THIS IS DEDICATED TO MY FRIENDS, LOVERS, AND ALL THE PEOPLE AROUND THE WORLD WHO DIED OF AIDS – WHOSE STORIES WERE NEVER TOLD.
I looked at myself in the mirror, touched my face, and wondered if it was me I was seeing, and even asked the person in the mirror, “Who are you? Where’s John?” It all seemed to happen so rapidly – the loss of appetite, the loss of weight, the inability to stand for short periods of time. On New Year’s Eve 1994, I could not stop coughing and felt like I needed to lie down, but I was at work. I left work early that night. I never returned to that job. For ten days I stayed home, spending most of the time in bed, until a friend convinced me to see a doctor. Several times, I blacked out while in the kitchen and woke up to find myself on the floor. A couple of times, my head hit the counter as I fell. Once, I was holding a bottle of Coke I had retrieved from the fridge. When I woke up, I was on the cold kitchen floor in a pool of Coke. I was in such denial about what was going on. I looked at my naked body in the shower and didn’t believe it was my body. I had lost so much weight that my kneecaps looked like softballs under my skin. One day I went downstairs to check the mail. While opening the mailbox I blacked out. When I woke up, the front door was open and my bare feet were sticking out the door into the cold January air. I had dropped the mail and it was scattered all over the vestibule floor.
I had an inflamed lymph node, about the size of an orange on my left inner thigh. The swollen flesh around the lymph node would rub against my testicles. This orange colored puss would seep out. It was painful, but at this point I was becoming delusional. On January 15, 1995, I finally went to see a doctor and she had a battery of blood tests performed. Two days later, I was sent to a surgeon to have the lymph node removed. I was skin and bones and there was very little body fat; the surgeon could not stitch up the wound. They wrapped my leg with bandages and gauze. Afterwards, I put on my clothes and headed to the elevator. Once inside the elevator, I began to feel really weak and blacked out. A nurse found me on the elevator floor. When I woke up, I was in a room where nurses tried to stop the bleeding by applying pressure to the wound. I saw my jeans on the floor, soaked with blood. When the bleeding stopped, they wrapped my leg again with more bandages and gauze. I put my blood-soaked jeans back on and was sent home with a bag of bandages, along with instructions on how to clean and dress the wound.
My doctor called when the lab results were in. I went to see her and she asked if I knew why I was there. I told her, “I think I have AIDS.” She started to read the results to me and then handed me the medical report. She sent me to see an infectious diseases doctor who asked how long I had been like this. I could not give her an answer and she said, “You’ve had to have been HIV-positive for at least seven years to be diagnosed with full-blown AIDS.” Then I was told that I needed to go to the emergency room at Memorial — they were expecting me. The drive to Memorial felt like I was floating in a bubble, like it wasn’t really happening. I looked out the car window, wondering if I would ever touch the earth again, smell the fresh air, or feel the sunshine. Upon arrival at the hospital, I didn’t want to open the car door. Suddenly, it all seemed too real, it was really happening. I was going to go into the hospital and not come out alive. Once inside the emergency room, I felt extremely cold and tired. I wanted to sit down, but instead was taken to a room where my clothes were taken off, a hospital gown placed over my body, a band put on my wrist, and I was placed onto a gurney. Two doctors entered the room. Everything was happening so fast. I was asked so many questions and all I wanted to do was close my eyes. Every part of my body was touched and examined by the doctors. I was too weak to stand for a blood pressure check. It became increasingly difficult to breathe. The doctors searched my arms, legs, and behind my ears for a vein, but couldn’t find one. I was informed that they were going to go under my toenail to draw blood. One doctor held my legs down, while the other jammed a needle under my nail. It felt like someone had taken a hook and jammed it into my toe. I just wanted to punch someone, to scream, but I could only whimper. I was sure I was going to die in that emergency room. I remember not knowing what time it was and asking for something to drink, but nobody giving me anything. When the doctors left the room it became silent and I shivered under the bright light. A nurse wheeled me out of the room, into the hallway. I was tired and wanted to close my eyes, but thought that if I closed them I would never wake up. Another nurse arrived and she would be the first of many to look at the wristband and ask me my birth date. The nurse informed me that I would be taken upstairs to isolation. A few minutes later, two male attendants arrived to move me upstairs. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion as the gurney was wheeled to room 7034. Once inside the room, I was slowly lifted off the gurney and onto the bed.
