Going Deep: A Gay Guide to Reality Mike Gerle

This post is sexually explicit and very AIDS-y. Two states older gay men know well. Those adhering to the standard narrative I wrote about in my last post will find this content disquieting. 
So, with that warning, here goes.   
*
A few months ago, on my knees, among hundreds of bodies writhing around me, a cock in my mouth exploded with a rare load in the G-dosed molly-spiked energy of a dance party dark room. I looked up and smiled with gratitude at the guy, who nodded down at me with a satisfied grin. 
No thoughts of death or disease, just the pure ecstasy of pleasure. 
No awkward whispers of HIV status. No recent funerals. No belongings to sift through. No forever friends with months, weeks, or days to live. No wondering who will die next. No wondering if it will be me. 
Just raw pleasure thanks to drugs that now shield us from transmission–from drama. 
And as I make my way back to the main party, it hits me that this is it. This is as good as the celebration of the end of the plague is going to get: a gaping void of drama. 
It makes me wonder if my nightmare memories are true. 
Did a male nurse sit across from me in the San Diego County Health Office in 1986 and tell me that I had less than eighteen months to live and I most likely would not see the age of 23? 
That same year, did a scumbag named Lyndon H. LaRouche get Proposition 64 on the California ballot that would have placed HIV+ people into concentration camps? 
Did my best friend Alvin die the next year? Did I give my first eulogy at 22?
Was I getting bloodwork done every three months, for free, at the Edelman clinic in West Hollywood, where the new library is now? In 1991, did tears steam down my face when I looked at my chart and saw that my T-cells were about to fall below 200, the point at which all the opportunistic infections that pave the way to death begin? 
Was I the only one there to take care of my boyfriend Tony until he died because his parents couldn’t cope with finding out their son was gay and had AIDS all at the same time? 
Did I give my second eulogy at 26 on the baseball diamond of Poinsettia Park without their permission after Tony died? 
Did I hook up with a guy, use a condom to fuck him, and then a few days later see him on the street in front of the parking garage where I work when he asked casually, “You’re negative, right?” 
Did that happen again with another guy, in bed, right AFTER sex? 
Was there a constant debate about who should disclose first? The negative guys thought it should be the positive guys. After all, they had the deadly concealed weapon. The positive guys thought it should be the negative guys. Hey, you guys have the most to lose. I was always honest, always used a condom, and thought the person who cared the most should start the boner-killing conversation. 
Did I start having sex exclusively with HIV+ guys because of all that drama and the weight of possibly infecting someone else? 
Yes! The drumbeat of AIDS-driven fear was ever present. 
Like, when two guys with British accents took me into one of the cock sucking booths at the Zone sex club in Los Angeles. The sexual heat between the three of us was fierce, and I loved that they took turns using my ass. I’m still perplexed by the look on one of their young faces after he came. It turns out he wasn’t wearing a condom. His load was inside me. Was that an expression of guilt, fear, shame, or something else? It certainly wasn’t ecstasy. 
For those of us who were positive, the drumbeat pounded like a metronome: every three months, bloodwork, results, doctor visit, repeat – bloodwork, results, doctor visit, repeat.  
The guys who were HIV-negative got tested when they thought they should. Having a negative result was a reprieve, tempting these men to stretch the time to the next test when the ax might fall. 
Finding ways to get off with another guy without causing more death led to lots of jerking each other off, in-person voyeuri

