late to go to bed, Rock offered to go, I wouldn’t hear of it, and we continued sitting in the dining room passing the joint.

I knew what was being played out. Questions floated about in the back balcony of my head, just within earshot. What kind of guy was I? Was I going to have sex with this man right here in the living room? What about my anniversary? What about the man I loved asleep in the bedroom? Was Rock Hudson as well hung as everyone said? Some questions got my attention more than others.

Rock made motions for the umpteenth time that it was time to go home, so while he whispered another insincere goodnight, I drunkenly opened the pants of Mr. Rock Hudson. The fact that this was a famous escapade had overruled the anniversary etiquette issues.

Thirty minutes or so later, I stood in my robe outside the bathroom, wondering what Rock Hudson thought about the rust stained bathtub in which he was quickly showering. The sex had been in near dark, and without the pretext of romance — no tender caresses or meaningful glances.

I can remember only one direct look from the man. I stared down upon his face after the exhaustion of labored sex — too much bourbon, too much pot — and my eyes tried adjusting to his face in the dark. And then there it was, staring back at me, with a surprisingly impatient look. Stern and almost elderly.

“Are you done?” he asked blankly.

Well, life ain’t the damned movies, I suppose.

I would make small talk with him as he toweled dry and dressed, and then me, in a final act of staking my claim, asking for his autograph. Yes, so help me, I asked the damp, drunk and spent star to scribble “All my best, Rock Hudson” on a piece of notebook paper before his hasty exit down the duplex stairs and out to the dingy street below.

I watched the car pull away and walked slowly back to the bedroom, where Charley was sound asleep and snoring. I laid down in the dark and the night replayed in my mind. Was I triumphant? Excited, thrilled, guilty? I had just bedded the ultimate male screen icon of a generation, and I hadn’t the slightest idea how to feel about it.

Rock Hudson was now a ghastly figure on a television screen in my living room. My heart raced every time the evening news began and some new tidbit of information about his disease, his sex life, his kiss with Linda Evans on “Dynasty,” his lovers and his drug treatments were reported with morbid tones and oh-my-God urgency.

I had not yet been tested for HIV. In 1985, what was the point? There were no known effective treatments, the first drug treatment, AZT, was just being introduced and people with AIDS were dropping like flies. It was politically incorrect to get tested because it could lead to discrimination, brand you as terminal and assure you that every pathetic image of a dying AIDS patient applied directly to you.

And that is exactly what the Rock Hudson coverage was doing to me, test or no test. Magazines and Dan Rather news stories were talking to me specifically. ROCK HUDSON HAS AIDS, the headlines screamed, AND MARK KING WILL DIE AS WELL.

“Rock Hudson is now resting in his Los Angeles home beyond a doctors care,” reported Mary Hart on Entertainment Tonight, “and Mark, you’re an idiot if you think you can escape this now. You’re dead as a door nail, buddy. What were you thinking?”

I would stare at the coverage without a word, and nod my head at parties when someone said how tragic it was and excuse myself.

My parents had been told the censored version of the anniversary night story that very next day, and called me in Los Angeles shortly after Rock was reported ill. “Why not go down to the hospital?” my father asked. “You could try to cheer him up, maybe bring Trivial Pursuit!” I explained the man had a million fans and wouldn’t remember me, without mentioning how trivial the pursuit had been.

In October of 1985, Rock Hudson died in his home. News reports tortured me for months to come.

(Edited from A Place Like This, by Mark S. King. Copyright 2008.)

*******************

I love checking the analytical data produced by my blog software. It tells me what pages of my site you are visiting, what link sent you here, and even where you live (Hello, Cleveland! G’day, Sidney!). It also tells me what keyword searches bring people to my site, and once I sort through all the porn references (that piece on porn star Dawson still reels in the readers), the most popular Google search that brings people to my site, still, is the two words “Rock Hudson.”

Since interest in him remains so high, I don’t mind sharing this piece again (it appeared on my site in 2010). It allows me to provide a perspective on AIDS, celebrity, and our communal fear during the 1980′s that those Google visitors might never have expected.

Thanks for reading, and please be well.

Mark

This article originally appeared on Mark’s own blog My Fabulous Disease here. 

I have some amazing friends for you to meet. 

