By J. Corbett Holmes

The process in which I acquired my STD was not a belabored one. No path involving weeks of driving around to locate the perfect match. But, like driving a car, each time you get behind the wheel, there is always the possibility of collision with an uninsured motorist. Perhaps it was the fact that I'd recently traded in my expensive sports car for a "pickup" truck, or maybe it's that STD's are becoming so prevalent. But nonetheless, with their gaining popularity on the street -- whether I could afford the payments or not, if I was going to be "out there," then I was bound to get one eventually. So, I decided many years ago while obtaining my driver's license at the DMV, that as a personal defense to avoid any unwanted points on my love-license, I would develop my own DMV ... my "Dating Man's Vocabulary": a young, gay man's ABC's for avoiding HIV, STD, and any other hazardous circumstances. That may sound dumb, but I was 20 and life's driving conditions were daunting at best. Becoming road-kill was not an option.

So, on a recent summer night, when my friend David and I agreed to meet for a long

overdue catch-up cocktail, I decided to walk.

Thus, there would be no need for my driver's license, and no need for the DMV (my Dating Men's Vocabulary).

Our evening proceeded as planned with our heads stuck together while olives marinated and ice cubes clinked with delight at the tips of our fingers. There were no signs of hazardous conditions, and certainly no signs there would be men at work on our trip to tipsy -- just a simple drink between friends. With barely a swig of my martini (a clear-liquid warning sign), David stirred a little surprise into our happy hour heart-to-heart. "My friend Richard is gonna meet us!" (I shall call him Richard.) "He's moving out of town next week, so I asked him to join us," David offers. "Oh ... ooookaaay," I replied, raising my glass in a welcoming gesture. "Haven't you two met before?" he inquired. "I could have sworn you two knew each other!" And, with barely another shared sip between us, Richard arrived.

Once he'd ordered a drink and was on our libation level, additional unexpected friends began to appear. So, I just went along for the ride and began to enjoy the scenery. That is when the ride turned bumpy!

With my learner's permit of relationships under my seatbelt, at 45, I had vowed to lose my

"Elizabeth Taylor" trademark of nuptials-as-foreplay, with a commitment to embark on an easier "learn-to-sleep-around-a-little" mode of driving.

You see, when I came out of the closet in New York City in the early Ô80s, death was knocking hard at the other side of the door as I watched my peers die around me. So, I barely had sex. And when I did, the endless list of questions (my DMV) hardly made for fantastic foreplay. So, when I met someone I liked ... I married him! Fast forward 25 years and I had a l-o-n-g list of husbands. But there were two things missing from my "Elizabeth Taylor" trademark -- one good and one bad. The good was, that I had never had an STD. The bad, unlike Liz, was that I had no large canary-yellow diamond to offer hope as a consequence. Only the yellow of my yield signal as I drove back and forth from husband to heartbreak-hotel.

When I met Richard, I was at a crossroads. I was in need of renewing my driver's license, thus rethinking my DMV (and, let's not forget I was DWI -- Drinking When Interested). I would proceed with caution but drive at an easier, green light speed -- remembering to wear my seatbelt. Consequently, Richard's innuendo made my dry martini into a dirty one -- with extra olives. And I thought, here's your chance, let it go. He's cute, funny, and sweet, plus you have friends in common! Forget the DMV! Oddly, we even looked a little alike, but there was one distinctly different thing between us. While I was attempting to navigate my newly acquired "pickup" truck trademark (and even though it didn't seem like it), he was driving something more powerful -- an STD!

The funny thing about pickups is, you think to yourself, well... . I'm sitting up higher. I'm safer and I have better roadway vision. Go for the green! WRONG!

So after being cooped up in bed for a week thinking I had the flu. I went to my doctor and he told me I had an STD. No shock absorbers could shield me from the deflated feeling of despair that creeped out from under my hood.

"That's impossible!" I shot back ... "I was safe!" I added, to drive my point home! And, like the total New Yorker that he is (which is why I love him -- even when his finger is in my ass), my doctor (who speaks in one word exclamations) simply asked, "SAFE?!? ... James, what is safe?" "Wwweell... he gave me a blowjob," I pushed back as I pulled my boxers back on. "And only for a few minutes! What can be more safe than that?" "No condom?" he hammered back. "No... not for five minutes at the hot dog stand!" I blasted back.

"Well... then you weren't safe!" he said, meeting me with a direct stare to drive his point home. I thought, HOW can this be happening to ME?!? I'd been with fewer guys than the average Catholic priest, and now I had an STD!

While the doctor sat at his desk typing out a prescription for my "treatment," endless things drove through my head. I thought about how many men were gone from my age group because of unprotected sex. I thought about the mounting numbers of new HIV cases popping up every day. I thought about how even the most innocent interlude was rife with the possibility of penicillin. And all those thoughts were hardly a romantic drive to make-out point, but more like a drive-by shooting.

As I drove home from the doctor's office in my pickup truck (yes, I really do have a pickup truck -- and oddly it's yellow), I had to fight back the swell that was forming in my eyes. Not because I had gotten an STD -- thankfully that would be gone in a week. But, because the ability to experience even the most innocent level of sexual freedom ... is gone!

I began to think about Richard, and wondered how many other men were now part of my driving club. I thought about the STD advertisement with the big cartoon raspberry that suddenly didn't look so funny. I thought about all the ads that surround this column and wondered what they used as a DMV? To avoid continued thoughts about the aforementioned, I tried to distract myself by turning on the radio. The tunes played for a while, then a Michael Jackson song came on. So naturally, he became part of my ride to rehabilitation. As he crooned from the dashboard, it made me think about the sweet, simple lyrics of a younger, darker, larger-nosed Michael Jackson. "A B C, it's easy as you and me!" And as the mildew of a molestation-trial lingers, I was also reminded that there is always the possibility for bad things to grow out of the sweetest places. Along with Michael, I suspect I shall always have my "Liz" (trademark) lurking somewhere nearby. But as I maneuver through life in the single lane, with each adventure I am learning to be a better driver -- even with penicillin points on my DMV.

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