Todd Klinck is a well known figure in the Toronto alternative club scene, known too for his past work as a young dom in the sex trade, with a nightclub in the burbs featuring shemale strippers, for making porn with a kink twist, for being edgy and out - and outspoken, but he’s much more than that.  Here’s the Wikepedia version of Todd Klinck’s life

Todd Klinck (born November 15, 1974 in Windsor, Ontario) is a Canadian writer, nightclub owner and pornography producer. Klinck moved to Toronto at age 18 to study theatre at York University, but dropped out to focus on his career. In 1996, his novel Tacones (High Heels) was the winner of the Three-Day Novel Contest, and was published by Anvil Press to strong reviews in the Toronto Star and Quill and Quire. Klinck also collaborated with John Palmer and Jaie Laplante on the screenplay for the 2004 film Sugar, which garnered a nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay at the 25th Genie Awards, and was a columnist for fab until 2005. He wrote an online only column for Xtra! magazine called "Sex Play" in 2009, and a column called "Porndoggy" in the same publication for most of 2010. His writing has been published in the National Post, Saturday Night magazine, and Bil Bo K (Belgium).

Klinck and his business partner Mandy Goodhandy have launched several sex businesses in the Toronto area, including a transgender strip club, "The Lounge", an adult DVD production company, "Mayhem North", and a porn site, "Amateur Canadian Guys". In 2006 they opened a pansexual nightclub "Goodhandy's" located in downtown Toronto. Klinck has also worked as a professional BDSM dominant, and has appeared on the television series KinK.

With Goodhandy, Klinck was chosen to be the Grand Marshall of the Pride Toronto 2010 parade.

Bob Leahy: Todd, thank you for talking to PositiveLite.com. I want to ask you first, you’ve spent most of your life in the sex industry, in one way or another. What does your mom think of all this?

Todd Klinck: My mom was pretty ahead of her time, Bob. She raised us to be feminists, encouraged atheism (or at least agnosticism) and to question conventional thought. Because of that, when I came out to her about my sex work, it only required that I explained a little bit about it, so that she understood the politics and was reassured about typical motherly safety concerns. She was a card carrying member of Mensa, so it's not difficult to explain things to her and gain her acceptance.

BL: OK. I want to talk about how you got in to it. You started in 1996, didn’t you, when you were quite young? What was it like being a beginner escort in those early days.

TK: It was pre-internet. A totally different world. There were fewer opportunities for people to have discreet casual sex, and even fewer for paid sex. I found the clients to be very respectful of my set rules about safer sex, about pricing, and limitations. I found the closeted guys to be easier to deal with than guys who were already out as gay.

I've mentored some young escorts over the past couple years, and can say that much has changed. People have so many more options for free sex encounters, and in some ways, the slight normalization of the sex business has made people more likely to think it's OK to haggle and treat the boys with less respect. That's just my interpretation based on the experiences of several younger boys in recent years. There are also many wonderful clients who hire escorts, and I have heard lots about them also. The main difference, that you may find interesting for readers of this particular site, is that when I started in 1996, I was able to insist on condoms for oral sex with little to no resistance. Boys I have mentored tell me that it is absolutely unheard of with current clients.

BL: Did you go for the dom BDSM niche market right away?

TK: I started as a “boy escort” because I was 21 at the time, and quite thin. I knew little about BDSM, but several years in, I acquired one regular client who was extremely into BDSM. Our relationship evolved, and I learned immensely from him. He eventually became my official slave, has my name tattooed on his ass, and was a regular subject in my former column at fab. He even guest wrote a couple of my columns, from his perspective.

My evolution into professional dominance started in my mid 20's, and was kind of organic as I moved forward. I discovered what my areas of expertise were, and nurtured them, and collected regular clients who liked what I did. I took several breaks from escorting throughout my 20's, because of other work, and for mental sanity, and when I returned to the business closer to 30 years old, I exclusively specialized in pro domination. Doing “regular” sexual services did not fit where my headspace was at the time. Of course there is often sexual behaviour included in BDSM, but I liked the distance that pro domming gave me, the control of the situation. I slowly started releasing clients in my early 30's, keeping only the ones that I enjoyed a lot. I have not ever officially retired, I still have one spanking client who calls me every couple years and if I'm available I'll give him a good beating, but my lifestyle and work make doing it not that viable. And I don't have that much interest in doing it.

BL: Why did you leave, Todd?  Was the thrill of it gone by then?

TK: I didn't do it for the thrill, and I didn't leave it because the thrill was gone. I did it for a lot of other reasons – wanted something that paid well while working on my writing, wanted to exploit my youth for my own benefit, probably some natural exhibitionism and narcissism, and a strong sense of the politics of it. I felt passionately from before I even placed my first ad about the importance of being one of the very few out male escorts. It bothered me that I saw very few examples of males who were in the gay scene, challenging the norms about sex work. I knew I had the strong foundation that my mother gave me, that I could do it, and not be ashamed, and handle it. It was like a personal challenge. I considered it for nearly a year before I started. I hung out with t-girl escorts, met some male street hustlers, other escorts, got my head around the situation before beginning.

