Editor's note: This article contains some explicit sexual writing that is not safe for work (NSFW)

A few years back, when Antonio, a 21-year-old beefy Dominican bottom, and I decided to meet at a local queer bathhouse, our chats on Grindr had already made it clear that we had undeniable sexual chemistry. He wanted to be dominated and humiliated and f**ked into oblivion, which is a particular skill set of mine.

As I walked him around the bathhouse with the dog leash he brought with him, both of us were throbbing with anticipation. We found our private room and, with me being on PrEP, we got into a steamy, fluid-heavy bareback session. As I was getting close to climax, I asked him where he wanted me to cum, and he screamed, 'Inside me, papi! Please papi!" I happily obliged.

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As we lay soaked in sweat cooling off before getting dressed, as a former community health worker specializing in HIV/AIDS prevention, I instinctively asked if he was on PrEP, undetectable, or aware of his status. He seemed genuinely confused by the question, and after a bit of probing, it quickly became apparent that he didn't know his status, didn't know what PrEP was, had only ever had condomless sex, and had once contracted a bacterial sexually transmitted infection (STI) for which he received uninsured treatment to hide it from his parents, whose insurance he was still on.

Normally, I would have side-eyed a response like his, but something about his naïveté was youthfully endearing, and the sex was good. Still, I didn't feel it was right to be having sex with someone so much younger without showing him 'the ropes' on protecting his health and understanding consent, especially since he had also described an experience with a 'rough' hookup that I would call sexual assault.

He gave me a ride home, and we got stuck in standstill rush hour traffic, giving us more time to talk. During the conversation, he revealed that he came from a very traditional Dominican immigrant family with parents who were strict evangelical Christians. His parents had decided it was best to severely shelter him and his siblings from life outside their church.

He had recently become estranged after a fight with his father, whose machismo meant seeing a challenge to his authority as an act of violence. He'd been living with friends for a year while working barely above minimum wage at Target and knew little about life outside his strict upbringing -- and even less about HIV in the queer community.

I told him about my own religious upbringing and period of estrangement from a parent, how I'd found a queer support group back when I was younger, and how I went on to co-found an HIV/AIDS prevention organization through the University of California at San Francisco.

We agreed to get together again, and I told him he could text me anytime he wanted to hook up, needed a friend to talk to, or wanted to know about places to get tested for STIs. We kept in touch through occasional texts, where he begged to be taken to a wooded area and tied to a tree to be used for whatever I pleased. While I found it arousing, I rejected the idea as illegal, and I didn't want to encourage him to engage in any more risky behavior than he already had. His sexual behavior wasn't just putting him at increased risk for HIV, it could just actually get him killed.

I've witnessed firsthand how dangerous misconceptions about HIV continue to fuel the epidemic among queer Hispanic men (QHM). During visits to adult arcades and theaters, I had hooked up with many older Hispanic men who engaged in condomless sex, believing they couldn't contract HIV if they were the insertive partner -- a false and risky assumption.

Despite advances in HIV prevention and treatment, QHM remain disproportionately affected by the epidemic, with recent CDC data showing that Hispanic and Latino men who have sex with men account for a significant portion of new HIV diagnoses in the U.S. in 2024.

For a lot of these guys, it's not just about avoiding HIV -- it's way more complicated. A lot of cultural stigma around being gay still exists in Hispanic communities, and HIV still remains such a taboo topic. Some Hispanic home and others are inundated in religious guilt, and some Hispanic families are masters of chisme -- the art of gossip. Stigmas associate HIV with being gay, promiscuous, or having moral failings. These often lead to shame, silence, and fear of rejection, causing delayed testing, untreated HIV, and healthcare avoidance. It's tough when you're up against that kind of pressure.

Also, there's the whole issue of language barriers and not having healthcare workers who understand Hispanic people's cultural and regional backgrounds. Concerns about immigration status can also prevent QHM from seeking healthcare, as they may fear legal repercussions or deportation if they access medical services. When you mix in racism and the fact that a lot of us can't even afford decent care, it's no wonder so many QHM like Antonio are out there taking risks without really thinking about the consequences. It all just kind of piles up, making it harder to stay on top of your health.

The next time I saw Antonio, it was even hotter than the first time. I was alone for the weekend, so I invited him over. When he arrived, he took off his clothes to reveal an erection bursting through a skin-tight black Nasty Pig jock. From the pockets of his pants, he pulled out a dog leash and a gimp mask. He got down on his knees to service me, and before I knew it, he was riding me raw again, begging me to release inside him. I never disappoint a sexual partner, so I fulfilled my end of the bargain. By the end, he might as well have been a Twinkie.

Afterward, we sat together for a while, and I asked him if he had gotten tested yet or started using condoms. He reluctantly admitted that he hadn't. I told him that I was still on PrEP and that he could go to clinic where I got my prescription to get tested.