“Hey! It’s you guys. I didn’t know you’d be on the ship!”  
It takes me two full seconds to recognize the tall, lean Italian with dark eyes and grey-speckled beard stubble before a surge of joy-filled love overtakes me. I embrace him with one arm and squeeze my husband’s wrist in the elevator bay crowded with men in costumes. 
“Dennis! Look who it is!” 
We are taking a bathroom break during the first themed dance party of the seven-day March 2024 Atlantis Events (99% gay) cruise on the Valiant Lady, a Virgin Voyages ship that left from and will return to San Juan, Puerto Rico. 
The theme of tonight’s dance party is “Tropical Heat,” we are wearing black lines of “warrior paint” on our faces, red headbands, red tights, and the one pair of black Adidas sneakers that will need to support every activity this week. 
“Oh, my gawd! It is so good to see you!” says Dennis, squeezing through the crowd to give him a full-bodied hug. 
We met this man and his beautiful husband precisely three years ago on this same ship in the Mediterranean, out of Barcelona. Our connection on the dance floor translated into two memorable visits to our private stateroom with the four of us. It was a connection unlike most of the others because of its effortless blend of intense erotic pleasure and sensitive, emotional openness. I was genuinely sad when we said goodbye in the galley food area on the last day of that cruise in 2021. 
This is what keeps us coming back. Freedom. Joy. Sex. But mostly, love. 
These cruises provide what is no longer offered on land (in the United States): a 24/7 space dedicated to gay men’s comfort and delight for all ages and body types. 
This is my seventh cruise with Atlantis, and I’ve learned that the cornucopia of activities available makes it possible for every kind of gay, no matter his age, body type, activity interests, or cultural inclinations, to have a blissful journey. 
These cruises have something for every kind of gay. 
* Circut Party Gays 
* His body and wardrobe are maximized for dancefloor impact. 
* Wearing either a minimal thong & face full of glitter, or a full-blown themed group costume with yards of fabric blowing in the sea air, posing for a group photo. 
* Often embodied in one of the most objectively beautiful physiques on the ship. 
* Pupils dilated, he sometimes never sees the light of day. 
* He emerges after dark, is at least an hour late to the party, and routinely closes down the after-party at 6:30 AM.
* Standard Narrative Gays
* Wearing the latest short-sleeved button-down shirt from L.L. Bean. 
* They are having the cruise your mom might have.
* They have booked as many excursions off the ship as possible.
* Discussion about open relationships never happened before the cruise, and they’d prefer that other gays stop bringing it up.
* Alcohol is the only acceptable drug, and there is always a drink in their hand.
* They have a persistent neurotic expression, asking, “What if pics of this get out?” 
* Old Gays 
* Wearing whatever the fuck they want, which is either complete comfort or full fabulous. 
* These men are genuinely happy to be alive and willing to engage with anyone who makes eye contact. 
* They make eye contact.  
* Many are up early, enjoying the sunrise.
* The oldest (I chatted up a 92-year-old) get decked out in the party themes of red, white, pink, etc. Find a seat overlooking the dance floor and remain transfixed for hours, chatting with the oldster beside him as the Virgin staff keep them hydrated. 
* Sluty Gays
* Wearing their best guy-getting gear. Often in St33le shorts. 
* Looking for every opportunity to suck it, stick it in, or receive. 
* Down Low (DL) sluts project all their assets: butts out on the dance floor, styled super sexy on the pool deck, etc., but need to be out of sight of their friends to “go downstairs.” 
* Open sluts, wearing something similar, will make offers and respond to sexual pr

Easy to say. 
“You’re perfect.” 
“I see you as perfect.” 
All you need to do is let go of all the thoughts, beliefs, emotions, mental constructs, advertisements, comparisons on social media, and the tap tap tap of that nagging voice that says, “Don’t fall behind. You can still catch up. You can still win!” 
Just follow your breath. 
Well, notice it first. 
Can you? 
That thing you do every moment of every day. That very first thing you did when you slipped wet and cold into existence. That thing that will be the very last thing you do before it all ends or you move on to another plane of existence. That thing my father’s body tried to do even after he’d died. 
“Be here now.” Thanks, Ram Das. But how do we do that without trying? How do we try without judgment? 
How do we believe it’s okay to see ourselves as whole and happy? Unbroken. 
If I’m not seeking “healing” what is there left to do? 
Without trauma, addiction, and neurotic narcissism, what do I do with my day? 
Who will understand what I’m talking about? 
Unbroken. Whole. Complete. 
The red pill or the blue pill? Which one is the true fantasy? 
The earth, the moon, the stars. The sun that will be eclipsed by the moon today over North America. The galaxies, and clusters, and all the missing matter our current comprehension of math can’t explain. 
Without a creation myth, how do I cope with consciousness? To know I am, but little else? 
It’s not reason or math or science or myth that will bring peace. 
It’s faith. It’s jumping into the unknown, the unreasonable idea that I’m good and complete no matter what the other bags of muscle and bone and emotions helplessly tell me and sell me. Forgive their ignorance and my complicity. 
It’s an inside job. 
One bag of bones at a time. 