BL:  After that, you had a strip club out in Mississauga, the Lounge, for a while, right? That seemed like a daring move at the time. Location-wise and concept-wise. I’m guessing it didn’t work out financially?

TK: Mandy Goodhandy is my business partner, and the creative and driving force behind much of what we do. She has a long history in the nightclub business, and yes, she is very, very daring. The Lounge was not ever officially my venture with her. I did not have the balls she had, in terms of a partnership. I had just gone bankrupt, and told her I would help her, be her right hand man, but I didn't want any official responsibilities. From a financial point of view, it was actually fairly low risk. We were renting the basement of a straight strip club. She had to pay for ads in the paper, but had already created an internet presence on her own, with Ladyplus.com (which has now evolved into a Mayhem North owned social networking site with more than 4,000 members, growing daily).

We started with shemale strippers, and it was quite lucrative from the beginning for everyone involved. The girls made very good money doing private dances, the cover charge was high, I worked as a DJ and waiter and got good tips, everything was good. It was very underground, in a remote location, but Mandy had the vision to know that Mississauga is actually the perfect place for a shemale strip event. Because it's straight suburban folks who are connoisseurs of the ladies “with something extra”. The location made it easy for guys to sneak in, have their experience, and leave without causing any suspicion.

We became world famous at that location – I am not being pretentious – Mandy's shemale events were known all over, because of the internet. We had people visit from Japan, all over the States, Europe. All to this, quite honestly, divey little basement party room in a pretty skeezy straight strip club. We actually kept the strippers running from 2002 to 2009, even the first 3 years that Goodhandy's was running. We only ended up eventually closing it because it was too challenging to manage both Goodhandy's the club, and the Lounge. We wanted everything to be under one roof.

BL:  I didn’t know that!  Anyway, then you went in to making porn, Mayhem North and webcam stuff like Amateur Canadian Guys. Tell me about that.

TK: The Lounge was a money maker for the shemale strippers. But we also ran male events, Mandy despises the word “stripper” and chose to promote them as “nude boys”. Those events had a cult following, but were never profitable. You cannot charge gay men high enough cover to make it worthwhile financially. But we were doing it to gather content for Mayhem North (which is a corporation held equally in equal partnership by me and Mandy). We started shooting scenes after hours at the Lounge, and shooting solo jerk off videos in this little tiny coat check room on a mini-van car seat that someone had left behind. It was all quite ghetto, but that became our aesthetic. We treated the models as people, well, because they are people. We weren't into plot-oriented porn, and just shot “boys being boys”.

BL: You used to write about porn in Xtra too. Tell me what you look for in porn you watch. Who is your favourite studio? Performer? Movie?

TK: My current favourite studio is Alexander Pictures. Porn is a personal thing. I just happen to quite appreciate black and latin men, and Alexander shoots all of his movies in Brazil. He also has a parallel line where he pretends that he's shooting middle eastern men (but really they are Brazilian). I kind of like that line too, I can get into the fantasy, because it's not like I understand the language anyways, and he's not trying to fool anyone. I like the fact that he is one of the mainstream studios who has achieved a great deal of success while still using condoms in their films. If I had to pick a favorite Alexander title, it'd be “Rio Blatinos” (but really, almost all of his movies have scenes I like).

BL: And your opinion of (bareback porn studio) Treasure Island Media?

TK: Not fond of Treasure Island on the surface, but I have not delved deeply into it to see how much they contexualize their sensibilities. I have issues with bareback porn, and mainly it's with the lack of contexualization. I'm pretty sure I would dislike Treasure Island, from what I've seen in this one documentary film made by the brother of one of it's stars. (It's called “Ryan Sullivan's Island” and it's interesting, as it makes no comment on the studio, it just shows a lot of behind the scene stuff, some of it disturbing).

BL: OK. I want to ask you a few questions about HIV. What responsibilities do sex on premises venues have towards HIV, do you think, or is it a matter strictly up to participants?

TK: I think that sex venues have a responsibility to provide complimentary condoms AND lube, to have adequate lighting, to do anything that they can do reasonably to assist in the dissemination of safer sex literature and supplies. I am involved in a couple sex positive events at my venue (though calling Goodhandy's “a sex club” as it is commonly called, is no longer accurate, in my opinion, because it is only something that is part of certain events, not all events). I do not, however, think that it is the responsibility of the venue to walk around and aim flashlights at peoples’ orifices and demand to know the context of the choice that has been made between two (hopefully) consenting adults.

BL: Let’s explore that a little but more, Todd. With bareback porn, the verdict is still out on how much watching it actually influences sexual behaviour. But what do you think of BB porn being shown in bath-houses for instance? Any issues there?