Beginning two years ago, TheBody.com asked me to produce a series of videos (“A Day in the Life: Keeping Up With Your HIV Meds”) that would profile a person living with HIV, what their day looks like, and how their medication regimen fits into their daily routine. It was a great opportunity to highlight the everyday lives of people living with HIV, but also to let their spirit and passions come through, and show we are whole people — not simply the virus.

The profile subjects came from all walks of life, in various cities around the United States, and their personalities and interests — their families, their hobbies, and even how they became HIV positive — were all I needed for inspiration.

Below are the eleven videos that have been produced to date for the series (an ongoing feature on TheBody.com). They are each less than ten minutes long; just scroll through them below and find a story that sounds like yours — or better yet, hear what the journey of someone completely different from you is like! Are you ready?

Episode 1: Damaries Cruz

Damaries is from South Florida and could not have been more lovely; we laughed a lot during our day together. Her strength is what impressed me most: she did not come to the decision to start HIV medications lightly. She really did her research before she began a regimen. Filming her story was also a great excuse to hit the beach, since she loves to find her peace and tranquility on that gorgeous sand.

Click here to read the rest of Mark’s article from his blog, My Fabulous Disease.

In the course of a few short months, Lee Thompson (“Uncle Poodle” to reality TV watchers) has managed to personify a variety of hot button issues among gay men today. He has come out as gay and HIV-positive. He has sent an ex-lover to jail and sent nude pictures via Grindr. 

Or not. Depending on whom you believe. Let’s break down the strange case of Uncle Poodle.

In what we can all agree was a positive development, Thompson publicly came out as gay last year and evidently has the love and support of much of his family, the colorful clan of the TLC reality show “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.” He instantly became an ally and friend of gays everywhere. So far, so good.

Then, in a recent interview with the Atlanta gay magazine Fenuxe, Thompson made the announcement that he tested HIV-positive in May of 2012. What was startling, though, was his explanation of his infection. Thompson claimed that not only had an ex-lover knowingly infected him, but that the man is currently serving a five-year sentence for non-disclosure of his HIV status (an example of what is known as HIV Criminalization).

Almost immediately the details of the story were questioned (by everyone except Fenuxe magazine, which did not delve into the prosecution in their piece; the writer simply “applauded” Thompson’s bravery). Journalist Todd Heywood posed serious questions about the case, including the timeline between Thompson’s infection and the reported prosecution, which would have happened in mere months. Heywood also scoured court records from Georgia to Alabama and could find no evidence of any such case. Requests for more information from Thompson’s people have garnered no response. The defendant has never been identified.

Did Uncle Poodle lie about sending the ex-lover to jail? And why the hell would he do that?

It is my opinion that Thompson made up the prosecution story. And in doing so, he behaved in much the same way that most everyone does who tests HIV positive these days. He looked for someone else to blame. He played the innocent victim. He released himself from personal responsibility.

Because everybody knows that when you test HIV-positive, you don’t call your doctor to start treatment. You call the police to press charges.

Stigma is driving these actions, of course. People who become positive today are judged for being “bad,” for not following the rules, for failing the community and becoming one of the great unwashed. It makes no difference that they were simply caught being human, that they let down their guard for a moment or got drunk or didn’t care or stupidly fell in love. Their friends will furrow their brows. Their dating life will wither.

And so, someone must pay for these indignities. That is one reason HIV criminalization laws have prospered – they appeal to our sense of vengeance. They are also vessels of homophobia, sexism and racism, considering how badly the laws are applied and how often prosecutions run counter to public health or even common sense (some convictions have imposed jail time for decades even when condoms were used and no one was infected, and advocates believe people forgo HIV testing in fear of being prosecuted). Conservative lawmakers and prosecutors — who don’t believe people with HIV should be having sex at all — are more than willing to exploit our feelings of revenge when testing positive so they can lock up some diseased fags.

I empathize with those who test positive today. They suddenly find themselves on my side of the viral divide, and for some, their hearts and minds may not have made the crossing yet. Perhaps they have unresolved issues about becoming infected. Whatever their circumstances, testing positive is a major life event and I can understand if some have an impulse to lash out.

And I believe that Lee Thompson did exactly that when he reported sending the man who infected him to jail. The man who no one can identify. The case that no one can locate.

