‘We didn’t realise we were killing each other’
George Hodson, 73
I went to university in London in 1967, the year the decriminalisation bill went through. It was no longer illegal to have gay sex in England and Wales if you were over 21, but it was still frowned upon. I was 18, so it was still illegal for me, but I never thought much about the legality. I was too busy enjoying myself.
I’d been sent to an all-boys boarding school. I had a relationship with a boy there. It didn’t have a label per se. It wasn’t just sexual. It was something very special for me – at 16, you’re learning how to love. We moved to London together. Then he discovered women and went his way. I moved into another phase of my sexual journey. I spent the mid-70s chasing men, being chased. Going to all the gay nightclubs. Huge amount of sex.
I liked to troll, walk down the street and catch someone’s eye. That’s how we’d meet. Does he want me? Do I want him? Then meeting eye to eye and talking, maybe going off and having quick, good sex. I’m very empathic, so I would read the person. You can’t feel a person’s spirit on this, whatsit, Grindr stuff. That’s anathema to me.
I was never a great fan of clubbing. It was like you were gay in the club, then you came out of it and put your coat back on and you went into denial about it. Well, I didn’t want to do that. “Queer” to me is someone who’s their true self. I wasn’t experiencing that in London. I’d heard that queer men from all over the world were going to the Castro [district] in San Francisco to take it over. I sold my flat and went to San Francisco in 1979 to take part in this incredible experiment of community.
It was so exciting. Oh, the energy. You could walk down the street holding hands without fear of being bashed. I was an honorary member of [queer protest group] the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. On Saturdays we’d all gather on the City Hall steps. We’d bring Barbie dolls and little bottles of water, and chant: “We wash away our fears, we wash away our guilt, we wash away stigma.” Then we’d all go off to read Armistead Maupin’s latest Tales of the City. It was a wonderful vibe.
I had a chance to express freely, be queer, full-time, full on. I did two years there. And then the dreaded HIV/Aids appeared. I was living with a rather cute man called Mark. We were on our way to have brunch one Sunday. As we were walking down Castro, in the pharmacy window was a Polaroid, a closeup of a man’s arm with a purple lesion on it [a sign of Kaposi’s sarcoma, a cancer that affects people with HIV]. That was the first time I faced our nemesis.
I ran away. I landed this fabulous job in Singapore and met Sam, my grand passion. We lived together in this beautiful old teak wood house. We had eight glorious years together. Then we learned we were both HIV positive. Sam was put in the Concorde trial of AZT [the first HIV antiretroviral drug]. The doctors were giving huge doses; they had no idea. It wasn’t HIV that killed him, it was the doses. He died horribly. I was with him. I managed to survive without pills until 2011. Now the medication has reduced the amount of virus so much, I can’t pass it on.
I’ve been celibate for 20 years. I enjoy it. I’d spent too much of my life chasing sex. There are very few 70-year-old queer men. We lost my whole generation [in the Aids crisis]. It was political sex. We’d been denied the right to have sex. Perhaps, looking back, there was too much. But we’d never had the chance to have so much choice. We didn’t realise that as we were having sex, we were killing each other.
I saw the full horrors Aids could wreak upon people. It was tough. My partner died in my arms. I was told I was going to die. But all my life I never thought sex itself was shameful or guilty or fearful. It was a glorious free gift of the body.
I’m living queer history. I’m writing a memoir. I do a lot of podcasts. That’s the role I take on, reminding young queers about Aids – to learn their history, that antiretrovirals didn’t grow on trees. To remember and honour those who gave their lives to get these drugs.
George Hodson died on 3 May 2023. His friends are hoping to publish a memoir with Polari Press.
* * *
‘He said: it shouldn’t be just us two – we can have an open relationship’
Marc Thompson, 54
I came out in the summer of 1985. I was 15 and a bit. Two things were happening then. The sex I was having was illegal because I was under 21. This never entered my mind. The other thing was the emergence of the HIV epidemic. But it didn’t feel part of my world. I was a kid from south London. My sexual and social circles were all black. The information I was getting from TV was that HIV was happening to white men in the US.
I was diagnosed 18 months after I came out. The landscape had shifted by then. All the gains we’d won were being taken away. It was an era of sex equals death and the fear was palpable. Kissing would be the limit. Penetrative sex didn’t happen. We were worried about oral sex. There was so much you felt you couldn’t do.
I found sexual liberation at saunas, where condom use was an accepted norm. I could have sex and I didn’t have to disclose my HIV status. Getting involved in HIV prevention work, and being around other men who understood we could do things where the risk was low, gave me the tools to know I could have a healthy sex life.
I met someone. He knew about my HIV and he was cool about it. He said: “You’re really good-looking; I’m really good-looking. You’re 25; I’m 26. There is no way it should be just the two of us. We can have an open relationship.” I’d had a strict idea of relationships based on a heteronormative model. That liberated us. We had threesomes. We were two cute black boys in the club and we’d be like: “You come home with us, you’re lucky.”
I had survivor’s guilt in the 90s. With the advancement of HIV treatment, we positive people weren’t seeing death in the same huge numbers. Then it was like: “We’re going to live – let’s party.” We had this big explosion of house music clubs like DTPM, Trade and Home.