TK: That is a tricky one. I think it would be more responsible of a bathhouse to not show bareback porn. People could argue that people deserve choice, and I guess they could win that choice, but I would respect a bathhouse owner who made a point of not showing bareback porn. Again, it's context. I'm not against people taking educated risks in life. I'm not against people barebacking. I just find that the porn industry has embraced barebacking with little regard to what it might be doing to society. It's the way they promote it, it's the prevalence of it with no context. So yeah, I have issues with it, and with playing it in bathhouses.

BL: Do you think young gay men in particular think much about the prospect of getting HIV?

TK: No, I don't. I was speaking to some very young gay boys within the past couple years, and they had ludicrous notions of safer sex. And it made me realize that they had fallen through the cracks in terms of education. They thought that after a couple weeks with a guy, if you said you were “boyfriends”, then you couldn't catch HIV. I asked them about porn, and dug deeper, and it seemed they had been affected by bareback porn to the point where barebacking seemed normal to them. Again, it's about the context – if there was more context to bareback porn, it could even be educational. But it's presented as just something that people do I learned about safer sex in high school, in the early 1990's. It was a mandatory part of gym class. These kids I was talking to obviously had missed that class.

But I think probably the number one reason young people don't think about becoming positive is because there are so few examples of openly POZ people. I went for a few years without getting tested, and thought a lot about how I would react if I tested positive. I knew the challenge of the stigmas. When I tested negative, a very small, irrational part of me even wished that it had been the opposite, because I thought I could help. The thing is this: I run a nightclub, I was involved in the media, I am active in the anonymous sex world and have been for years (parks, bathhouses, online hookups), so I would say I'm not just your average queer guy. I come in contact with A LOT of people, thousands. And I can say that only recently I “know” more than 10 people who are openly POZ. It's not for me to say that people need to be public about their status. Absolutely not. But emotionally and intellectually, it is still something that I question, when I read the stats that show young people are still becoming POZ in fairly steady numbers. I question if things would be different if there were more POZ people out. I want to emphasize – I am very aware it's easy for me to say, and can't even guarantee I'd have the strength to overcome the stigma if I ever did test positive. I am on shaky political ground by even discussing this. But you asked me a question, and I have to answer it honestly.

BL: Well, thanks, Todd for that.  Now moving on a bit, last year you and Mandy were very much in the spotlight for accepting the role of grand marshals for the  (Toronto) Pride Parade after Alan Li stepped down on the free speech/QuAIA issue. You got mixed press for that. But I liked how you turned it into a chance to spotlight sex-positivity  - sex workers leading the parade and all that. Is all that over with, or do you think some people still are mad at you?

TK: I got a lot of support when we stood our ground, and when I communicated directly to people via several Facebook notes. People who had de-friended me on Facebook came up to me and apologized and told me they were just reacting in anger. I am sure some people still hold a grudge but it's not something that I see or think about much.

BL: Good. Now let’s talk about Goodhandys. It’s very much identified with you and Mandy. How did you meet Mandy first of all?

TK: I met her in an interesting situation. She had a photo-only website, one of the very first shemale porn sites in the world. She needed a male model to wear a mask, and be on a leash. I was that male model. I then became friends with her, and became her resident photographer.

BL: You describe Goodhandy’s as a pansexual playground. Tell me what that means? Tell me what to expect if I arrived there for the first time, say, and it was a LadyPlus party night?

TK: We use the term pansexual playground because pansexual encompasses the whole spectrum of sexuality. We are proud that we've worked with lesbian promoters, queer promoters of all types, nudists, fetishists, and even most recently, we now are working with a straight promoter for an electronic music night.

The Ladyplus parties are nights that provide a discreet place for people (mainly men and couples, but also some ladies) who are sexually attracted to t-girls. And a social space for t-girls and their admirers and supporters also. The sex at Ladyplus parties happens only behind closed doors, in private booths. The energy is sexually charged, because cruising and hooking up are a big part of the environment and atmosphere, but it's also very relaxed and chill. The most common comment I get from our clientele is how mellow the place is, how comfortable the atmosphere is. The guys who like t-girls are often very conflicted about their desires. You know, “What does it mean that I like girls with dicks? Am I gay? Am I bi? Who am I?”  I totally sympathize with these dudes and have really gotten to bond with them and appreciate the uniqueness of their sexual orientation. So yeah, a Ladyplus party is a pretty unpretentious and comfortable environment, and of course as the night progresses it can also get pretty wild and interesting – t-girls are quite flamboyant and exciting and entertaining, and the girls like to dance and show off (we have 2 stripper poles).

BL: Have to admit I’ve never been there, but I’m from out of town. Is it all ages? I mean I’m getting on a bit. Would I feel out of place there?

