From Scared to Sexy

Once upon a time, I was afraid to have sex while being HIV-positive. Now, thankfully, I'm Still Sexual After All These Years.

Man of My Words

By age seven, I knew that words were very important. Moreover, I knew that words can mean the difference between life and death, so choose your words carefully.

My first lesson on the power of words came one morning at the family breakfast table. My two older siblings used the wrong words when teasing our oldest brother, a brooding preteen. He retaliated the only way he knew and not with words.

My oldest brother threw a fork like a knife across the room, stabbing my other brother in the back. The doctors at the hospital said my injured brother was nearly paralyzed for life. I was instructed on how to lie to the adults who questioned me alone at the hospital. I told them it was all an accident. I assume my sister was given the same talking points. It was a sad and violent day in our family's young history, all because somebody used the wrong words.

Despite that bloody incident, my siblings and I continued to use words as weapons in our perpetual civil war. We each had an assigned nickname, given in mockery of some perceived defect or flaw. Anything to weaken your rivals. Even so, we lived under the constant threat of a war of words erupting into something worse (and not always just with us kids).

To escape the ball of confusion that was my early household, I told myself stories, sometimes on paper, sometimes in my imagination. Some of the stories centered around ragtag sports teams winning against all odds. The Losers finally getting theirs. Sometimes, a little black boy just like me was being rescued and loved by white race car drivers or athletes. Out of the fire of a hellish childhood, the storyteller was forged.

By junior high, I learned that words could serve as a passport to a better land, a place where teachers praised me for my writing assignments and my intelligence, which afforded me the privileges of a teacher's pet, all because of the way I used the words I was being taught.

Also in junior high, I learned that my words had special powers. For an English assignment, I wrote a paper on Why the ABA and NBA Basketball Leagues Should Merge. I received an A. My mother, who was working her way through college at the time, “borrowed” my essay for an assignment. She received a B. Or was it a B-plus? I feigned indignation at her professor's lower mark, but in truth, the little boy inside was quite proud. After all, I had received a good mark for my eighth grade essay--in college!

By high school, I was ready to dive into journalism with great enthusiasm. I had a great teacher and mentor, Mr. Cord at North Central High School in Indianapolis, Indiana. Over the next three years, I went from a student in his class to a reporter for the school paper, the Northern Lights, to feature editor and finally, my senior year, editor-in-chief.

And while journalism will always be a part of me, being a journalist in the traditional sense was never part of my career aspirations. For me, journalism, especially “old school journalism” is a great talent to possess, like an actor who can also sing and dance, or a musician who can play many instruments.

But I was never meant to spend my days telling other people's stories at the expense of telling my own. I've always had my own stories to tell, ever since I was a young boy who understood that words can take you places that are dark and scary, but words can also take you to the land of better dreams, even if only in your imagination.

My entire adult life, I've been a professional writer. Of fiction, non fiction, promotional material, prompter material, program material, journalism, interviews, you name it. There's a lot of shit out there that needs to be written. lol. Click here for my bio.

My four novels are like my kids. I'm proud of the way they turned out. Did I mention, they've been nominated for a total of five Lambda Literary Awards? Uprising is my angry, I'm-coming-out-with-a-gun suspense thriller. Bridge Across the Ocean is my ode to innocent boyhood adventures (from the point of view of a black gay man who recently tested HIV-positive).

The Devil Inside is my equivalent to Prince's Black Album. Or me getting in touch with my dark side, and asking: are we naturally fucked up as gay men? Walt Loves the Bearcat is just the opposite: an optimistic, dreamy romance between a cheerleader and a quarterback, a tale of parallel worlds and long-term AIDS survival, and don't forget the flying football stadiums!

My next four books are like my grand-kids. The Bearcat Boyz is a four-book series about two boys in love in high school. Coming soon.

Then there's my author blog. Like a child who plays with blocks to make words (to say something), I do the same at Randy Boyd's Blocks. And of course, there's this funky blog, featuring my sexy side and a Sex-in-the-City-esque take on my single life.

Words have been like food for my soul. That food has nourished me, kept me alive, helped me see my way through the world. I'll always be a man of words. And I'll always strive to be a man of my word. Words are very important. This I learned very early on.