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Just feelings. That’s what this week is about. 
Preparing for an ayahuasca plant ceremony is an opening of the raw self. 
It’s day 6 of taking away most of the things that help me avoid feelings. Coffee, weed, alcohol, refined sugar, red meat, lots of other things… and, wait for it, ejaculation! Yup. 
Just sit there and take it bitch! 
Worried about your substack, your husband’s struggles, your relevance in gay men’s culture, your mom’s reality without your dad, your other mom’s torments, your sister’s well-being, your health, turning 59, your motorcycle’s dead battery, that pain in your lower back? 
Just frackin feel it! 
Being present is no longer masked by distractions; it’s full presence, moment to moment to moment. I’ve even taken the suggestion of staying off social media, well, except Grindr. Is that a social app? Sure. Look at all those bodies and be a tease, “Not today, sorry.” 
What’s left is, well, everything. ALL the feelings. This is what it is to be human, buddy. 
Is this what it felt like to be a hunter-gatherer? Before tech and know-how brought us all the fat, meat, and sugar we wanted? Tears of joy and grief while digging in the garden? Well, I guess they didn’t have gardens. They were on the move. 
But they were tied to the earth. 
And being tied to the earth is why I’m going back. That’s why I’m doing my third plant ceremony. After experiencing a mushroom ceremony, I learned about an ayahuasca ceremony in my new neighborhood, on the same communal soil where I bought a condo two years ago, the same neighborhood where I have always hung out with leathermen. 
Pacha mama. Mother earth. During the last ceremony, I met You for the first time. 
The morning after, in the cool, bright morning Silver Lake air, I touched the bark of a tree growing near a 1920s building. It spoke to me. Much clearer than any wonky telepathic crap Counclor Diana Troy ever used on Star Trek The Next Generation, I was, and still am, connected to everything the tree is connected to. Words fail. But let me try. The expanse of an all-knowingness, a knowingness that is experiential, not intellectual. The tree, the earth, the water in the sky and the seas, each heartbeat in Silver Lake and all those around the world, each being that moves, and all those that grow, and all the essence of earth and sun and stars that have brought us into being. I touched it. It touched me back, and there was no longer a separation between any of us. 
Oneness with everything. 
A sustained joy bursting from inside me and holding me safe all at the same time. 
I guess that’s worth skipping coffee and ejaculation for a week or two. 



This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mikegerle.substack.com/subscribe

Moments after the door to my condo closed behind us, the stranger I’d cruised on the subway locked his mouth on mine. I eagerly accepted. The tension of 30+ minutes of eyeing each other in the train car, up the escalators, down Sunset Blvd., to this moment, piqued our primal need to engage. 
He pulled at the bottom of his shirt.  
I leaned away from kissing his scruffy face and said, “Hold on, can I get that for you?” and I slowly pulled his shirt up, revealing his bare skin, happy trail, belly button, chest, nipples, and finally, his masculine shoulders. The inside-out collar of thin cotton material moved up his throat while the bulk of the shirt acted as a temporary blindfold. As the shirt released from his head, I looked into his eager eyes – the t-shirt hanging relaxed in my hand. 
“Your turn,” I said. “Take your time.” 
Rather than ignoring all this erotic energy and racing towards orgasm with the intensity of an Olympic sprinter, I’ve learned to lean into erotic tension and savor its rare pleasures. 
This is a departure from the avid Sport Fucker practice I once thought was the height of sexual pleasure and liberation. 
Sport Fucking is about having sex for its own sake. Keeping a score sheet (even if it’s just in one’s head) of the numbers, variety, and status of sex partners is what it’s all about. Commitment and emotional depth are not part of the practice. An ass up, no talking, jackhammer fuck n’ go is its hallmark protocol. 
It allows us to protest against the heteronormative standard narrative: All sex outside of a monogamous relationship is bad. 
It also satisfies our need to seed, and be seeded by, as many individuals as possible. Sperm competition, as outlined in the book Sex At Dawn by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá, provides evidence that our genes are programmed to both give and receive as much sperm as possible. The one who gives or receives the most wins the genetic prize. 
Sport Fucking is still in my sexual repertoire, but it is only one musical genre with which to play the music. Sometimes, I want a nasty two-minute country tune by Dixon Dallas: “No strings attached, I’ll arch my back and let you do what you want.” At other times, I want an hour-long Deep House Anjunadeep Edition 434 with Marsh DJ session: “Reach inside me. Gonna take my love in,” that transports us on a multilayered sensory/emotional/spiritual journey. 
Each encounter is usually a variation that mixes a bit from each style, depending on my partner’s proclivities and how our energies mix.
If I’d taken this guy to a stairwell to seal the deal, a long, drawn-out connection wouldn’t have been practical. But we were in my place, and I had more than two minutes. 
Until the moment his shirt came off, and I felt the heat radiating from his torso, my attraction to this guy was almost entirely visual. It was tied to what he was wearing, especially his grey sweatpants and the shape of the underwear seams framing his butt cheeks as he shifted his weight, side to side, only one escalator step ahead of me on the long ride up and out of the deep Sunset-Vermont subway station, my heart pounding all the way. 
I was returning home from my workout, where I’d seen lots of Hollywood hotties dressed in their best gym gear hugging all the right places oh so coyly, never to be touched. (Well, not never, but that’s another post.)
This was an opportunity to actually touch, smell, and taste the tantalizing essence that is usually off-limits. 
Why throw all that on the floor? 
Both shirtless, we moved to the playroom.
It had become clear to me during our makeout session, while my hands massaged the raised underwear seams through his sweats, that he preferred to let me take charge. 
I didn’t let that stop me from dropping to my knees to explore the cause of a raging boner still inside my jeans. 
As an aside, for a long time, I lived with a made-up rule that tops don’t kneel for their partn