We are primarily a promoter venue. Let me explain what that means. A “gay bar”, for example, a place like Woody's in Toronto, is a gay bar, 7 days a week. The theme is predictable, customers know what they are getting when they go there, 7 days a week. Maybe there will be a different show or something subtle, but you know it's primarily a gay bar for gay guys, a pub setting, and that's what made it an institution. We are a venue that makes itself available for promoters of all walks of life. So I always tell people “Make sure you check our website before you come by, or you may walk into an all naked men-only party, or a fetish party”. Some people like the surprise, of course, and we have cross-over from event to event, people who have just grown to love the atmosphere. Many of our clientele are “getting on a bit”. Even the younger gay dance parties have older customers, I think it's comfortable for all.

BL: Good to hear.  Now, I like your tattoos. Who did them? You have six sets of horizontal bands around your arms, all black except one that‘s red. What does that mean?

TK: All of my tattoos except for one were done by Matthew Ellis, of Seven Crowns Tattoo. We went to school together and I like how he works. The bands mean absolutely nothing, they are just decorative. One is red, because when he did the outline for one of the black ones, he used a red sharpie, and I thought “hey, one of them would look kind of cool in red”.

BL: You’ve written one book already (Tacones) and of course it did very well. Ever thought of writing your life story? 

TK: I am interested in writing, but less so in the traditional forms. I’m a big fan of the internet and self publishing and consider even doing interviews like this part of telling my life story. Maybe one day I will write memoirs, after the fact, when I won't get in trouble for telling the whole truth.

BL: Looking back on your life, Todd, what are you most proud of?

TK: I'm most proud of being able to live a creative, evolutionary, organic life, and not having to work for other people. I love running a nightclub and still being involved in the media in my own way and having the autonomy that that sort of lifestyle brings.

BL: Great job! Thanks for talking with us Todd. We really appreciate it, and how candid you’ve been. And good luck with all you’re doing.

In Part One, Scott described his early years, leading up to disclosing to those around him, at age six, that he thought Kevin Costner attractive.

Scott: That Kevin Costner episode left me totally confused. Why was I punished? Was it because I said he was cute? And what’s a fag anyway? I was only six and didn’t know the answers to those questions. I continued doing what I enjoyed which was playing with my cousin Michelle.

One day we were running around the front yard where my uncle Jim was working on his car. I don’t recall the exact game that we were playing but I had another case of the slip ups and said that I wished I was a girl. This of course didn’t go well with my uncle. He started shouting at me  - “Are you crazy?” or “You want to be a faggot?”, things like that. He was coming towards me while shouting all these things at me as if he wanted to punish me so I ran into the house to escape a possible beating. That’s what I usually did when I did something wrong.

It was like a chain reaction for the next few years. Almost everything that I did was met with opposition. If I danced a certain way or if I used my hands to express myself, I was told that I was acting like a ‘pantyman’ or a ‘bullerman’ (nasty words they use for “gay” in the Caribbean).

When I turned 13 and entered secondary school, I started to figure out what it all meant. My school was mixed so there was more than a fair share of girls everywhere I turned. I was very shy and quiet but I was still able to make friends with a few kids. Then puberty kicked in and brought with it tons of conflicting feelings. My friends were all interested in tits while I couldn’t resist staring at the guys in the changing room after phys ed class.

By this time I realized I was different. Even my hobbies were different. I played the piano and cello while my friends played cricket and soccer. I loved playing the piano and cello. It gave me a chance to express myself but my friends saw it as a girly thing. More and more I was checking out the guys around me. I suppose that it started to become obvious because out of nowhere I started being pushed around and called a fag and other hurtful names.

My group of friends started to shrink until I was left with only two. I hated being left out and made fun of. I went to the school counsellor and told him what was happening with my friends and about my attraction to guys and he told me that my feelings for them were unnatural. So I couldn’t wait to get out of high school. I still managed to do well academically, due to my motivation to avoid having to spend another year suffering in school.

I graduated in summer 2005 when I was 18 years old. I was grateful that the ordeal of being taunted was over but the intensity of my feelings for guys forced me to come face to face with my sexuality. I hated myself for wanting to be with another guy. I saw how society condemned anyone suspected of being gay and that terrified me. What was even more terrifying was that I internalized this hate. I began to hate not only myself but anyone who reminded me that I was gay. I even made jokes about gay guys to seem ‘normal’.

Everywhere I turned there were negative reference to gay people. There were songs on the radio about burning or killing ‘sodomites’, articles in the newspaper from pastors calling us sinful and political leaders saying that the laws wouldn’t be changed to protect homosexuals. I felt trapped. I felt like I’d be better off dead, in fact I did try to kill myself - although now I’m glad I didn’t succeed.

I was raised a Catholic and although I was never very religious, I decided to turn to my church for answers. Was it really a sin to be gay? If yes, was there anyway I could seek forgiveness? I confessed to my priest about my feelings and he suggested that we meet once weekly to discuss it. Our first meeting was scheduled for 6pm at his office located behind the church. I got there and met with him and he immediately suggested that we hold hands and pray. While we were praying my eyes were closed and I felt his fingers going up and down my hand. In the conversation afterwards he asked me what I liked about men, if I had ever slept with a man, if I ever looked at gay porn and whether I had met any men that I liked.

