You can hear it in his voice, in how his words run to keep up with his thoughts—an unflagging desire to get the message out about the connections between HIV and men living life on the down low. He believes, like many others, that the rise in infections among African-American women can be traced in part to their male partners not being upfront with them about sleeping with men. But J.L. King is quick to point out that his work for the past few years criss-crossing the country to speak about his personal experiences of living on the down low, culminating in a best-selling book and a top-rated appearance on that media pinnacle called Oprah, was merely the lightning rod that made the country sit up and take notice of this issue.

“A lot of people in the HIV prevention field told me that they had been trying to get Oprah to do a story on HIV and black women for years,” says J.L., on the phone from his office in Chicago. “When she finally decided to do a story, everyone was completely shocked and happy at the same time. That’s why that show was literally heard around the world. It sparked debate. It sparked excitement. It sparked celebration. The [HIV prevention] foot soldiers exhaled because it gave them a new lease on life.” He is humble about his contribution, claiming that he is not one of the “true activists and educators.” Without his concrete expertise, his eloquence and charisma, his embodiment of the dialogue, however, the behaviors of non-identified men who have sex with men (MSMs) would undoubtedly have remained a rather lifeless piece of a CDC pie chart.

Interest in his story was perhaps first sparked in the national media by Linda Villarosa, a writer for The New York Times, who attended a conference where J.L. King was speaking and wrote a front-page article about “this guy who stood up and told all these experts about his down-low behavior.” J.L. King had been sharing his story of compartmentalizing his sexual relationships with men from the rest of his “straight” life since a bit after he learned that a friend, also on the down low, had been diagnosed as HIV-positive. He came to J.L. for advice and the advice that seemed best at the time was for the friend to tell his family, friends, and fellow church members that he contracted HIV from sex with a female prostitute in Vegas. The story worked. As J.L. describes it in his book, On the Down Low: A Journey into the Lives of “Straight” Black Men Who Sleep with Men, “He kept his job. He kept his life. The black community could accept that this brother got the virus from a woman—even a prostitute. They could never accept that he got it from a man.”

His friend’s wife and child tested (and remain) HIV-negative, but J.L. had a crisis of conscience about his role in the cover-up. J.L. came to own the pain he caused in the lives around him and the pain that comes with attending too many funerals. His own down-low experiences had already cost him his marriage; might DL behavior cost him his life or the life of someone close to him? He felt called by God to tell his story, warts and all, as well as “the secrets of all the black men leading double lives and having sex with men and women.”

Tell his story he did, compiling research from interviews with thousands of men living on the down low to help explain the reasons why men on the DL step out of their primary relationships with women; how they meet other men; why they reject a gay or bisexual identity in favor of a straight one. The book describes five different DL behavior types, from the Thug Brother to the “I’m Just Curious” Brother. J.L. calls on women to empower themselves about approaching relationships in ways that will protect both their hearts and bodies. He prays that every man on the DL will unlock himself from his “dungeon of deceit” by gaining strength and courage from the book.

His story was not always welcomed, at first. Some people, even HIV prevention educators, didn’t want to believe that life on the down low existed or wanted to keep “dirty laundry” out of the public eye. But he had a conviction that he needed to warn people. He slowly gathered support; people urged him to stay on-message. As momentum built, people who were “running from it, hiding from it” were now coming forward, asking him to speak.

When the Times article appeared, agents started to call; the idea of writing a book was floated. “It was never my intention, from day one, to write a book,” J.L. King says. “If you had known me four years ago, and you had asked me, ‘Are you ever going to write a book?’ I would’ve looked at you like, ‘Man, are you crazy? Write a book? About what?’” His laugh is throaty, self-deprecating.

His agent at William Morris sold it to Broadway Books, publishers of E. Lynn Harris (A&U, August 2002), a writer who has also shed light on down-low experiences, J.L. reminds. With the help of co-author Karen Hunter, J.L. King immersed himself in the writing process, the back-and-forth revisions with his editor that honed the book from 310 to 200 pages. A major cut was “a lot of juicy sex”—editors thought the message would be sharper and wouldn’t “shut people down.”

His target audience is everyone, no matter what educational background or orientation, but he is specifically concerned about reaching members of the African-American community, who are disproportionately at-risk for contracting HIV when compared to others with different ethnic backgrounds. AIDS is the leading cause of death among African-American women, ages twenty-five to thirty-four, and among African-American men, ages thirty-five to forty-four.

This is not to say that DL behavior accounts for the rise in HIV transmission or AIDS death rates. HIV transmission persistently defies categories; the complexity of individual situations defies easy finger-pointing. One of the points of the book, though, is to bring to light risks less recognized by African-Americans by starting a dialogue about men on the DL and the women they love.

