The young man cruising me in the popular leather bar where I live in Fort Lauderdale was not my typical "type."

He was handsome enough, and big and sturdy, the way I like my men.

But I could tell just by looking at him that he was younger than what I usually go for. I later found out he was 28, way below my personal "cut-off" rule of not dating or fooling around with anyone under 35.

And he didn’t have any facial hair. For me, that’s almost a prerequisite.

But he did have one particular attribute: persistence. And that old saying that flattery gets you everywhere has some truth. Particularly when the flattery is mixed with a little alcohol.

He told me he was looking for a "Daddy," a look that I’ve settled into rather well, having just turned 40, with grey starting to creep into my beard, and with the bearish look I’ve always carried.

Before the evening was out, I’d be just a little bit greyer, and rather than feeling like a big strong "Daddy," I’d be feeling more like a weary older gay man who remembered a history that so many younger gay men these days just can’t conjure up.

After a couple of hours of flirting and drinking, this young man, who I’ll call Bobby, put his hand down my shirt and rubbed my chest hair.

"What do I have to do to get an invitation home with you?" he asked. The pass was almost comical, but it was so sincere it turned out to be endearing instead. Before I had a chance to answer, he was talking again.

"I’d invite you to my place, but I have roommates," he said, rolling his eyes and sounding apologetic.

"I’m too old and too hard to live with to have a roommate who isn’t my lover," I responded, and Bobby rightly took this as an opening.

Before long, we were back in my apartment.

Bobby’s persistence transferred from the bar to the bedroom.

To him, having a "Daddy" clearly meant that he was going to get topped, and without much foreplay, he positioned himself on the bed for that act.

Wanting to stay in character, as it were, I moved to oblige his desire.

I reached for the condoms and lube I keep in the nightstand next to the bed.

But, like many men, I sometimes find that condoms present a real barrier to sensation, and thus sexual pleasure, and thus remaining erect. The combination of the latex and the late hour and the alcohol made it difficult.

Rather embarrassed, I told Bobby that the condoms were getting me down, as it were, and I didn’t think I was going to be able to fulfill that particular desire.

Bobby didn’t flinch.

"Are you poz or neg?" he asked.

I was going to say I was negative and intended to stay that way, meaning no unsafe sex, but Bobby didn’t let me finish my sentence.

"Well then forget the condom," he said.

I froze.

Not only did this seal the deal on the fact that I wasn’t going to get erect now, it also made me feel less like a "Daddy" and more like an elder statesman of the old days, when AIDS was killing gay men on such a regular basis that I was averaging a memorial service every month.

To Bobby, that was a lifetime ago, a time he doesn’t remember and can’t relate to.

I lay on the bed next to Bobby and tried to understand why he would take such a chance with his health on a stranger.

Suddenly, Bobby didn’t seem like the cocky, confident sexual prowler he’d come off as at the bar. He looked vulnerable.

I tried not to make him defensive. I didn’t want to sound preachy—like a real "dad." I just wanted to understand.

"I’m not a bug chaser, that’s freaky," he said of men who supposedly go out in search of getting infected by the HIV virus.

"Of course I don’t want to get infected," he said. "But sometimes, it’s almost like, in some ways, getting HIV would almost be a relief."

Then you wouldn’t have to worry about it so much, the way Bobby says he does. It wouldn’t always be in the back of your mind, he said. It wouldn’t always be nagging you at the bar and in the bedroom, it wouldn’t always be that question hanging in the air when you meet someone new.

It almost seems to Bobby that the gay men who are HIV-positive have more fun. They don’t have the constant dread of the danger of getting infected, and they seem more sexually liberated because of it. And all the hottest muscle guys are on steroids, not because they need it for their health, but because they can get it from their doctors under the guise of it being part of their medical regimen.

Sure, it would be a pain in the ass to take pills every day and all, he conceded. But he’s never personally known anyone to die of AIDS, and he has faith that even if medical science doesn’t come up with a "cure," newer and better drugs will keep getting developed, making the disease more and more manageable.

"It’s almost like being negative is the burden, because you have to constantly live like you’re on guard," he said finally. "It just gets so exhausting and stressful sometimes."