The Last Time We Met

June 1989, Los Angeles, California

All around us, people were cheering and yelling. The West Hollywood High Cheerleaders, all in drag, waved their pompoms at the crowd and did some high kicks. We had seen floats filled with drag mermaids, someone dressed as Kaptain Condom on a red, white, and blue float, and a motorcycle brigade, the Dykes on Bikes. Rainbow colors flew everywhere, from flags to feather boas and sequined outfits.

Brent and I were on the sidelines for the moment, because Brent was having one of his bad days. This year's parade was the twentieth anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, and the crowds had shown up in force, making it impossible to find a cab that would drive us anywhere near where the floats were organizing. We got as close as we could, paid the cab driver (who told us to "do your thing, be happy!"), and walked the rest of the way. Brent had to stop often and at the moment was leaning against me with his full weight. Not that he weighed much anymore.

We planned to jump into the parade at some point. There were several floats with an AIDS theme, including one from the group ACT UP. Our signs didn't look as professional as some of the ones we had seen go by, the black signs with the pink triangle that said, "Silence=Death," which referred to a little-known extermination of gay men during World War II, or the signs with red handprints and "one AIDS death every half hour."

"Maybe we should have used a ruler," I said, looking at the sign I'd made, which said Fight homophobia, Fight AIDS.

"It's fine, babe." Brent kissed my neck. "It looks more authentic that way."

Brent's sign was simpler: A red circle with a line slashed over the word AIDS inside it. I had given him lots of other ideas, only to realize that Brent didn't want other ideas. He was tired, both physically and mentally. He didn't want to get into the semantics of what legislation or research needed to happen to eradicate the virus. He just wanted it gone.

And unfortunately, it was unlikely to be gone in his lifetime.

I swallowed a lump in my throat. "You ready? I think we can jump in after that float. Looks like our people." I said that because of the signs they carried, but then I saw Philip and Jake in their crop tops with Blaine strutting in four-inch heels and lingerie beside them. Jenny had her tits out and they were painted with rainbows and the words AIDS affects us all on her stomach.

"I'm ready." Brent pushed himself up and ducked under the barrier. He moved with more energy than I'd seen from him in days, as though he'd been reserving it all for this moment. Jabbing his sign in the air, he waved to our friends.

The view from inside the parade was so different. I grinned suddenly, feeling the swell of support around me. The pride parade had been our favorite event since we started going a couple of years ago. It never failed to make me a little emotional knowing that all of these people had felt the loneliness I'd felt, the fear, and here we were, out and proud. No one was going to tell us we didn't exist or didn't matter.

"That's what I should have written," I said. My voice was drowned out by the yelling. AIDS matters, WE matter.

"What?" Brent asked.

"Never mind." I moved my sign to the other hand and hooked an arm around him and kissed him right there, with hundreds of witnesses who cheered for us. Brent was grinning when I pulled away, and he moved his sign to rest over his shoulder so he could hold my hand as we walked and sometimes skipped through the parade.

"Shame on you for what you do!" I heard faintly over the din. The chant came again and again, until I began to seek them out.

They stood in front of a church, with signs of their own. "GOD'S PLAGUE" read one. "Homosexuality is a sin, return to Jesus" read another.

"Oh look," said Jake. "A flock of bigots."

"Hi honeys!" called Blaine, blowing them a big kiss. "Jesus loves everyone, even you!"

"Fucking homophobes," Brent muttered. His hand squeezed mine as we drew nearer and their shouts threatened to overtake our cheering.

I gripped him too. I tried to pretend I didn't see them, as did most everyone else.

"No one can rain on our parade!" called someone with a mic on the sidelines. Water sprayed up from somewhere, and the familiar strains of "It's Raining Men" blasted from a window. Men in raincoats and little else danced into the street with umbrellas.

It was a good distraction from the momentary unpleasantness. Even Brent was dancing with a mustachioed man in a bright red Speedo and washboard abs under his raincoat, at least until I dragged him away to grind with him in the middle of the street, laughing as the fake rain plastered our shirts to our chests.

Jake and Philip begged for us to go out after the parade, to a club where the party would continue late into the night. I looked to Brent and knew it wasn't going to happen. "We'll have to take a rain check," I said, leading Blaine to launch into his own rendition of "It's Raining Men."

Brent began shivering, and as soon as the roads were clear enough and I saw a taxi, I flagged it down and got us home. I ran him a hot bath, and helped him undress, then undressed myself and squeezed us both into the bathtub. He rested against my chest and let me wash him. After toweling us both off, I lifted him into bed and curled myself around him.

He was thin, so thin. My biceps appeared almost swollen resting on top of his. Only a few years ago, he had worked out at the gym with me, but now I held him gently, like he might break if I held him tighter.

He was dying in my arms. It would have been better if he had died that night, after having a good day. After that, the bad days took over, and I had to bring him to the hospital two days later when he couldn't get out of bed and the low-grade fever he'd had for weeks suddenly spiked.

Our last night came too soon after that, and not soon enough. Despite the doctors' warnings, I did not stop touching him or kissing him. I would not desert him in this. Part of me wanted to get sick, too. I didn't want to live without him.

I was alone with him when he drew his last breath. He exhaled, and I waited for him to breathe again. I waited and waited, holding his hand, his skeletal hand, that did not have the strength to grip mine.

The room began to spin, and I lay my head down, closing my eyes, for all of this felt far too familiar.