I felt uncomfortable in this situation. At the end of the meeting, I reached out to shake his hand and he said that he felt connected to me and wanted to give me a hug. I agreed since I thought it may have been impolite to decline to embrace my priest. This hug was very intense; our bodies were pressed together, he was rubbing his hand up and down my back and I felt his hard-on on my leg. I freaked out. I couldn’t believe that my priest, who condemned homosexuals regularly, was hugging me with an erection! I’d read in the paper about gay priests from around the world but didn’t expect to actually meet one. After he hugged me, he scheduled another meeting for the following week and then offered to drive me home. But I declined his offer. I vowed never to return to his meetings or church again.

 It was then I knew that I needed to find a way to trust myself and accept my sexuality completely. It was my first stage in coming out as a gay guy.

Stay tuned for Part Three where I describe how I started meeting other gay guys and how that got me into a load of trouble with my family.

Long before PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) was identified as a specific mental health condition I had it, I believe, while I was growing up. I've wanted to write about this for a while but I wanted to know what it was that caused me to block these things from my memory until I was in my early twenties. I let Google, The Mayo Clinic and Wikipedia  be my guide.   I learned that "diagnostic symptoms for PTSD include re-experiencing the original trauma(s) through flashbacks or nightmares". Everything pointed to PTSD. 

When I was maybe 20 years old I started having memories of things that happened when I was very young. I'm not sure what triggered the memories; they all seemed to come out at the same time. One of the memories was of the day my father walked out on my mother. They were arguing and it got so bad that my father grabbed a bottle of milk from the table and threw it at us. It broke against the wall over the top of our heads. Luckily we weren't hit by the glass. I talked to my mother about it recently and she couldn't believe how much of it I was remembering, and with so much detail.  I was only about three or four at the time.

Another thing I remembered was the night my youngest brother died of what was known as "crib death" back in those days. I recall climbing up the side of his crib. He had a teddy-bear that I used to push into his belly and make him laugh. When I mentioned this to my mother, again I was remembering it all with such detail, even describing the bear’s colours.

Having validated those two memories, there was one more that I was afraid to talk about but I felt it must have happened if the other two had.

We were living in Kearney, Ontario, a small town just north of Huntsville, off the main highway going towards North Bay. The population was about 320.  I don’t think it’s much higher than that today. Everyone knew everybody and in many cases all of their business, including some "dirty little secrets" but not a lot of them were ever talked about.

When I was six or seven I was molested by a man who, as I found out, a friend of my father. He was also our Cub Scout leader. I remember two occasions when it happened. The first was in our "outhouse"; we lived in an older home and most of the older ones had no indoor plumbing. It was the early 1960s. I don’t recall being traumatized nor do I remember being threatened by it.  I can only think that he made me believe it was something that was normal but that we didn’t need to talk about it.

(above: Wayne around the age this incident happened)

The second time was at cub camp. Our leader and six of us hiked about a mile out of town to the scout camp for an overnight camp-out. When it was time for bed, I remember there were four of us and the leader on the top bunk at the cabin. The two younger ones slept through it all.

We moved away from Kearney when I was ten and I lost touch with many of my friends, some of whom were in the troop with me. Life went on without another thought about that time.

There were times when I thought “did this experience turn me gay?” It was one of the big myths of the day. I was raised to believe that sexual abuse wasn’t right, especially of children. So, no, I don’t believe it turned me gay; I was born this way. This man had molested a gay child who would one day grow up to be a gay man.

I recently caught a story on the CBC called Scout’s Honour  about misconduct within the Boy Scout movement and I could relate to some extent with the victims featured in that story. My story was never reported but it did happen and I’m glad to be able to tell it now. I’m not sure I will join the cause, even though I believe every voice should be heard.

I read in the comments section of the story Scout leaders saying that they have to have several criminal record checks done, never are they allowed to be left alone with a child and that the CBC got the story all wrong or one sided. In my case, it was a small town; we only had one leader, there was a “bad apple” in this basket, these things can happen and it did happen.

The day after going to the new hospital, I was feeling better knowing the care I was going to get and that I was in good hands.

However it was back to work as usual. I was still dealing with a lot of emotions and questions about being newly diagnosed with HIV. "What would it mean if my CD4 count was under 200? What will my counsellor be like? Will there be side effects from my HIV meds? And what the hell was the Viral Load about again?"

Even though I was handed much information, I found it a little overwhelming and confusing. I would read a little, and have to put it down. Some of the illnesses that were associated with HIV I found disturbing. So for my own mental health, I didn't read too much.

For me to stay in a good place in my head, I needed to focus on getting well. My emotions were already running amuck.