The two male attendants wheeled the gurney out of the room and a team of nurses entered, slowly moving about, bringing in equipment. My head and lower back were raised at an angle. A large band was placed on my upper left arm. A nurse informed me that they were going to administer a blood transfusion. I could hear the sound of the pump and a beeping sound. I was so tired and thirsty. A nurse checked my vitals. I began to think about David Spada and Keith Haring, both traveling to Switzerland for blood transfusions, and both dying of AIDS. One by one, the nurses left the room. The room was silent, except for the sound of the pump and the occasional beep. As the last nurse left, she turned, looked back at me then dimmed the lights on her way out. Suddenly, there was this uncomfortable feeling, like something pushing against the sides of my body. It became more and more difficult to breathe. I felt like I was being choked from somewhere deep inside my body — like I was drowning, sinking deeper and deeper. I kicked the bed with my feet and hit the bed with my fist. I wanted to yell for help, but could barely moan. My head bounced — bobbed on and off the pillow. I could see the red emergency button above the bed and, with whatever energy I had left, jammed my fist into the button again and again. The door to my room opened and a nurse quickly looked in — then she shut the door and left. Seconds later, a team of nurses rushed into the room; they removed the IVs from my left arm. One nurse gave me oxygen, while another held my legs. No one told me what was going on. Later, when the situation seemed under control, a nurse asked me if she could get me anything and I asked for a Coke. She returned with a can of Coke and a curly straw. The nurse held the can while I sipped. Again my vitals were checked and a nurse informed me that they were going to administer a new blood transfusion. This time, a nurse stayed in the room with me. I closed my eyes and when I awoke, I could see sunlight coming through the window. Later that morning, a doctor stopped by. He looked at my charts and, with a grin on his face, said “Sounds like you had an interesting evening.” He then told me the blood used for the first transfusion was not irradiated. He told me I was in isolation because I had no immune system. He said that he and everyone who entered the room wore gloves, masks, and glasses to protect me, and that they were not afraid of me. He let me know that they were there for me and would do everything possible to help me get better and if I had any questions to please ask.
During my stay in the hospital, I had to meet with different social workers. I was asked lists of questions like… Where did you work? How much money did you make? Do you have any assets? What is your highest level of education? Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you have a history of drug use? Do you have sex with women? Do you have sex with men and women? Do you have sex with men? I hated being asked questions about my sex life, so one day I decided I wasn’t going to say, “Yes, I have sex with men.” Instead, I decided to tell these people lurid, vivid details about sex acts I experienced with different men. Once, I told a social worker about this German guy I met in an after hours club. We went back to his place on Christopher Street. He was a photographer and his kitchen doubled as a dark room — the place smelled like the chemicals he used. We started doing coke and listening to Brahms. I remember we were on the sofa making out and he stopped and asked if he could shove an empty beer bottle up my ass. I wouldn’t let him because I was afraid that the bottle might break inside me. He got down between my legs and started rimming me. As we were getting into this, he started moaning and it took a while to figure out what he was saying in his thick German accent, but he was saying, “Give me your shit, give me your shit!” I didn’t feel like I had to go to the bathroom, so this went on forever. We ended up on the floor where he had laid down towels. I was sitting on his face — his tongue inside me. I felt this sexual ecstasy, like he had inserted some sort of vibrating suction device inside me. He was blowing air inside me and then sucking it out. The moaning intensified. I looked down and saw that I had shit in his mouth. I saw my shit all over his face, on his tongue, and there was this horrible smell of my shit and the chemicals from his kitchen. Suddenly, he was no
longer under me, but on all fours, gagging, with this grin on his shit-covered face. I stood up and looked at him and then he got up and took me into the shower. He asked me to lie down in the tub and then he was on top of me, moaning, and he wanted to fuck me, but he couldn’t get an erection. We stood up and he turned on the water and gently covered our bodies with Dr. Bronner’s Castille Soap. Another time, I told a social worker about a guy I met in Los Angeles through an ad in Frontiers, the Southern California LGBT publication. I remember the ad said something like Looking for old-fashioned sex. I responded by letter, but did not send a photo like he requested. He called a few days later and agreed to meet. We took a walk along the beach and he told me he liked to fist guys. I had gotten into fisting before and liked it, so I agreed to do it. We set a date and time for our hookup. When I got to his house, we undressed and he opened a drawer full of leather gear. He put six cock rings on my dick. I remember looking down at my dick covered in the black leather cock rings and how red my pubic hair looked against the black leather. I asked why he put so many cock rings on my dick and he told me it was because he did not want me to cum. We got high and then he asked me to take a shower. When I finished, I walked into his bedroom where he had covered the bed with a black leather sheet. I was lying on my back and he was kneeling in-between my legs. He opened a can of Crisco, handed me a bottle of poppers, and started playing with my ass. He would put three fingers inside me and twist his hand. Minutes later, all five fingers were inside me and he was going deeper. At one point, he started clenching his fist and I could feel his knuckles as he moved his fist in a circular motion. He rotated between his left and right hand, and the twisting, rotating movements became faster and deeper. I felt like I wanted to cum and looked down at my dick as I began to pee. I didn’t know what to do and reached for a towel, but he stopped me and rubbed his fist through my pee. I looked at his dick and the pre-cum flowing out of him and I asked him to fuck me. As I would speak about my sex life, the social workers would freeze. They would stop writing notes. They never asked me to be quiet. They just sat there. I know now that they were there to try to help me, but back then I was so tired and didn’t want to be asked questions about my sex life. Telling them these stories was a way for me to make them feel as uncomfortable as I felt, and for me to be in control of the situation. They stopped coming and, unbeknownst to me, someone called the AIDS Community Resource Center. A case manager was sent to see me and she asked no questions about my sex life. I was so surprised to see her and felt a sense of comfort. She let me know that she was there to help me and she shared her story with me. She was HIV positive, the mother of two young children, and had recently purchased a home. She told me that I was going to make it. A few months later she asked me to join her for the AIDS Walk. I agreed and raised a little bit of money from friends and family. Halfway through the walk, I didn’t know if I could finish because I was tired. When I reached the finish line, I began to cry.
