Tuesday was the 20th anniversary of the CDC's first indication of the AIDS virus. I don't think the term AIDS surfaced until later. I recall the term "gay cancer" being used, and I guess the first detailed article I read about it was in "Rolling Stone." The idea of "safer sex" was unheard of at the time.

This was a period when I had just come out. And I quickly discovered the delights of the anatomical permutations that were available. All unprotected, of course. I can only guess that what saved me was a disinterest in anal sex either as receptive or insertive partner. That does not mean that I did not engage in either for I did.

I knew any number of people who died of AIDs. Some I knew only by sight, such as a fellow bar patron. Some I knew as vague acquittances. A few I knew more personally. Several were close friends. Some I loved. And some I had sex with.

Of all these, I suppose the closest relationship was with Mike who was a wonderful friend. I think we met at the bar. I don't think we were ever physically attracted to each other, and I don't remember exactly how we became friends. He was from a small town in Pennsylvania, and had drifted around the country and somehow come to roost here. He was intelligent, funny and so very pereceptive. Maybe the last element was the key to the friendship: we both had odd ways of seeing things.

He became increasingly dissatisfied with his job and finally quit. He said he was going to travel around, then sail to Hong Kong to live with someone - a relative I think. His last night here was a Wednesday, and we both were at the beer bust at the bar. And like some demented teenager, I frenched him on the deserted dance floor among the cracked mirrors and the pale strobe lights. And it was a kiss of pure electrical energy. Although he didn't say anything, I could tell he had enjoyed it as much as I had. I also remember that two beautiful black guys approached us and wanted to know if we were lovers.

Mike left the next morning, and I didn't hear from him for months. Then I suddenly got a call one evening, and he told me he was here to finish some business before heading for Hong Kong. We didn't meet because I had tonsillitis.

Mike had a very close relationship with a co-worker, Francis, who was also a drag queen. And I knew that Mike called Francis from time to time. I saw Francis and was told that Mike had become ill in Hong Kong and returned to Pennsylvania. Several months later, Francis mentioned that Mike was very ill, and that it was like talking to an old man whenever they talked. I didn't see Francis for a while. Then one evening at a drag show, I asked if s/he had heard anything from him. Francis said Mike had died a few months before, and she'd gone to the funeral, and he was buried in a small Quaker cemetery.

Oh, dear Michael. So much has come back as I wrote this. I remember so many things. Your funky old Czech motorcycle. Your tiny, cave-like apartment. The drawing on your wall of when you'd posed nude for the art class. How you walked everywhere and almost never drove your car. How you were always picking up guys in the park. How you hungered for a committment. How you never wore underwear. The weird garage sale you had before you left: I bought a warped blue vase you'd made in pottery class. Then left it behind, and you gave it to Jeff to give to me. And how blitzed you'd get on beer bust beer.

And I think now that I must have loved you in silence, as I've done so many times before with so many others. But above all I treasure that single kiss. A moment of solitude when our bodies and souls collided. If there be a paradise, then there we shall meet again.

PAX!