So I went off to work. I was excited to share with my manager/friend about the new care team I had found at Komagome Hospital. The train rides into work were always difficult. The morning rush would be so many people. At some of the busier stations there would even be platform staff to help push people on the train in order for the train doors to shut. Sometimes I would have to get off because I felt sick or found it hard to breath.

At work it seemed like a normal day.  I had worked at this daycare for eight years. The staff and kids were like a family for me. Everyday there was something to laugh at - something funny the kids had said or did, or something with one of us teachers.

During the day my emotions were up and down. I could be laughing with one teacher one moment and in the next be near tears. I also realized that I had not yet cried. I was on the verge many times, but I knew if I were to start it would be hard for me to stop. So I worked very hard to keep the "water works" at bay.

Towards the end of the day, my manager told me that the owner and the president of our parent company were coming to the daycare to talk to me. I found it odd and I was a bit upset that my condition was shared with our president (an American) without checking with me first.

After about an hour, I found myself sitting with the three of them. The company president took a deep breath. "I can't imagine what you must be going through" he said. The conversation continued for about ten minutes, with me sharing about the hospital, about talking with my parents, and I showed them some of the literature I had received.

He seemed very uninterested in all this. Instead he shared with me how he and the owner of the daycare had talked the day before. He looked at me and said, "we feel that it would be best if we went our separate ways. If a parent were to find out, this could be really bad for us. What if a parent were to find one of your pamphlets lying around or something?"  He continued with more stupid examples. I sat there completely broadsided. My heart had leaped into my throat and I was on the verge of major tears.

I had a week to prepare myself with the possibility that I might be living with HIV, but I did not see this one coming. This was a bigger shock. I had never been let go from a job. This workplace was like family for me, and now the family wanted me out of the house! He continued with his line of excuses and told me to take the next day off. Everything else was falling on deaf ears. My brain had shut off. I just wanted to get out of there. They wished me luck, and I hurried out as fast as etiquette would allow.

Without any goodbyes to the teachers or kids I made a quick escape. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. The tears were building, but I would not let them come. There was such a huge lump in my throat I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Before I knew it, I was on a train heading home. I sat there dazed and baffled by all that just happened. I felt like I was in a movie about someone else's life. In the space of three days I had learned I was HIV positive and had been fired from the job I loved. And why don't the parents call or mail me?

Nine years earlier when I was living on the wild side, I thought I might be an alcoholic and I told my parents that I was going to look into AA. The next day I was getting letters of support from my father, mother, and siblings. But I tell them I have HIV, and all goes silent - for a whole week.

My one friend tried to brush it off, saying that they were in San Diego and away from home. She was also telling me to get a lawyer about my dismissal from work. As physically ill as I was, I was finding myself getting mentally exhausted too. All these things were such large things for me to process.

I felt like I wanted to vent some of this, without overburdening my family and friends. "Well, there is that Twitter thing" I thought. Not really knowing what it was all about, I starting looking into it. First I had to think of a name. I went through all my Star Trek and Star Wars possibilities, and was amazed how many were already taken. So I thought I'd go for the Japan angle. I like Shochu. It's a Japanese spirit. Shochu? Shochu? Well I really can suck it down. Ah-ha! And the @shochusucker was born.

My name was Mugi Imo. Mugi from a wheat based shochu and imo from a sweet potato one. I used a picture of a water lilly from my pond back home in Oregon for my avatar pic.

My first tweet? The first tweet that went out to 0 followers? "Yesterday, I was fired from my job for having HIV."

During the week I got hold of my older sister to tell her the news. She said she had told mom "you need to talk to Brian." I told my sister the whole story, and where I couldn't cry she filled in the gaps with her big tears. She then pulled it together and became the strong older sister I always knew. She was upset with mom and dads’ silence too. " I bet they got that movie Philadelphia stuck in their mind” she said, “and think this is how it is for you!" She said that she would talk to them soon! I felt a lot better after talking to her.

Before I knew it a week had gone by from my first visit to the hospital and I was heading back there. I knew I would have a lot to share with my new counsellor.

I went into the hospital. I was greeted by the two happy-face nurses from the week before. This time there was another woman with them, dressed casually, but looking cool in her American style. She introduced herself in perfect English as my new counsellor. Sigh... I felt so good. I could tell right away she had a good spirit. She told me I'd meet my doctor and then we’d talk.

The smiling doctor I had met the week before was a little more serious. He asked how I was and I told him all that had taken place at work. He seemed concerned and looked at me with warm eyes. He pulled out a paper with the results of my blood work. I had hoped for the CD4 to be over 200. He  pointed to this number 18. "This is your CD." and told me my viral load was in the hundreds of thousands.

He said I had PCP pneumonia, that I would need chest X-rays, more blood work, a urine test, a CT scan, eye exams for glaucoma and more. "Oh my goodness!" I felt again like this was not my life.

