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What it was like to be young and gay in the most terrifying era of AIDS

This month marks 44 years since the first cases of a mysterious disease were reported among five healthy young men in Los Angeles. The disease would soon be known as AIDS and the fear of contracting it would shape the sexuality of a generation, especially in the gay community. For Luis G. Portillo, it was a difficult era to be young, recently out, eager for a new life but surrounded by grief and death. Stepping into the Twins Peaks Tavern in San Francisco's Castro District in the autumn of 1996, something caught my attention right away. The crowd in the friendly neighbourhood gay bar was the expected bohemian, spiritual, and artistic mix, but most were aged in their twenties or over 50. 'Where are all the men in their thirties and forties?' my partner and I wondered. And then we realised, the missing ones were the brothers we had lost to AIDS. Since 1981, an unforgiving killer had ravaged the world, bringing shame, pain, despair, and death. Fifteen years later, we were just halfway through a war in which only a few seemed to be on our side, while others viewed it with indifference or disdain. Sipping on a drink at the historic bar, it still hadn't dawned on me how much AIDS had affected my life. ADVERTISEMENT As a kid in Venezuela, I was desperate to grow! But I knew that if I was patient, the time would come to live life as I pleased; and if the book we read in class was right, my voice would change, I'd grow a beard and be tall. In a few years, I'd go to university, graduate, then live on my own. I'd be driving cars, smoking, and drinking, sometimes all three at once. Luis Portillo, aged 8, before his drinking, smoking and driving days began. (Source: Supplied) By the time I turned sixteen in 1981, I thought of myself as a grownup. Although my actual growth had stalled at 168cm, I smoked, drove cars without a licence, and drank. That same year, sex found me in a hotel room in West Germany. I wasn't looking for it, but when you are on a Riesling high, and a man twice your age takes the time to charm you, invite you to his room, and kiss you like it's going out of style, you show the good manners as you were raised with. There were a few takeaways from that first time. Sex was like in the movies, a little greeting and a small conversation, followed by an organic syncopation with your lover under the covers. Sex was simple and satisfying; I could see myself doing it often in the future. Luis aged 16. (Source: Supplied) Having done it with a man only confirmed what my classmates had told me for years. I was bent, a faggot – un maricón – so I wasn't shocked. If anything, I'd been saved years of soul-searching. ADVERTISEMENT Finally, the power of the human caress caught me by surprise; I was moved. Although it took me years to fully realise how special it is that, as humans, nature gifted us with a sense of recognising another matching human – another being with whom we can connect in a way we don't with others. It was settled. I was an adult, and I'd live my life smoking, drinking and having sex with men. 'A sexual orientation disorder' At university, I chose psychology. I thought it'd be made up of open-minded professors and students, with everyone expressing themselves as they pleased. I couldn't wait to meet like-minded sorts. But I was wrong. Although classes were an eclectic mix of psychology theories, we were still regulated by the rules of a 1980s traditional society. Only 20 years before the new millennium, homosexuality was regarded as a 'sexual orientation disorder'. A male professor would say that homos couldn't be psychologists. The odds of falling in love with a patient coming to therapy to learn to become heterosexual were too high, risking the success of the patient's conversion. In the abnormal and pathological psychology class, I was taught that homosexuality was a learned response to a sexual stimulus. There had been experiments where blindfolded men had been aroused equally by men and women while receiving oral sex. It was clear, then, that same-sex attraction could be modified by stimulus and replaced with normal heterosexual conduct. ADVERTISEMENT Although I couldn't wander freely while studying at university in Venezuela, as I had imagined, at least it was a community where I didn't need to feign being straight. In a few years, I'd graduate, and then I could finally live my life smoking, drinking, driving and having sex with men. By 1985, AIDS was spreading rapidly around the world, but I first heard about it when Rock Hudson, an iconic movie star in the 1950s, announced that he had AIDS. Only nine days earlier he'd appeared in public, pallid and emaciated. Five days later, it was announced that Hudson had inoperable liver cancer. But that was just a public relations move, and four days after that, the world learned the truth: he had AIDS. Rock Hudson had a career playing dashing heterosexual roles. (Source: Getty) To admit someone had AIDS automatically alluded to the way they got infected; it was men who had sex with men who were mainly falling ill with the disease. The revelation confirmed Hollywood's open secret about Hudson's sexuality, and that became the news, not the fact of his imminent