Things have just gotten a little more complicated for our Uncle Poodle. Now, someone who claims to have communicated with Thompson on Grindr is trying to sell naked photos that Thompson supposedly sent him (isn’t humanity grand?). Thompson being linked to Grindr — the app about which controversy recently arose when a survey indicated half of its users were engaging in bareback sex — presents a delicate situation indeed.

People living with HIV have every right to “full and satisfying sexual and emotional lives,” as the Denver Principles stated thirty years ago. There is no evidence or details about Thompson’s sexual life or choices, so let’s simply hope he is conducting himself as someone with intimate knowledge of HIV non-disclosure laws, considering his contention that he sent someone to jail for withholding their status. The sword cuts both ways, and I worry for him.

Lee Thompson certainly has faced his share of scrutiny, living as an HIV-positive gay man in the rural South, much less someone connected to a wildly popular reality series. But he should consider his moves, both public and private, very, very carefully. Because we don’t simply like to tear down celebrities, or save our judgment and revenge for those with the thickest skin.

As we prove time and again, we can do it to the very best of friends.

Mark

PLUS…

Thank you for your stunning readership in recent weeks, my friends. In particular, the recent post “Your Mother Liked It Bareback” broke all traffic records on my site. I will admit to being precociously provocative with that one, and especially appreciate the comments you left, which proved far more interesting than the post itself. I do believe, as Gus Cairns remarked, that much of this passionate debate is driven by the pure grief so many of us experienced — and that is nothing to be taken lightly. My point remains that our emotions have little to no effect on the fact that nearly half of gay men don’t use condoms at least some of the time; validating other prevention tools isn’t a threat to condom use; and finally, what are we doing for the 50% of gay men not using condoms — or are they expendable?

This article first appeared on Mark’s own site, My Fabulous Disease, here.

Living with HIV can be expensive — you never know when you may need to dash to the pharmacy for some damn thing. Or renew your subscription to Vanity Fair. So I was happy to get on a list for a marketing company that would pay me to be interviewed about various subjects. 

If there’s anything I like discussing, it’s my opinion.

Recently they called and asked if I drank scotch. Of course, I responded. Love the stuff. Okay, it doesn’t precisely jive with the fact I’m a recovering addict and alcoholic, but it was the right answer. I was invited to join a focus group on one of the vilest alcoholic beverages known to man. No actual drinking would be involved. And they paid cash.

A few days later I was escorted into the focus group room with seven other men. I looked closely at the group and it dawned on me — the Wrangler jeans, the scuffed work boots, the indifference to hair products — that I was dealing with decidedly straight men who lived outside my safe haven of Atlanta. As the saying goes, the only thing wrong with Atlanta is that it’s surrounded by Georgia.

The facilitator began by asking us to describe the sensations of drinking scotch. “It’s got a smooth feel to it, yep,” one man offered. I agreed. “Smooth” would become my default answer for most of the evening. What followed was a litany of the pleasures of drinking a dozen different brands.

“That J&B has a peaty taste,” said one, to several heads nodding in agreement. “Yup,” said another, “but ‘course, your single malts usually have that. I prefer the bite of Dewars, m’self.”

What the hell were these men talking about? Was “peaty” actually a word?

“And you, Mark?” asked the facilitator. “What about the Famous Grouse?”

I couldn’t remember if Famous Grouse was a bird or a Dr. Seuss character. I was sinking fast.

“It’s smooth,” I replied a little nervously. Thankfully, a head or two nodded, and they returned to their debate over double malts and peatiosity.

The facilitator then produced magazines and asked us to cut out pictures that reminded us of scotch. Well, you can just imagine my relief. I had no idea there was a talent portion to the evening. I snatched up Rolling Stone, pulled myself away from the movie reviews, and artistically cut out pictures of pouting women and buff men. Whereas the others in the group carelessly ripped out whole pages with no sense of composition whatsoever, I requested glue and produced a dramatic collage entitled “Shake Me, Stir Me: My Scotch Experience.”

When asked at what times we enjoyed the drink, I listened to accounts of fly-fishing trips with the boys, drinking scotch fireside, and imbibing with “the little lady” after a grilled sirloin. I might as well have unearthed some lost army of terra cotta rednecks in the Georgia mountains.