We talked for a little more. He said he was going to put me on medication for the pneumonia. He explained a few things about going on disability before starting the medication to treat the HIV. I'm sure I had the most confused look on my face at the time.

After seeing the doctor, I went to talk to my counsellor. I told her about my week. She gasped at some things and laughed at my funny stories.  She had a concerned and caring look on her face. She explained a lot more of what the doctor told me in more detail and in great English.

After that week, I realized my life was changing. I had gone through so much in such a short time. I knew I had a lot more to go through too. It would be a time for me to learn, to grow as a person and accept the help of friends and family. And not to forget to say my prayers and rely on God.

Next time: The parents make contact, I share the news with a few more close friends, the work place makes an offer and I get my first Twitter followers!

(All photos courtesey of Brian.)

This Article first appeared on hivster.com July 27, 2011. Brad Crelia is the Editor/Publisher of Hivster.com. Check out their site here.

Brad Crelia says: Many thanks to my Dad, Matt Spaur for writing this piece for Hivster. I love you and am truly grateful for all you’ve done for me and did for mom. I was a bitch to deal with, sorry for those years of hell.

Brad’s father: Raising a gay kid didn’t bother Connye (below, right), but as Brad’s mother she dreaded the difficulties her son would face in life. The possibility of AIDS worried her. The reality of discrimination angered her. She mourned that her son might not ever have the American Dream life that all parents want for their children: a happy home, a constant love, an engaging career, friends and acceptance and family. Me, I was still oblivious enough to the cruelty of life that these things didn’t cross my mind at first. I didn’t yet fully accept the reality of violent and bigoted idiots. I heard news stories about Matthew Sheppard being beaten and left for dead tied to a Wyoming snow fence, but didn’t imagine gay bashing could happen to my stepson even though I had been threatened on a Seattle city bus once by someone who thought I was gay because I was wearing a tie and leather shoes.

I’m sure that for most of my high school years my mom suspected that I was gay. I didn’t take wood shop or auto body class. I didn’t date, but had female friends that I could talk with for hours on the phone. Much of my free time I spent with other guys from the swim team. We wore those skimpy Speedo swimsuits. For big meets at the end of the season, we shaved off all our body hair not covered by suits or caps. In truth, I was shy in high school, somewhat earnest and bookish, and as clueless as Brad was gifted about popularity and clothing and gossip. I didn’t have a girlfriend until halfway through my senior year, although I had plenty of crushes on girls. Homework and sports and church and family kept my life busy enough to enable my emotional repression, or cowardice, however one might term it.

If I had stopped to think, I already had a reference point for the experience of growing up gay. When I worked at Microsoft in Seattle, I mentored Mike, a guy who grew up in Tennessee as the gay only son of a Southern Baptist family. High school had been hard for him. He slept with his male French teacher. Ick. His only friend had been the one openly bi-sexual girl in school; she wanted to sleep with the French teacher. My future apprentice grew up to be a disguised alcoholic. During the workweek he appeared smart, dedicated and professional. On weekends he would call, drunk, and slur away until he fell asleep on the phone. His mental agility helped him continue to drink while hiding from doctors, counselors and himself, and exhausting the rehab benefits of two different health insurance plans. Finally, addiction counselors put him on the maximum dose of Anabuse, a prescription drug that turns alcohol extremely toxic in the body. While on medication, Mike decided to drink a bottle of red wine and watch an episode of Seinfeld. He spent the next three days in the hospital recovering and convincing chaplains that he wasn’t suicidal. At least that’s what he repeatedly told me. I still wonder whether he didn’t protest that point too much.

I could accept Brad and care for him as Connye’s oldest son, but because he and I were so different, sometimes it was hard for me to understand him. Brad had a genetic desire for a big-budget lifestyle, in contrast to my frugality. As a boy, he printed out sheets of fake checks on the family computer and then made them out to himself for bazillions of dollars from famous people like Walt Disney and Michael Jackson. I started a savings account when I was seven and only deposited money, never withdrew. While growing up, I watched football games and war movies on TV; Brad watched E!, the fashion channel. I built model airplanes; he drew dress designs. He blew $160 on one pair of designer jeans; every day of high school, I wore the same banana-colored sweatshirt under my orange-and-white letterman’s jacket. Spending two consecutive nights at home made Brad claw the walls; usually two nights out in the same week exhausted me. Maybe Brad’s attraction to glamour and fashion, in part, explained why Connye wasn’t surprised when he came out to us two days before our formal wedding. She had occasionally, privately, suspected that Brad might be gay.

At first, I told myself that Brad’s sexual orientation was inconsequential to parenting. Raising a gay kid shouldn’t be much different from raising a straight one. Connye and I still had to teach Brad good values, manners, and habits. We had to worry about setting rules and curfews, when to let him start dating, whether he wore a coat when it was cold or applied himself at school. In the end, our job as parents was to raise Brad to be a principled and independent person, gay or straight. The only difference, I thought, would be who called for dates on Friday nights.