demise. He died a few months later. This was a gay cancer, the media told us. There was no cure. Only homosexuals having unprotected anal sex, and drug addicts sharing needles, could be infected by the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), spread it and eventually develop AIDS and die. Many in Venezuelan society didn't seem so concerned since it was only affecting the gays, while a few drew comparisons between Sodom and Gomorrah and turned their backs, judging our lifestyle choices and making us responsible for our fate. It felt like we in the gay community were left to deal with a dreadful situation on our own. There I was, barely 20, with urges, living in a conservative society, while a ruthless virus likely to find a host in me and kill me, not without bringing disgrace to my family and myself first, brewed. ADVERTISEMENT Briefly, I decided I wouldn't be gay. Turning straight all came down to stimuli and response, right? There was aversion therapy, and rubber band therapy sounded promising. Wearing a rubber band around my wrist and snapping it to cause pain every time I got excited by Tom Cruise dancing in his underwear in Risky Business could surely do the trick. Tom Cruise in Risky Business, 1983. (Source: Getty) But I had already learned that one doesn't study psychology to treat oneself. I went to see a therapist who never questioned why I wanted to change and proceeded to put in my head heterosexual scripts which included projecting me into the future where I was to see myself as a successful professional with a wife and kids. But that's not what I was after. Having a wife and kids seemed like a lot of work on top of repressing my urges. I walked away from therapy, still with gay desires and determined never to marry a woman just to pass as straight. It seemed dishonest and unfair. So, following the advice from the ferally hot Curtis boys from The Outsiders, I stayed gold. The loneliness of random encounters Being immersed in my studies didn't make it easy to meet other gay men and establish relationships. The closest I got was driving for hours through the desolated downtown streets, picking up strangers, and heading to lonely and dark areas where, with the car engine idling, we'd engage in any activity that my car's front bench would allow. There was no need for name exchanges or any other pleasantries. There was also no talk of the disease roving the city, but it was always understood that condoms were essential. Night after night, after finishing studying or writing a paper, I'd drive downtown in search of relaxation and connection, and although I got very busy, nothing compared to my experience at 16. ADVERTISEMENT Every time I'd slow my car and lower the window to ask the man on the sidewalk, slightly caressing his crotch, if he needed a ride, I'd wonder if he would be the one to make me feel again how I'd felt at 16, or if he was the one who'd give me the bug. Random encounters were a let down. (Source: Getty) In the same class where I was erroneously taught that homosexuality was a learned response, I picked up that all sexual issues can be traced to people's early sexual encounters. Doing it in public, at the risk of being caught, adds a layer of pressure that will eventually affect your intimacy with others. When the objective was to finish without being caught, climaxing was the result of anxiety. I couldn't believe that, after all those years, desperate to grow and become an adult, it was all a big letdown. Sex was not the hedonistic indulgence I'd glimpsed at 16. Although the guilt I felt after a random sexual encounter might have been the product of leftover Catholicism, I never felt injected with the energy, enthusiasm and hope I'd felt the first time I lay naked with another man. I wasn't getting the same result. I was alone. There was no place where I could go and ask for guidance on how to live in a world with AIDS. No one ever said, 'Hey kid, you look like the type who gets his kicks from men; how are you coping with the epidemic?' The Venezuelan government seemed more worried about the morality of the disease than its impact on public health. Society saw AIDS as fodder for gossip: who had it, how they got it, and whom they'd passed it on to. Moving to Reagan's America ADVERTISEMENT At 25, I moved north to the US. Surely, I reasoned, a change of scenery would contribute to my personal growth, and it did. If AIDS was ignored in Venezuela, in America, it was a movement. A crusade for effective treatment, better palliative and end-of-life care, and government acknowledgement of the crisis. This was a fight to restore humanity to the people infected with HIV and those developing AIDS-related terminal diseases. At that time, a cure seemed unreachable. Paranoia about the disease was rife. Some hospitals were turning away infected people, and the dead were frequently put in trash bags for their loved ones to take in search of one of the few funeral parlours that accepted people who'd died of AIDS. The Reagan administration ignored the health crisis in its beginning, and the Bush administration didn't spend time on it either, with George Bush Senior describing the epidemic as 'behavioural', implying that gays got what they deserved for their unsafe sexual practices. Naturally, this encouraged the religious