beyond buffalo

I think of this post from time to time. I also think of the other loved ones that we’ve lost and that are still living with this thing.

WORLD AIDS DAY –

In 1993, I met a man named Jeff Struckman in a closet of a sex club in San Francisco called Mike’s Night Gallery. Jeff was beautiful (in my eyes) and the sex we enjoyed that night and many nights to follow were sweaty, passion-filled workouts. I knew there would never be anything more than what we were currently embarked on, so I did my best to enjoy him while he was still paying me attention.
This was the age of AIDS, ACT-UP, and Queer Nation. The predominate style of the gays in San Francisco was the typical uniform of a black leather motorcycle jacket (covered in paint, stickers, and various items), a white t-shirt, jean shorts completed with the mid-calf high Doc Marten boots with white socks.
Jeff, was an artist. He painted sets and backdrops for the opera and various theater groups in the city. One night, there was an art show of local artists to benefit the city’s AIDS charities. It was called “Blinds for AIDS”, and each artist had painted a roman blind to be put up for sale. This was the first time I saw any of Jeff’s work and I was thrilled that he invited me. It was this night that would plant the seed of an idea that I carry with me to this day.
Jeff’s version of the above mentioned uniform included a hand-painted leather jacket unlike anything I’d ever seen. He used a subtle pallet of colors and placed highly stylized cave-painting-like dinosaurs at various places on it. I got the idea that night to ask Jeff to paint my jacket and he agreed.
For some reason that to this day I cannot say, I chose the image of Natasha Fatale to grace the back panel of my jacket. About a week later, Jeff brought me a painting that was the study for my panel. It was a simple Natasha, in her signature purple dress holding, in one hand, a martini, and in the other, a lit cartoon styled bomb. Perfect for me in so many ways.
A few weeks later, I had my painted jacket adorned with the above describes Natasha, but in addition, there were stacks of TNT and drums of poison around her feet filling in some of the dead space in the panel. I wore the jacket with pride for many years.
A short while later, my affections for Jeff spiked to the point that I had fallen in love with him. It was at this point, he told me not to love him because he wasn’t long for this world. He was dying of AIDS and would soon disappear. I had always known that he had the disease and we always were safe, but this devastated me in a way I never allowed myself to admit. This was the first time (of many), the disease hit me directly.
True to his word, shortly after that night, Jeff disappeared from public life. I never heard about his death, but I saw his obituary in the gay papers.
A year or two later, when I had decided to get my first tattoo, I chose Jeff’s original design. It wasn’t until many years later that I even realized exactly why. I still wonder if it was me saying goodbye to Jeff, or to my innocence. I’ve come to think warmly of this gentle, passionate and mysterious man as I grow older, and I love to share the story of how he affected my life.
Today, the original study and the back panel of my jacket hang, framed, in my living room while the ink on my body stares up at me from my right calf.