Occasionally Connye and I discussed Brad with Rob, the former landlord for the newspaper we owned. Connye hoped Rob, who was gay, could be a role model for Brad. Rob was smart and industrious, building a small empire in Spokane real estate. Over lunch one day at the downtown mall, the three of us talked about raising a gay son. I interjected my philosophy about raising all kids the same. Rob corrected me. Gay kids lived in a subculture with harassment, confusion, and self-loathing, even drug habits and suicide. Ignoring that fact would be perilous, and probably impossible.

After that lunch, Connye and I worked harder at understanding Brad’s role as a gay teen. We let him hang out with other gay kids, but no dating. We debated whether running a weekly newspaper left us time and energy to dedicate to the local chapter of PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays). We strove to accept that our family story was different, like when other parents asked if Brad had a date for the prom or speculated about grandparenthood potentially just a decade away. And then there was “the talk.” How does a heterosexual parent talk with a gay child about sex? Connye managed this brilliantly. She did her homework as any good journalist would. She also felt very comfortable with her own sexuality. When she found gay skin magazines and DVDs in Brad’s room, she didn’t freak out like Brad’s biological dad had. She told Brad that porn wasn’t healthy, but to her it seemed safer than him going God knows where to engage in sexual exploration with strangers. But please, she asked, keep the pictures and gadgets away from his little brothers.

And stop taking her make-up.

Despite this combination of accommodations and boundaries, which seemed very generous parenting to me, Brad’s behavior deteriorated. He began sneaking out at night through a smallest, highest window in his bedroom. Then he started taking the family station wagon on his excursion, even though he didn’t have a license and wasn’t old enough to drive. If he wasn’t out roaming the streets, he had strangers lurking through our basement at two a.m. Many mornings, we found some of Connye’s Oxycontin gone. During the day, he yelled and cussed at his two younger brothers.

One afternoon Connye and I grilled Brad about his behaviour. Connye lay on the living room couch. She spent most of her time there lately, fatigued from her illness and its treatment. I sat in an armchair, also worn out. Working 12-hour days and then spending nights caring for Connye and chasing Brad left me exhausted. We tried to get him to talk about where he was going and what he was doing late at night. He wasn’t the Brad we knew. What happened to the student body treasurer from middle school?

Brad paced between the living and dining rooms, or stood at the back of the couch near the front door. He denied taking Connye’s pills or using drugs. He played dumb about sneaking out, even when we pointed to the scuffs marks on the wall underneath his window. He denied taking the station wagon, even though I’d find the driver’s seat pushed back way too far and the radio turned up way too loud on a rap station I’d never choose. He disavowed having strangers in our house. He blamed his brothers for the verbal abuse he heaped on them.

“You absolutely can’t use,” Connye told Brad. Not just because drugs were bad, or wrong, but because of the possibility of porphyria. She had the disease, which meant he had a 25 percent chance of inheriting it. All sorts of drugs—illegal, prescription, over-the-counter—could kick off porphyria. “Believe me,” she told him, “you do not want this.”

He groused that he hated living in our house, with all the stress and no one ever home.

Connye answered that she was home all the time now, but couldn’t do much. She needed his help around the house since she was sick and I was working so hard.

Brad told her, “I don’t want to have to come home and care about your fucking life.”

At that moment I made a very conscious plan to lose emotional control, or at least seem to. Brad couldn’t say that without consequences. I slammed my hands on the chair’s armrests, launched out of my seat, and crossed the room faster than either Connye or Brad expected. I thrust out my chest and bumped Brad backward with it. Although he stood a few inches taller than me, I stuck my face in his. “If that’s your attitude, you can just leave.”

I took a gamble. I brushed past him, pulled opened the front door, and held the glass storm door wide open. “Go on, leave.”

“So now you’re kicking me out?” Brad huffed.

I felt oddly calm. I had chosen my emotional state. “No. If you can’t care about your own sick mother, then you don’t really care to be part of this family and you can leave.”

“I will.” Brad stomped back into his room. I heard him slamming doors and drawers.

My outburst stunned Connye. She’d never seen me like this. “That’s not helping, Matt. We don’t need him out on the streets.”

“I don’t think he’ll leave. I want him to see that he still needs his family. He needs to know that a roof, a bed, and three meals a day is hard to come by.”

Brad came out of his room carrying a small gym bag. He was crying. “I’m leaving. You guys don’t love me. You don’t care about me.”

“You don’t care about anybody but yourself right now,” I shot back, “and if you’re going to treat your mother that way, you might as well leave.”

As he approached the open door, Brad walked slower and sobbed harder. He stood on the welcome mat, the storm door pressing on his back. He stayed there with his bag dangling in front of him, his head tilted up, tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t make it to the first step off the porch. After a moment he came back in and went to his room. At that point I knew that we hadn’t completely lost him.