right who found an ally in Jesse Helms, an odious senator from North Carolina, who considered AIDS a punishment from God and made it his mission to oppose any federal initiative to alleviate the epidemic. President Ronald Reagan (Source: Getty) But the movement to fight AIDS was larger and stronger than any opposition. Infected men and their allies mobilised, most notably ACT UP, whose guerrilla-style tactics caught the attention of international media and influenced some government agencies and private labs to accelerate their work on finding a cure. But they couldn't campaign against families. The thing that I found most painful was the number of sick people without blood relatives by their side. Already ostracised by their families, some would die alone. Others would have estranged parents step in and decide their fate, ignoring their will and often leaving their surviving partner out of the process. Even longtime companions who'd taken care of ill partners for months would be kicked to the curb, without any legal recourse. I was 25 and only recently stepping out of a bubble from which the world seemed far away. For the first six months in the US, I was celibate, not for lack of opportunity but out of fear. I was petrified. It wasn't clear what would be more painful, dying of AIDS or becoming a societal pariah. ADVERTISEMENT Despite the grimness of the times, sex was everywhere in Washington DC. It was in the toilets at American University where uninhibited men would check out other men at the urinals and invite them into a stall to quickly satisfy their cravings between classes. Sex was everywhere in Washington DC. (Source: Getty) Lust walked the streets of Dupont Circle, interlocking its keen, starved, earnest stare with passersby. Temptation sat behind you on the bus, softly but steadily tapping your shoulder, squeezing it hard when it arrived at its stop, inviting you with its gaze to get off with them. Opportunity thrived in the dark rooms in the bars of P Street, where some stood motionless while others squeezed and ground their bodies against them in the tight space. Encounters were advertised in the Washington Blade. Those who thought they matched the specific requirements of some picky man could answer an ad in the weekly rag, hoping to connect and have a good time. Chance hung out in the porn section of the Lambda Rising bookstore; among the magazines featuring unattainable standards of beauty and endowment, men equally flipped through magazines and glanced at other fellas until they were on the same page and left together. It was there, at the back of Lambda Rising, where I hooked up for the first time in the US. ADVERTISEMENT The drought had ended, and I cautiously began to establish connections with other men in bars, on the street, in bookstores, and in parks, coming to terms with the fact that I might never experience the same intimacy I had at 16 with my older lover. Grief makes itself at home In the broader context, reality was confronting and indisputable. Going through the Blade's obituaries every week was heartbreaking and scary. Men were dying left and right, leaving behind an enduring community where grief had found a home. The cause of death was always listed as an AIDS-related illness. Once HIV destroyed the immune system, many opportunistic infections like tuberculosis and pneumonia, or cancers like Kaposi's sarcoma and non-Hodgkin lymphoma, developed and attacked the body until all vital functions shut down. These men were dying regardless of whether they were young and vibrant or old and wise, had an established career, were students or retirees, poor or rich, white, brown or black, swish or straight-acting, single or in a committed relationship, local or foreign, conservative or liberal, religious or atheist. The obit section of the Blade became their common grave. In San Francisco, demonstrators gather in hommage of the victims of AIDS, walking along a large patchwork quilt representing the dead, in 1987. (Source: Getty) ADVERTISEMENT How could I be thinking of having a full and satisfying sex life when more than 70% of the men losing the battle against AIDS belonged to my age group? It seemed wrong and inopportune, and whether because of guilt or laziness, I gave up. At 27, I decided to stay still and stop plotting a fulfilling adult life. On other fronts, people kept organising and fighting not only for AIDS but for lesbian, gay and bisexual rights long before our transgender brothers and sisters joined the cause. Celebrity allies, such as Liz Taylor, raised money and awareness and led the conversation that changed people's views. She was so instrumental in bringing AIDS to mainstream America that a clinic attending men with HIV in my neighbourhood was named in her honour, The Elizabeth Taylor Medical Centre. With strict rules to protect myself, I'd step out of my bubble occasionally to meet men, but as in previous years, my liaisons would be more transactional than meaningful. Many looked for emotional connection and support, but I wouldn't give them that. That's not the way I wanted to be gay. I believed a relationship could threaten the negative HIV status I'd managed to keep for years. Many couples were in open relationships, and the idea of them roaming around, catching the bug and passing it on to