I did not want to die in that hospital. If I was going to die, I was going to do it on my terms. One day, I thought about escaping Memorial. I made my way down to the lobby with the IV stand in tow. I surveyed the lobby to see where the guards and the reception area were. I stood there in front of the window watching people walk by on the sidewalk. Back upstairs, in my room, I began to plan my escape. I imagined pulling the IV out of my vein, putting on my clothes, leaving, and making my way to the bus station where I would purchase a ticket to Toronto. I had traveled to Toronto before on the bus and knew that it made stops along the way. At a random stop, I would depart the bus and walk away, into the woods or an open field. I imagined being on my back, on the snow-covered ground, facing the sky. I imagined how it would feel to die lying there on the frozen ground. I imagined there would be no tears. I imagined the burning sensation on my feet and hands. I imagined the shortness of breath, of not breathing. I imagined looking into the sky, of not thinking of anything, of being alone, freezing, not shivering, dying with my eyes and mouth wide open, snow hitting my face, feeling no pain, no emotion, no heartbeat, no breath, silence, on my terms. I imagined leaving my body and looking back from somewhere in the sky. I imagined this moment, the panoramic view of my body, there on the frozen ground. I imagined my body covered slowly by the falling snow. I imagined the winter winds swirling around.
Lying in the hospital bed, I thought a lot about dying of AIDS. I thought about my friends who died of AIDS. I thought about Wayne, who I met while dancing at Numbers, a gay bar in Houston, high on MDA. We went back to my place and fucked for hours. He was married and had two kids back in Oklahoma City. I thought about Frank, who I met at Uncle Charlie’s in 1983. Frank and I were fuck buddies. One day, he called me and asked if I would come over to help him run some errands.The doorman at 45 Christopher let me in. Upstairs, I found Frank’s apartment door open. He was in bed and the blinds were down. I asked what was going on and he showed me his body covered with little red spots. I held him and he told me he was scared. I walked his dog and went to the pharmacy for him. A few days later, Frank died. I thought about Fabian, who I met in Los Angeles. He studied photography at UCLA. We went to Palm Springs one weekend, spending most of the time in bed. He always had a slight fever and a cough. Before returning to L.A., I asked him what his week was going to be like. He told me he was going to die. A few days later I received a call from a mutual friend, informing me that he was in the hospital. Fabian was dead within a week. I attended his funeral and felt disconnected as the priest spoke in Spanish. Then, he announced in English that he would read a passage from the Bible. He then said, “From the Book of John,” and in that moment I felt like Fabian was speaking to me and I wept. After the funeral, I stood outside the chapel with a group of Fabian’s friends and I’ll never forget the look on his mother’s face as the casket was put into the hearse. She looked at the group of his friends and I thought she was trying to figure out which one of us had infected her son with AIDS. I thought about the first boy who ever touched me. He touched me at church camp and I followed him into the woods where he fucked me. I thought about all the other boys who fucked me in the woods after school. They never spoke to me again. I thought about the fake I.D. I purchased through an ad in Rolling Stone. It was a fake Colorado driver’s license that said I was 18. I used it to get into the gay bars in Little Rock, like Discovery Club. That’s where I met Tommy, who had Peter Frampton hair. I looked at myself in the mirror as I danced with him while drinking a Sloe Gin Fizz. I thought about Morgan, who I met in the parking lot of Discovery one night. He fucked me in the back seat of his car. Tommy, Morgan, Wayne, Frank, and Fabian all died of AIDS. I thought about all the faceless men, the men I’d met and had sex with in parks and bathhouses. I thought about the need to be held and to hold someone. I thought about all the sex I’d had with these men, these boys, since I was a young boy. I thought about the lust — this quest to satisfy my want to love. All of this had stained my body, infected my body with this virus that was killing me. But as I looked at my body that I no longer recognized, my body ravaged by AIDS, I had no regrets. While waiting to die, I just wanted to be held, to be loved.
I’ve never thought of myself as unfortunate. I was diagnosed with AIDS on January 24, 1995. Eight months later, I requested copies of my medical records before moving home to Arkansas, to die. It’s been a fascinating journey overcoming illness and moving on. Here I am.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Alfred Boeckli, Jason B. Chen, Petros Chrisotomou, Jackson Davidow, Thomas Devaney, Camillo Godoy, Kim Green, Rick Herron, Ted Kerr, Esther McGowan, Markus Mettler, Lucas Michael, Carlos Motta, Joseph F. Murray M.D., Jeff Nesmith, Kris Nuzzi, Amy Sadao, Nelson Santos, Steven Sergiovanni, Fredric Sinclair, Jon Stolzberg, Pavel Zoubok. Thank you Aldrin Valdez for your encouragement.
Artist/Author: John Hanning Photography: Kreerath Sunittramat All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be stored in a retrieval system, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise without prior permission in writing from the artist. Š 2015 John Hanning