It was the era of civil partnerships. There were good gays – guys who got married and got a dog – and there were dirty gays. There had been a sanitisation of who we are. It’s nice to aspire to be married and all of that, but look how wonderful and fun and free we’d been when we didn’t have those structures put around us.
I feel a return to sex positivity among younger queer people. PrEP [pre-exposure prophylaxis, a medicine that reduces your chances of getting HIV] has had a big impact. HIV is still traumatic, but it has become a bit of a historical artefact: it used to happen to us.
I’m not on the gay scene any more. When you get older, you are edged out. On Grindr, I could not negotiate that digital space; I didn’t have the language for it. I would say: “This is a good conversation – do you want to meet for coffee?” People were like: “Coffee for what?”
My desire has lessened. Sometimes that’s frightening. I have a couple of good buddies who, if I need intimacy, I can call up because we’ve been having sex for years. Sex is such an integral part of who you are as a gay man. Am I still a gay man without it?
When I was 15, being gay was defined by who I wanted to go to bed with. Forty years later, it’s defined by my friends, the culture, the sense of community and the people I want to go to bed with – I just want to do that less. My world used to be gay men. Now it’s queer: gay men, queer women, non-binary trans folk. It’s not just about the sex we have; it’s that we’re different.
* * *
‘I would meet someone after seeing a couple of fuzzy pictures – there were some awkward encounters’
River Scott, 40
My schooldays fell under section 28 [the 1988 law that prohibited local authorities and schools from “promoting” homosexuality], so there was no talk of being gay. Sex education was about condoms. The science teacher did his best; at one point he was impersonating the sperm. I lost my virginity at 18 to a guy I met through the theatre. There was no gay bar in Doncaster at the time and we couldn’t go for a drink in any normal bar.
We both had families at home, so there were no safe spaces. He would pick me up and we’d drive somewhere in the countryside, or he would say: “Come around to mine. My parents are out but you’ve got to be gone by nine.” And it was always focused on the sex, it was never about connecting emotionally. Maybe that’s a teenage thing. But maybe it was a gay teenage thing of the time and place. There were no relationship models. I didn’t really equate sex with intimacy.
At 18, I went to Australia for six months. That was a big revelation. I met gay guys who weren’t closeted. One guy I remember was very comfortable in himself and his sexuality. That was sexy; he wasn’t hiding or trying to fit in. Eventually I landed in London. There were no apps then; everyone had a Nokia 3310. For online dating I used Faceparty – it was a bit cooler than Gaydar, which had a promiscuous, sleazy feel to it. We would all pretend not to be on Gaydar even though we were. It was a little bit clandestine. I would meet someone after seeing a couple of fuzzy pictures online. There were several awkward encounters where one or both of us was not really into the other enough but still doing it anyway: we’d both come to this bar, we might as well.
Now it’s easier – everyone has cameras; everyone knows how to take a photo. There have still been times when I’ve gone around to a guy’s house and he’s opened the door and said: “Sorry, mate, I’m not that interested.” That is a kick to the ego. But it’s preferable to the times I’ve had sex with people just because I was there.
I look back and think how horrible and judgmental we were about HIV. The education around U equals U is helpful [undetectable = untransmissible, when antiretroviral drugs reduce HIV in the person’s bloodstream to the extent that they cannot pass the virus on through sex]. That it’s possible to have sex, without condoms, with someone who has HIV and not be at risk. It changes all these conversations and takes away a lot of the stigma and the stress.
I remember, around 2008, having sex with someone and he asked if we could not use a condom. No one had asked me that before; we’d always used condoms. Now it’s the other way around. You ask if it’s OK to use a condom rather than not. I can’t use PrEP because I experience side-effects, so I ask if it’s OK if I use condoms. Usually the other person is surprised because it’s not normal any more. Some say no, which is fine. It’s their choice. It’s better to have that conversation earlier on rather than when you’re both naked.
I identify as non-binary queer rather than as a gay man. When I first moved to London, being able to say “I’m gay” helped me find this group that I was part of. Changing the label or choosing something that is outside this basic definition is freeing again. I’ve started using the same kind of approach with sex. I can just enjoy the physical sensation of being with someone. It’s about the intimacy rather than just the physical. A label can be restricting. I focus a lot less on hookups. We go for a drink and see if we click. If we don’t, I’ve got no problem with saying: “All right, time to go home.”
River Scott hosts the Probably True podcast, telling stories of queer life and sex.
* * *
‘We grow up later than straight people because we have to deal with our sexuality first. That takes time’
Mufseen Miah, 31
I didn’t learn anything about gay sex at school, especially not how to do it safely. There wasn’t much focus on consent either. It’s important to teach the boundaries of what is appropriate. As a young gay person, you might feel pressure to have all types of sex in the beginning. If you’re getting education from TV or porn, that’s not realistic.
There were also other considerations about my sexuality. Living in Brighton, I was only out to my friends; I didn’t want my family to know. I met people on websites like Gaydar and Fitlads. It could be risky. If you met a stranger and drove back to theirs, no one knew where you were. If I’d had a very accepting and supportive culture, then I wouldn’t have been pushed towards that. It wasn’t safe. Now if someone feels a bit dodgy about a hookup, they can just share their location – there wasn’t a way to do that back when I was younger.