me was scary. I was healthy and intended to stay that way. Luis Portillo in his mid twenties, 1991. Still, at 30, I began a relationship with an American man a few years older than me, with more experience, who patiently helped me emerge from the cocoon where I'd sought refuge from the crisis. The beginning of hope When my partner and I walked into the Twins Peaks Tavern in San Francisco in 1996, we had been together for a year; and although the moment was sombre as we acknowledged the men we had lost to AIDS, this was the year that the number of cases in the US declined for the first time since 1981. This was also the year antiretroviral therapy was introduced, slowing down the onset of AIDS in men with HIV. ADVERTISEMENT During a routine physical, my doctor mentioned that AIDS wasn't deemed a death sentence anymore. Antiretroviral therapy was keeping more people alive, and many had been brought back from the brink of death. Liz Taylor presenting former First Lady Betty Ford with an award during the First Commitment To Life Benefit held by Aids Project Los Angeles (APLA), 1985. (Source: Getty) The new advances didn't stop the fight for more research and respect. Fundraising events were elaborate spectacles that showered organisations like the Whitman-Walker Clinic, the main care facility for people with AIDS in DC, with funds to run their operations. After an arduous six-month training with a fun, loving group of Washingtonians, my partner and I ran the Marine Corps Marathon for a few hours through the historic streets and neighbourhoods of DC and Arlington, cheered along the way by supporters who applauded and thanked us as we went by. Luis runs the Marine Corps Marathon to raise money for AIDS research. (Source: Supplied) More than raising money for a worthy cause, I did it for those who couldn't do it. For a friend back home who died after her boyfriend infected her; for a sweet co-worker who, on Christmas Day a few years back, had succumbed to the disease; for the frail neighbours I stopped seeing around my building, and for the men who came out on a sunny Sunday for a slow walk through the neighbourhood and were gone by autumn. I ran for them and for those I'd never met but who had been loved by friends. Whenever I felt like giving up , I'd look around and see the healthy runners carrying signs with the number of years they'd survived the virus. Five years! Ten years! Fifteen years! Humanity was being restored to my embattled tribe, our community was surviving, and we were going to be fine. ADVERTISEMENT One positive impact of the AIDS plague in the US was the visibility the gay community gained. We were telling our stories. American society learned that we we studied, went to work, paid our bills, saved for a home downpayment, and travelled. We were all part of the community, and we wanted to be included. By the end of the century, my partner and I owned a row house in the historic Capitol Hill neighbourhood and had a circle of friends who showered us with love and respect; we were part of the lives of these young families raising kids, who always made sure we were included. Remembering being part of that still fills my heart with love and gratitude. By the year 2000, an estimated 21.4 million people had died of AIDS worldwide, with more women having died from the disease than men. I didn't know it at the time, but in the following years, I'd travel through the Americas and the Caribbean, collecting stories of women, men and children coping with HIV/AIDS for a documentary. It was an eye-opening experience that touched me deeply and made me lose my fear of AIDS. I finally realised that we could all be victims. The disease didn't discriminate. A few days before moving to New Zealand in 2003, my partner and I went to New York and joined the Brazilians marching down Fifth Avenue during Pride Weekend. It was quite the contrast with my arrival 13 years before. Back then, I had stayed in a cocoon, paralysed by fear, and now I was part of a goddamn gay pride parade! Luis and his then partner in the Pride Parade, New York, 2003. (Source: Supplied) A few years after arriving in New Zealand, I found myself single again, but this time things were different. I was older, wiser and better equipped to face life. I had no fears. HIV/AIDS, the once deadly disease, had become a chronic condition, and although people were still getting infected, they were not dying. As I go into my sixties, I look back forty years to the summer Rock Hudson announced he had AIDS and feel sorry for the twenty-year-old version of me, who was so scared and alone. If I could see him again, first, I'd tell him that there's more to being an adult than driving, smoking, drinking and having sex with men. Still, I'd say to him to worry and always exercise caution, of course. Most importantly, I'd ensure he understood that everything he frets over would be sorted in time because, before the end of the 1980s, a group of fierce, determined, driven, tireless, committed, sassy, pushy gay men and their allies in the US, appalled that their government was letting them die, would start a campaign of epic proportions and move heaven and earth to bring awareness, demand respect, and fight for a cure to this inopportune plague. Luis Portillo leads the video content production team at TVNZ.