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Even though it's about 2 degrees out at 7 pm, and even though he's normally a few shades lighter than a slice of Wonder lubed up with extra mayo, I can't help noticing as he jumps into my cab and slams the door on the rush of traffic on Eight Avenue, that Scott is even whiter than usual.

"Did you almost get hit by that tour bus,' I asked, noting the panic in his pallor.

"What? No, fuck the bus," he snapped back. "I just got out of the doctor's office and she had to draw blood."

"Well this is taking the vampire trend a bit far, Baby. What'd she draw, like a gallon?" He was looking his usual cute self that night, but he was also looking sort of...undead.

Now complexion aside, Wonder Bread is not the most apt Hostess product to describe Scott. From smooth and tasty outside to sweet, delicious inside, my pal Scott is every bit your classic Twinkie. Unfortunately, our little snack cake has obviously been unwrapped and filled with cream a few too many times for his own good, because his flustered nature and ghostlike appearance were a result of just having been through a battery of STD tests.

"What kind of disease," I asked, a mix of concern and admonition.

"I don't know yet," he said with no small amount of his own concern and self-admonition. After a bit of prodding convinced him it was safe to discuss the details graphically, without fear I'd puke up my post-gym protein shake, we sped uptown as he divulged the symptoms that led him to his panicky doctor visit. I allowed him to think I simply have a strong stomach, rather than admit that none of what he described was gross or shocking to me because in my own none-too-chaste history, I'd been there, done that, and bought the ointment.

"Who did you get this from, Piggy," I goaded.

"I don't know! And fuck you."

"Well, since you first noticed there might be a problem, whom might you have given it to?"

"Goddammit I don't KNOW,” was the shockingly honest response. ("So fuck you twice" I took to be implied).

I gave advice, like any Father Fairy would; I'd seen it all and this sounded harmless, so I made sure he at least heard, if not quite absorbed and believed, that this was not the end of the world.

But I was truly unsettled by this. And I'm sure it colored my own complexion for the rest of the evening, because as we sat through a show later on with it still gnawing at me, it finally reached through from my subconscious to grab my conscious by the balls. I wasn't so much upset by Scott's potential affliction; I really knew in my gut that this would turn out to be nothing, and I think, somewhere in the mix of adrenaline and post-teen drama that keeps Scott alive as much as his own viscera, he knew it too. I wasn't even really upset that his admitted lack of sexual scruples could have led to whatever it was he had - though let's face it: when you're suffering something topical and you discount laundry detergent, bath and body products, new clothes, pets, or changes in environment, climate or diet as possible causes, to automatically pin the blame on an apparently much less questionable sexual contraction, you're obviously overexposed.

But what I realized was really troubling me - as happens so often in this particular friendship - is that I found myself at once talking to Scott, and staring at myself. Silently, through audible words of wisdom and comfort to him, resonated the words of fear and self-reproach I'd spoken to myself countless times before.

"If you weren't such a slut, you wouldn't be in this mess."

I never had to say such a thing to Scott because this medical urgency was part of a whole recent New Year's Resolution/Old Years' Realization that he really needed to curtail his sexual exploits. And while I admit that our never-ending text conversation is littered with recent middle-of-the-night indications that his resolve, like his ass, is still not completely impenetrable, I can honestly say that he has been trying hard to stick to the promises he's made to himself.

I suppose we all catch a glimpse of ourselves in that mirror at some point - the one which tells you, regardless of what ride you're stepping off, that it's been a blast but it's taken its toll, as evidenced by more than just really fucked up, wind-blown hair.

And that it's time you made some changes.

I myself had felt all too many times that my actions as the town pump were seriously impairing my ability to function the way I really wanted. It might have been intangible, like feeling a general lack of character or qualities I'd consider to be of much value while standing in an upright position; or the grimy residue I'd felt seeping out of my pores at overhearing a guy tell a friend that he wouldn't seriously consider dating me because I "appear to get around". It could also be in much more physically evident ways, such as waking up after a party to find "whore" written across my face and ass in black marker, or in the number of panties I really liked but will never see again, having lost them to the countless voids under countless strange beds.

If that mirror has two faces, then one says "Slut", and the other says, "What the fuck are you looking over here, for - I already told you you're a slut."

Scott saw his reflection in his very early twenties; my own mirror didn't crack until my early forties. But for two different men on two different rides I know there are plenty of similarities mixed in among our vast differences, not the least being an admitted desire on both our parts to let something other than fucking become the connection we really allow ourselves to feel with another man. So let this be my admission - if not to you, then to myself - that I recognize the myriad tumbles in countless sacks, and endless stacks of hay, as the fun and fulfilling (and to some extent educational) experiences they were.

But just like my friend Scott, who, so you can all breathe easily, turned out to be plagued with something completely innocuous and not even sexually transmissible, I now find myself taking a definite stand against being so quick to lay down at every opportunity.

So here, my friends, is to my own resolve (among other things) being at least a bit harder to crack. I'd have to be a fool to think it completely impenetrable. And to be honest, I'd have to be an absolute, fucking moron to really ever want it to be.

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matti I have nothing insightful right at the moment. No, wait, I do. My "mirror moment" was when my one-night stand told me afterwards that he was a (supposedly) recovering heroin addict with unknown HIV status. That actually managed to kill my happy-go-lucky (very lucky) ways, a little. Meanwhile, please accept hugs and hot coffee from me. I hope I've grown up halfway as cool and thoughtful as you in the past 20 years.
ToDreamIt Brutally honest.
Cas Dear readers: I have to say I am thrilled, moved and to some extent perhaps even stunned at the amount of feedback I've received since this article hit the blogs here at EroticNewYork.com just a day or so ago. As you know I am not a standoffish queen, but rather the King of Accessibility; thus I encourage interaction on my Facebook and website. But when a column of mine inspires such conversation I would truly LOVE to see the "voices" in that exchange posted here as commentary. I value the dialogue I inspire (and which I in turn find so inspiring), and I would love if all of our readers could participate or play the voyeur right here where the seed for discussion is planted. You have all been so wonderful in letting me know that our relationship as writer and reader is about so much more than me talking dirty and you guys responding with a hearty "yeah, nail 'im once for me, Daddy!" So keep those intelligent and insightful responses coming, and be sure to check back on the conversation to see how other open-minded individuals such as ourselves are responding to the topic.
Suzily Cas, this mirror nearly broke my heart. It's always been a challenge to figure out which mirrors are the funhouse variety, ones that demonstrate self-deceptions of one kind or another, and the more true mirrors that help you learn, reflect, and consider. I wish it didn't take terror for me to recognize, but that's not too rare in itself. Brilliant as always.

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