Uncomfortable emotions began to stir inside me. I resented the authenticity they took for granted – and the effortless masculinity I had always viewed as a threat to my own. But truth be told, they were simply sharing stories of their friends and their wives, while I had offered nothing real about myself.

They were guilty only of being themselves, and my selfish defenses were ridiculing them for it. But I was too threatened to see it at the time. My bombast remained securely hidden.

“I enjoy it best when I lick it off my gay lover’s balls,” I wanted to say. How could I march in a gay pride parade with “No One Knows I’m HIV positive” emblazoned on my t-shirt, I begrudgingly wondered, but I couldn’t come out in a room of eight men?

“Let’s say a bottle of scotch came to life as a man,” the facilitator queried — a bit too conceptually for the room, in my opinion. “What would he be like?”

“Oh, he’d be a friendly, boisterous man!” one said. “Yeah,” said another, “with mud on his boots. A real outdoors man. Definitely not a dandy man.” It was hard to know if you were being insulted when they used good ‘ol boy euphemisms.

“Interesting,” said the facilitator. “What’s a ‘dandy man?’”

“Well,” he replied, “he definitely wouldn’t kiss boys, if ya know what I mean!” This piece of striking wit was greeted with guffaws all around. Pot bellies and hair pieces wiggled with laughter.

I now have a moral obligation to start yelling, I thought. I must climb on top of this table, begin stomping my Cole Haans, and scream “You know what I like about scotch? It keeps my AIDS in check!” I wanted to rip my shirt wide open and wiggle my nipple rings at them. If only I had a tattoo the size of a Cutty Sark bottle that read “FISTING DADDY.”

“And what would this scotch man, come to life, look like to you, Mark?” the facilitator asked. All eyes turned to me. The time was now.

“Well…” I began. “He’d be, ah… smooth.” Everyone nodded with approval.

I left after the two hour interview with sixty dollars in cash and a nagging sense of an opportunity missed.

My God, what would Larry Kramer think?

Mark

***

When I initially wrote this more than ten years ago, I was comfortable with my stereotyping of straight men — and Georgians in particular — for comic effect. There was zero self-awareness in the essay. Re-reading it this week, I realized it had a mean spiritedness that bothered me. I revised it in an attempt to reflect my own insecurities during the focus group, which clearly colored my attitude toward the other men in the room. Alas, the piece may be beyond repair.

And what an artifact this is, considering that anyone watching the redneck television vehicle Here Comes Honey Boo Boo knows that her “Uncle Poodle” (Lee Thompson) has come out publicly as a gay man. What’s more, Lee also disclosed recently he is HIV positive. You should definitely check out Sean Strub’s article about this, because Thompson claims to have pressed charges against his former partner for not disclosing his status, and that the partner is now serving a five year jail sentence. HIV criminalization meets trash TV!

This article originally appeared on Mark's own blog My Fabulous Disease which you can read here.

My fear of all things anal began when I was an early teen. My older brother David took great delight in bursting into our bathroom to startle me, especially if I was on the john. And, since I was a pubescent redhead, his sudden visits included a lot of laughing and pointing. 

I was mortified beyond belief. To this day, I must be sure no one is in the house, and then close and lock the bedroom and bathroom doors before I can properly relax. And I live alone.

But you can’t avoid everything anal if you’re growing up gay. Not if you want to do the really fun stuff.

Thus my conundrum as a youth: exploring the pleasures of my tush while fighting the terror that something stinky might be going on down there. And I suspect I am not alone in this particular anxiety.

I discovered soon enough that if someone had serious intentions in regard to my backside, I couldn’t simply rely upon a bran muffin and a Hail Mary to be properly prepared. God forbid I would, you know, not be… well, you know. This ongoing fear had a habit of wrecking the mood and the evening.

My exclamations during sex were usually panicked calls to turn the lights up, so I could carefully inspect the situation. Or a plea to stop altogether. “Okay, that’s fine, no wait!” I would cry out. “Am I okay down there? I mean, is it… okay go ahead… no hold on! Are you sure I’m…?” I was usually so involved with my protestations that I would hardly notice my date gathering his things to leave.

