When it comes to sex, D'Arcy is the poster boy of Sin for the Christian Right. He is also my best friend.

    He's told me stories of wild encounters in bus station bathrooms, swinging ads he answered in the Wild Side section of the personals ("couple looking for second-hand tools" or "hot bottom looking for sweaty top" or "wrestle to the mat, winner take all"), dates with women that ended with public sex in a restaurant, tied up, tied down, beaten, spanked, costumed, inserted, probed, in the back seat on Twin Peaks, in the back seat at Safeway, in the back seat of a taxi, on the back of a bus, in the back of an airplane, at the laundry mat, in the parking lot of he laundry mat, with men, with women, with men and women, with young men too young to be called men, with women too old to be called women, using lube, using KY, using Vaseline -- using Valvoline. There wasn't much he hadn't tried.

    "I've never been fisted or pissed on." D'Arcy told me one day over coffee. A sly grin and a spark in his eye told me that D'Arcy believed in the future, maintained hope for the as yet unexplored, the untried, the uncovered in his quest for sexual discovery. Hope kept him from being jaded.

    "I'm less worried about getting AIDS and more worried about getting rabies."