My last post, Love, Contempt, and Leather Contests, ended up being a lackluster whimper that confused a few people. Thank you guys for the feedback. “Where’s the contempt?” they asked. And they were right to ask. 
In haste to meet my publishing deadline (on the 1st and 3rd Thursdays), I rushed a piece that was not ready for release. 
I also let an effort to be magnanimous prevent me from being brave. I am afraid to hurt the feelings of people I have grown to care about, even love. 
But sometimes, we need to tell our loved ones what’s keeping us from taking their calls. 
So here’s a remix with a heaping helping of contempt regarding certain aspects of leather contest culture. 
As I said before, I got interested in leather contests, thinking it would lead to instructions for handling a sexy boy kneeling at my feet. 
My leather contest contempt grew out of the impatience I felt waiting for the real world of leather to reveal itself. The one we’re all talking about during leather contests. It’s the world outlined in books like The Leatherman’s Handbook by Larry Townsend, Ties That Bind by Guy Baldwin, and Mr. Benson by John Preston. Where was the heat and eros of Tom of Finland? Why wasn’t I seeing guys like that kneeling boy who got away? Where was the 19-year-old marine at a bus station craving a bondage fuck scene mentioned in Townsend’s book? I kept hearing stories about Old Guard, Master/slave, Dom/sub, and dungeons filled with hot men negotiating power exchange scenes. Where were those men? 
The leather contests appeared to be crucibles where men were tested to see if they had what it took to represent the real leather world. So, I signed up. 
There were (and are) few ways for contemporary men to test themselves as a rite of passage into manhood, so maybe I was also trying to scratch that itch. Put me in, coach! I’m ready to play!
I assumed that the real world of leather men would become available to me if I proved myself on stage. 
After I won the Mr. Los Angeles Leather (LAL) 2007 competition, and at the prodding of the LAL producer, I went to Cleveland Leather Awareness Weekend (CLAW) to pursue my goal of winning International Mister Leather (IML). 
On the CLAW workshop schedule, I found an offering from a group called the Kennel Club. They claimed to know everything it takes to win a leather contest, so I attended the offering along with 30 to 40 other guys headed to IML to compete. 
The large conference room was set up in a traditional authoritarian configuration. A table in front of the room, behind which sat several men, facing the large group of attendees, all wearing leather vests bearing patches of the clubs they represented. A few empty chairs facing the crowd sat to the left of the presenter’s table. 
One of the men behind the table asked if anyone wanted to do a practice interview. 
Most competitions give the interview score double the points of any other contest aspect. If the interview sucks, it’s nearly impossible to recover. It’s typically done in private, not in front of spectators. 
During the pause after his question, as each man decided if he wanted to put himself on the spot in front of the same guys he’d be competing against at the biggest leather contest on the planet, I raised my hand. Why not? If you’re gonna make a mistake, make it here. 
I wanted to learn, and these guys had credited themselves with knowing all the answers. 
Who knows what was really said and done nearly seventeen years ago, but this is how I remember it going down. And it did go down, as in, south, as in, badly. Much of it is covered in my short story, A View From The Podium. 
I stood in front of the mock judging panel because I knew from experience that I should not sit during an interview. I waited for the exercise to begin, vaguely wondering why they didn’t cover the whole standing versus sitting protocol thing. 
I looked at my mock interview judges with curiosity.
They w