There are cleansing products meant to address this situation, but they require a certain comfort level with your own body and a little patience, meaning, they were incomprehensible to me. But I tried my best.

Drugstore enemas always felt too clinical, like something a nurse should be administering so you could “move your bowels,” a phrase I hope I never have to hear again, much less type.

But never fear. Leave it to gay men to popularize the “shower shot,” a long hose which screws into your shower head and ends in a narrow nozzle, just right for sliding up your bum for a thorough internal rinse.

The modulation of this instrument, however — and I cannot stress this enough — is of utmost importance. Too little water pressure and you’ve got a dribble with little cleansing effect. Too much, and you’ve just inserted a pressure washer into your ass that could peel the paint off a building.

I was first introduced to this contraption in my early twenties, when my first-time date invited me to visit the bathroom to “rinse out” while he relaxed in bed and waited. I stepped in the shower and surveyed the dangling metal hose. I turned on the water. I considered how it all might operate, and I made my best guess, standing there for God knows how long, hose inserted and whistling a happy tune.

I must say in my defense that no one had ever explained the device to me, much less how to gauge the input versus the output.

That poor, unfortunate man. He had really pretty designer sheets, covered with a gorgeous blue and white pinstripe blanket that I can still see clear as day. Such a lovely bedroom. That is, until a few passionate moments later, when all of it was soaked with a solid gallon of spoiled water that had been percolating in my poopchute, exploding from me in a streaming rush that looked like the wake of an outboard motor hurtling across Lake Erie. The word “apocalyptic” comes to mind.

Only as I matured did I realize I had options (and I will now introduce cute baseball analogies to illustrate my point). I discovered I did not, in fact, always have to play catcher, and I stepped onto the pitcher’s mound with great enthusiasm. But as much as I enjoyed the view from above, I worried still, that maybe I wasn’t holding up my end of the bargain. It was only after pitching a near-perfect game one day that my partner in the dugout helped me make a simple decision.

“Mark,” he said. “Why don’t you just stick to what you do well?” And it was this generous assessment that gave me the confidence to hang up the hiney hose forever.

Yes, that’s right. I’m now a dedicated top. I’ll allow you a few moments of incredulous wonderment.

What’s even more amazing is my having a boyfriend who is not only loving and adorable, but absolutely expert at the exotic mysteries of booty sex preparation. It really is an impressive talent, if you ask me. Like walking on your hands, or spinning plates on sticks.

This is all to tell you, dear reader, that sometimes you must find solutions to your fears in order to take care of yourself. And sometimes you have to face your damn fears head-on. I was reminded of this recently when, at fifty-two years old, I had my first colonoscopy. I don’t think I have to explain my anxiety level going in to this procedure.

Everything checked out fine, thanks. I had heard the anesthesia they give you can produce some odd behavior, but other than proposing to the physician and asking the recovery nurse if they located my pet hamster, I behaved myself quite admirably.

The only side effect of my colonoscopy was a bloated feeling and a case of the gurgles. Well, and a few hours later I had the longest, most continuous release of gas I have ever experienced in all my days. I’m talking a minute plus, people.

I really wish my older brother David had been here. He loves that kind of thing.

Mark

(Artwork courtesy of Andrews’s Anus, via LifeLube.)

****

My Friends, 

If I can face my deepest fears, so can you. Did you know that studies show people living with HIV have a higher incidence of “colonic neoplasms” (the polyps they are looking for during a colonoscopy), which should be checked out for cancerous cell growth? Anyone aged 50 should get a colonoscopy, and some protocols suggest that people with HIV start this screening at age 45. Please don’t delay. Call your doctor! (At left, a picture of my happy procedure team just prior to my colonoscopy.)

And speaking of rectal douching (and why not? We really should discuss this topic more, considering it is such a common practice among gay men), I cannot say enough about LifeLube, the blog created by the AIDS Foundation of Chicago to help gay men address sexuality and their bodies. They have an entire section devoted to rectal douching (did you know there are new douches that limit the amount of healthy bacteria removed?) and another feature, Andrew’s Anus, that provides engaging answers to the questions you’re afraid to ask. The blog is no longer active – meaning, no new postings – but there is a wealth of information here and you should definitely check it out.

This article first appeared in Mark’s own blog My Fabulous Disease here.