Looking back on a few decades of plenty of vigorous sex in clubs and saunas, at parties, in strangers’ beds or in my own, in a large number of places all over the world, I can safely say that I feel no regrets whatsoever. It has been fantastic overall. I have melted into nights, not knowing where I would cristallise the next day, kissed a thousand gorgeous men on the way, men that were living their lives way beyond the confines of the world of my work and social circles. For a few hours or a night, we were united and bigger than the sum of our parts, joining untold numbers of other men fucking each other right that moment.

Needless to say, not every night, not every encounter proved a memorable success; some were memorable failures. From following a sexy man home to where he lifted his Muir cap to reveal Hyacinth Bucket, to men that turned into endlessly waffling bores once they had augmented their brain function, to sex pedants giving step-by-step instruction on how to service their orifices… plenty of those experiences, as well. But even those I would not want to miss; they provide me with good anecdotes these days.

These days… Yes, these days, my life is more settled. I am over 50 and live with my husband who I think is the sexiest thing alive. I am not wanting in that department, but remain open to propositions from time to time. When I stop, better check my pulse. Old habits die hard…

I occasionally accept a proposition or even make one myself. This could happen online, in a bar or club, at a beach or wherever. After over 20 years of living with HIV and some pretty colourful and life-threatening illnesses, I have a high respect for my body. I value it as a means of experiencing and participating in life, of connecting with others, and as a source of joy. In the same vein, I love my partner’s body, and the body of any man I get dirty with. It seems self-evident that I would protect myself and them from avoidable illness, without necessarily turning protection into a fetish. Like much in life – let’s say, like lying on my sofa and stuffing myself with chocolates till my pancreas begs for mercy and a desire to stay and look fit – it ends in a compromise: Have as much fun as you can without fucking yourself up or the other guy.

I use condoms and gloves for sex. It is my choice and one that I find quite reasonable given my preferences and my life situation. My fading memories of syphilis, chlamydia, hepatitis or gonorrhea infections are not bathed in a particularly golden glow and a burning desire to repeat and share the fun.

To my bad luck, it appears to have gone out of fashion. The local AIDS-Hilfe appears very busy telling people reasons why not to use condoms. Undetectable viral loads and now PrEP supposedly render them obsolete. Finally, gay men, HIV-positive men can rid themselves of “the stigma” by not having to discuss their status or having to use condoms. A gay journalist in the local queer rag SIEGESSÄULE even accused gay men still advocating condom condom use of homophobia. Suddenly, at age 51, being identified as a homophobe for wanting to protect myself, my man and my fuck buddies from sexually transmitted illnesses was a surprising twist in the tale (tail?) of a man who started his gay career in an anarchistic SM club.

In line with this public spit in the face, Safer Sex appears to be going out of style with a bang and a slam. A typical exchange goes something like this:

Muscle man, face nervously twitching from whatever stimulant he has taken too much of, approaches with his throbbing hard-on in his hand. Not going to be a very deep and meaningful encounter, but better than a poke in the eye between beers. Bending over, I pull a condom out of my pocket.

– Oh, I’m alright. Just been to see my doctor and got the all clear.

– Pleased to hear it. But I have a partner and we always play safe.

– No, honest, mate, I’m fine. Viral load undetectable.

– I am sure it is, but I don’t know that all the other guys you’ve fucked this evening have just been to see their doctor, as well. So, let’s use condoms.

– … (steps fading rapidly into the distance)

And this is the good ending. A bloke shouting at me with clenched fists, “I could just vomit when I hear “condom”. Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” in the middle of a club is a bit more disturbing.

In principle, I can end it the second I get the first objection. It is like my days as a Mormon missionary:

– We already have a church.

– Great! Let’s talk about Jesus amongst fellow Christians then!

– Oh, I am busy right now.

– No problem. When is a good time for us to come back?

– Oh, I do not know what my husband/wife will say.

– That’s okay. We will come back when he/she is around and ask them.

By that time, I was just doing it for the fun of winding up rabid Southern Baptists who could not say the words “I do not want to talk to you.” And I do the same with my barebacking pals who have, by some crazy coincidence, always “just been to the doctor’s to get the all clear” while I only see mine every three months. I could tell them to fuck off the second they say “Oh, but I’m alright, mate”, but I want to just prolong the awkwardness a little more before returning to my beer. Maybe I AM smug… blame it on my   dreamboat husband or the fact that I am not buzzing on a elephant’s dose of crystal if you like. Or maybe, my memories of illness and swallowing heaps of antibiotics are still a bit too frightening.

The fact that I am a retired doctor has not been lost on even the remotest acquaintances of distant friends. At regular intervals, I get a message that goes something like this:

­–Hi. I am soandso, soandso’s mate. We met at suchandsuch once. I am in town, but I have this burning in my dick and I need some antibiotic. Can you get me some?

Or from friends:

– Hi, it’s been a crazy Easter/Folsom/Gay Pride weekend. Too much fun, really; I am still a wreck. I think I caught something along the way and I need an antibiotic. Waiting rooms are always bursting after such a weekend. Can you get me something?

Or, planning ahead:

– Hey, I’ve got a crazy weekend ahead. Soandso is in town; we are having a big party with a dozen guys. I want some antibiotics, just in case. Can you get me some?

That’s right, guys. The global medical community is pulling out its collective hair over the rapid rise of antibiotic resistance, but never let that stand in the way of your right to be horny, free and uninhibited. And while your doctor, the bastard, makes you sit in his waiting room amidst old copies of “Brigitte” and “Blue” and a few dozen fellow sufferes who also have not slept for three nights – he may even cock an eyebrow as he pushes that little brush down your pussy cock – there is always your good mate, the retired doctor, to spare you this awful inconvenience, ey? The partypooper with the condoms, remember? Such a crap deal when you are having the mother of all come downs…

So, what can you expect from an ageing homophobe? Empathy? The wisdom of old men is like the winter sun; it brings light, but no warmth. I am resigned to that. I love the idea of an international gay brotherhood fucking each other’s brains out. It is the image of all that sexual energy buzzing across the globe, connecting us all. I love it!

But I fail to understand why this immense privilege, the magnificence of this vision, the joy that can be shared is somehow placed in opposition to some basic and sensible measures of protection. I do know that sex without the hassle of condoms can be even more fun, but when is fun ever “enough”?

If you want to have unprotected sex, I think that is pretty much up to you and dependent on the specific situation. But would it be too much to ask some respect for my position, my desire to protect myself and my partner? Does the fact that we fuck with a condom weigh so much more heavily than the fact that YOU and I are fucking? You slobber all over my face, whisper steamy compliments in my ear, pull my nipples, stick your tongue down my throat, groan as you grind your throbbing dick against mine, and then it all falls to pieces because I pull out a condom? Resigned…