He stumbled with his words a bit and I could tell he was uncomfortable. I apologized for being in his business. He told me he'd be fine and thanked me for caring, mentioning how most of his hookups only focused on sex. Even though we were just f**k buddies, he appreciated that I offered support without expecting anything sexual. The sex was great, but it's easy to forget that the people we hook up with have their own lives and stories too.

I didn't hear from Antonio for about three months, and only in fleeting moments did I wonder what had happened. Hookups come and go, so that's just how things are. I went back to cruising Grindr, looking for more "friends with benefits," when I got a notification saying, "I have to tell you something."

I opened the message, and it was Antonio, who proceeded to tell me the story of how he had been drugged at a bar after meeting an older man. He had agreed to go to a wooded area to live out his fantasy of being bound, gagged and treated as a sex object.

The guy must have put something in his drink but decided not to follow through on whatever he had planned. At some point, Antonio passed out in the bar and woke up in the hospital, where he was told the bartender had called an ambulance. While he was unconscious, the doctors had taken blood. It was through these circumstances that he learned he was HIV-positive and had likely been positive for some time.

I wasn't shocked by any part of his revelation, as I've been drugged at a bar before and escaped an attempted assault. I'm also well aware of the risks that exist for QHM concerning HIV/AIDS. Antonio said he was waiting for a genetic test to officially confirm his HIV-positive status, but he knew in his heart that he was positive and took responsibility for his actions, saying it was his fault.

I told him there was no one to blame and that HIV is a virus -- it has nothing to do with morality. He admitted that since we had last seen each other, he had been on a spree of drinking and compulsive sex, and he didn't want me to worry, so he never reached out even though I had offered. The doctors told him that his cell levels indicated that he had likely been positive for a while and advised him to start antiretroviral medication as soon as possible.

All of this had happened about a month earlier, and he still hadn't heard back about the genetic testing results. He didn't know how he'd be able to get the medication since he was now officially uninsured. While I was glad he wasn't devastated, his attitude was incredibly nonchalant.

I reemphasized that if he wanted to talk or needed information on treatment resources, I could help. He said he appreciated it but declined my help, although he was again thankful for my care and non-judgmental manner. Near the end of our chat, he explained that he had contacted me to tell me to get tested, and I replied that I had been recently tested, was still on PrEP, and remained negative.

The conversation ended there, and we didn't speak again for months. The last time we talked, he confirmed that he was HIV-positive but still hadn't started treatment as the doctors had advised. I continue to encourage him to seek treatment, but each time, he has politely declined my help or ghosted on our plans to go together to his first appointment to get anti-retroviral therapy.

I understand, on some level, his reluctance to deal with it. As a Black man of Hispanic heritage, I know how HIV/AIDS impacts both communities of queer men. Every time I get tested or take my PrEP, I'm honoring my Hispanic body by caring for it and staying informed. Asking a hookup about their sexual health -- or health in general -- can sometimes feel more invasive than being inside someone's butthole, and sharing parts of your sexual history can leave you feeling more vulnerable than having someone's cock in you.

It's sad that, as queer men, we still haven't built a community free from judgment and stigma around HIV/AIDS. I know I can't control what Antonio does, but I can honor our heritage by supporting other QHM and acting as a resource to empower their healthcare. Some guys, like Antonio, might avoid facing the reality of being HIV-positive until they're forced to deal with it when they become sick or hospitalized (as I've seen with friends in the past). I hope to always create a space where guys feel free to be honest about their status or ask for support without shame.

Talking about my sex life as a QHM during Hispanic Heritage Month is a way to break stigmas and celebrate my authentic self within both the Hispanic and LGBTQ+ communities. I'm interested in sex, not just for the sake of it, but to be inventive and address topics that genuinely resonate with queer men as an important part of our lives.

Sex has always been a form of celebration for queer men. Whether it's Pride Month or "Queer Christmas" (aka Halloween), queer men are always going to enjoy f**king and telling each other about it. Hispanic Heritage Month can be about my own sexuality as a queer Hispanic man and our everyday experiences -- gathering with loved ones, embracing wellness and self-care, or simply taking pride in our identities and histories. It's about embracing the boldness, authenticity, and vibrant diversity within our community.

We, as Hispanic people, value helping one another, a tradition rooted in mutual support as a way to navigate life. This Hispanic Heritage Month, I'm reaching out to other QHM to remind them that they're not alone and that we can confront stigma and barriers to our well-being together.

I'll be checking in with Antonio, and I also plan to get tested for HIV, syphilis, and other STIs this month as part of my own self-care. I encourage all QHM to take this time to do the same, including getting the monkeypox vaccine if you haven't already. Let's hook up, have fun, and work toward being a healthier community in honor of this month.