Feeling Special

How does one man make another man feel special? By asking about his dick size? By fucking his brains out? By worshiping him like some kind of god?

Most heterosexual men learn early on that a man must make a woman feel special if he wants anything from her other than blue balls and lonely nights.

The men might fail, but they understand they gotta keep at it until they get it right because, generally speaking, no woman worth more than a mindless sexual encounter is gonna give it up unless she feels special.

But what about two men? Does a man need to feel special to have sex? Generally speaking, no.

"I deserve more than disposable meat. I deserve food for my soul."

Maybe that's why it's easy for gay men to treat one another like disposable products. As if love and sex should be approached like buying meat at the store. You see what's available, inspect the quality, see if it's up to your pre-determined standards, then you decide whether or not to make the transaction, knowing the meat is gonna be in and out of your life like all the other meat you've consumed over the years.

The meat you buy today is no more or less special than the meat you bought the last time you went shopping; it's just something to keep you going. After all, we've all got biological needs, right? And a tasty piece of meat can be a great thing, right?

Or maybe gay men seem expendable to one another because many gay men were never made to feel special by their families, their peers in school or the world at large. Hard to make someone else feel special when you yourself haven't experienced being valued for who you are.

My ultimate dream is to experience something beyond disposable meat. Men have felt me, but few have taken the time to feel me, to find out what makes me feel special or shared with me what makes them feel special.

What makes me feel special? Someone asking me about my dreams and goals in life, then taking a vested interest in those dreams and goals. Someone who listens. Someone who opens up and shares his own hopes and dreams. Someone who values me when he's horny and when he's not. Someone who responds with kindness when I'm hurting, no matter the source of the hurt. Someone who wants to get to know me in and out of bed. Someone open to creating new ways to make us both feel special.

I may be dreaming, but I wanna feel special. And I deserve more than disposable meat. I deserve food for my soul. To be sure, I deserve great sex. But I also deserve a man who can be a male sexual dawg without cutting off the circulation to his brain and his heart.

I deserve that kind of buddy and that kind of relationship. My buddy and--we both deserve that special feeling a man gets when his buddy does something that makes him feel like one very special man among men.

You out there, buddy?

• Originally published on this blog as That Special Feeling on 7/27/2008
• Reprinted in Instigator Magazine, Issue 18

How About a Blowjob, Mister?

I had just sat down in front of the tube, plate of juicy burgers in one hand, remote in the other ... when there was a knock on the door.

The solicitor was too gorgeous to simply dismiss. He was a young white man in his early twenties with a body by sports. He lit up when he saw me. I lit up when I saw him light up at the sight of me.

Next thing I knew, the young man and I had agreed that he might as well come inside my house. It wasn't long before the Young Jock Offers Oral Sex for Magazine Subscription, now on my author blog at Randy Boyd's Blocks (.com).

My Buddy's Body

What kind of body do I dream of loving? Find out in Imperfect Bodies, Perfect Match

Must Test Positive for a Brain

To get with me, a guy Must Be Smart About HIV!

What About Three-ways?

Should we fuck around with other people while in a relationship? Consider, if you will, these funky thoughts On Monogamy.

Positively Amazing

Breaking news world: I love a black man living with AIDS!

It could happen to you, too. Yes, that's right. You, too, can love a black man with AIDS. Regardless of your HIV status. In fact, you can love him and never, ever, ever, acquire a virus.

Did ya hear, world? People with AIDS can live long lives with lots of great sex! We can even have that great sex with you!

AIDS is preventable for HIV-negative people who have sex with HIV-positive people. It's called safe sex and it's an amazing tool. So Let's Fuck, I've Got AIDS!

Why the F**K Am I Single?

Why are so many people shocked when I tell them I'm single? Matter of fact, Why Am I Single?

Negative or Positive?

Is my dream man HIV-negative or HIV-positive? Find out in Charged Up: To Be or Not To Be HIV-Positive

Men Get Dirty

What else do I dream of my buddy and me doing besides smelling like men? Find out in My Buddy and Me: The Kind of Men We Are.

Sexy Never Left

Not only have I been living with HIV/AIDS for over two decades, I'm Still Sexual After All These Years. Miracles happen!