I moved to London at 19 and I didn’t know how to date. I would sit down with a guy and then not talk, because I had no idea how to have a conversation. I don’t know if straight people have the same experience, but they definitely have more examples on television and film of what to do. We grow up later than them because we have to deal with our sexuality and ourselves first. That takes time and we didn’t have affirming things in front of us. When straight people are in school, they are learning from those awkward [romantic] moments. I was trying my best to avoid them because I was in the closet. Nowadays it’s a lot easier because there are lots of gay groups and meetups, and there is a focus on having sober spaces for people to have conversations and not just party. I don’t know if that was around when I was younger, or if I didn’t know where to access that. It takes a lot of research just to be gay.
At 26, when PrEP was available on trial free on the NHS, I wanted access to it because I was single and becoming quite sexually active, and I wanted to be able to enjoy sex without fear of contracting HIV. It helped me feel empowered in relation to consent – what I want and what I don’t want. People are more sex positive now. They are more open to talking about HIV, STIs, safe sex and consent – that’s a great shift to be able to talk openly without stigma. When I was younger, everything was a warning.
I’m in a relationship now, but when I was single I struggled to find an app where I could go on dates. People are very forward about their preferences. It’s a jarring thing to see someone say: “No brown, no femmes.” We all have our preferences, but it’s just not nice to shout it in people’s faces. Sometimes someone will say they are attracted to me, but as soon as I tell them I’m south Asian, they’re not. They’ve seen all my photos. What’s changed?
For a lot of south Asian queer people, you feel like the minority in both spaces: in your culture and then also within the gay community. I’m from a Muslim Bengali family. If there was any kind of gay television, we would change the channel. We did watch Christian and Syed’s affair on EastEnders, which played on shame and disrespecting the family. What did that storyline do to help queer south Asian people coming out? Now in Sex Education, there’s a scene where a doctor or nurse explains exactly what PrEP is. Just to have that on television is amazing, because I still go to doctors and they don’t know what PrEP is. I have to explain it to them. Heartstopper is great. I can’t help but feel a bit upset that that wasn’t my childhood.
* * *
‘People dress crazy in clubs. I’ve worn a jockstrap and a harness on a night out’
Chris D’Arcy, 24
I’ve been talking to this guy on Instagram for months. Last night I put up a story to show I was in [gay nightclub] Heaven – look how cool I am. He replied that he was also in the club that night. That message worked. I’ll reply to a story of his in a few days, definitely, because I fancy him. And he will be expecting that.
Instagram is another dating app. I put people that I’m interested in on my Close Friends list. I have a different kind of vibe on there. It’s a bit more personal, more chaotic fun. It’s a game. I could get bored; he could get bored. He’s talking to 20 other people as well.
I came out at 15 but I didn’t make a big deal of it. I just had boyfriends every now and again. I don’t remember there ever being an issue. In Galway I always met people through Grindr, which is a terrible way to meet other gay people. People were not nice on apps; it was a hostile way of coming into the gay world because those apps bring out the worst in people. You want the attention, but you don’t want to be seen as desperate. It’s an ego boost to reject someone. There’s a lot of predatory stuff. You expect to feel safe in your own community, but it’s not like that. You have to market yourself. You portray yourself as one thing, but you are a lot more complicated in real life. People project their desires on to your profile, not you.
When I moved to London last year, I had this goal to not meet as many people from Hinge, Tinder and Grindr, and to meet in person. It’s better for my mental health. It’s harder, though. I still use dating apps because it is faster, but a hookup over Grindr is a little more impersonal. You don’t really know the person. It’s a quick hour and a half max, and then you’re out of there. It’s usually not the best experience. At a club, you get to know them and see what the common denominators are. We might stay the night together partly because of logistics: we’re tired, it’s expensive [to travel home], but also because you want to. The sex is a bit more intimate, a bit less chemical. Too many hookups and it becomes a process, like a factory line. That might cloud your vision of what a relationship should be, or how you should be treated by others.
I’ve had four relationships. I’m single at the minute. My doctor recommended I go on PrEP as I was quite sexually active between relationships. I feel safer. Gay life is better for my generation. Absolutely. I’m very lucky. It’s good to know that HIV is much less of a danger now. My generation is able to go out and enjoy ourselves without the fear of what happened in the only recent past.
The perception of the gay scene now is free, open, fun. I go to clubs and see people I recognise from online. I know this person has this kind of body, is a fashion student or studying engineering. People dress crazy in clubs. I’ve worn a jockstrap and a harness on a night out – I like to feel sexy. There is competition to look the best, reveal as much skin as possible. My straight friends find it interesting how casual it can be. How you have sex with someone and leave in an hour and never see them again. The girls do anyway; my straight male friends are less surprised when it’s two dudes.
• For our next piece in this series, we’re looking for lesbian women, queer and non-binary people to share their stories across the generations. If you’d be interested in telling us your story, please email saturday@theguardian.com with the subject line Generations.