The DL, a term popularized by hip-hop culture, came to be applied to anyone keeping a sexual relationship secret. It’s been appropriated by out gay and bisexual men in the African-American community, as well as by men who have sex with men outside of their primary straight relationship but do not identify as gay or bisexual. Leading double lives, J.L. points out in his book, is not a practice particular to the African-American community. A new film by Tadeo Garcia, also called On the Down Low, explores the experiences of young Latino men. Men of European descent can be living on the down low, but they don’t have a vocabulary for it.

But even as it’s a contested term, the DL can describe a certain African-American cultural specificity—attraction is most often based on both men being immersed in a “straight” ethic of masculinity: Some men on the down low distance themselves from the “gay” label because of the stigma around homosexuality in African-American communities, and, sometimes, because they reject any affinity whatsoever with gay culture.

When it comes to definitions, there’s a lot at stake. J.L., though, seems more interested in people recognizing the what—rather than defining the who—of living on the DL. But some seem to miss the point: “The book only talks about those men who are guilty of [secretive] behavior, not all MSMs. Even now, in the black community, they still want to group all MSMs in one bag. I am trying to bridge the gap of understanding—to tell black people that you can’t put gay men, MSMs, non-identified MSMs, DL men, and bisexual men all in one bag and put a ‘gay’ label on it. They’re beginning to understand that.” 

There’s a lot more to understand, he believes. To that end, he has created a social marketing agency for HIV prevention and awareness, one that designs “culturally directed messages to reach communities of color.” (Several posters were designed by J.L.’s son, J. Brandon King.) He is also planning a series of conversations, workshop-style, around the country about what is needed to create healthy relationships, but also about acceptance and empowerment. With a warmth and steadiness in his voice that reminds you why he is an in-demand speaker, he says, “The black community has got to create systems of support. We’ve got to quit being so homophobic; be more open about sexual orientation....If you have a son or daughter who’s telling you they’re gay, you need to understand that, love them, embrace them, and not turn your back on them.”

Addressing homophobia, J.L. believes, is a major first step. Leaders of faith communities need to stop condemning gay people: “They need to start preaching acceptance and be social agents of change.” Often the foundations of many communities, churches can provide information about sexuality in general, networking, and even condoms and lube (which, in fact, J.L. has seen in some churches)—anything people need “to have a healthier, safer sex life and be more sexually responsible.” Family members also can contribute to homophobia, ostracizing gay men as pedophiles or sissies or sex addicts. “I had to learn to accept my own sexuality. All my life I was a bisexual man who was living on the DL because I didn’t understand the behavior,” says J.L. “Where I grew up, the only individuals I saw who were gay or bisexual were these clown-like Miss Things, these finger-popping characters who really scared me.”

This lack of authentic representation, J.L. points out, is also rampant in the media, and whenever he can bend a producer’s ear, he urges him or her “to write a strong, black gay male character into one of [their] sitcoms. And quit showing black gay men on TV shows who are clown-like figures. You’ve got Queer As Folk, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy—you have all these white, gay men on these TV shows who are accepted by their friends, not talked about, laughing and having a good ol’ time. And then they will show a black gay character who is a clown.” He stops, catches his breath—but not for long.

“Take the black, gay guy on Six Feet Under, Keith. [The actor] is a straight guy playing gay. Do you mean they couldn’t have found a gay man who was strong and masculine like that? That alone could’ve shown a lot of people—black people, especially—that a gay man can be masculine, and not swishy, or [not] look like RuPaul. I have friends today, in 2004, when you mention gay men to them, they automatically get sick: ‘Ugh, nasty.’” People, in other words, are still keeping “gay” and “manly” far apart.

 White men who are out, opines J.L., often have stronger systems of support in their communities of origin. Black gay men who “decide to step up and have a gay lifestyle in a black community” seem to have a rougher time, says J.L., before launching into a story about such a couple who bought a house in a neighborhood that was being gentrified. “Day after day, their cars were ransacked and ‘faggot’ was scratched on their cars and sprayed on their garage to the point where they had to leave their community.” What’s needed, says J.L., are more role models for the masses, as well as local heroes, to represent black gay life both to young gay men and to the community at large—a “strong, masculine man who steps forward and says, ‘Look at me. I’m a gay man. I’m strong; I’m productive; I’m educated; I have a partner and we’ve been together for twenty years; and I pay my taxes.”

He is encouraged that the dialogue that he helped to start seems to be creating “a bridge and a fellowship between the heterosexual community and gay community” among African-Americans. At a Tampa Pride event which featured J.L. as a speaker, 250 people showed up from both the straight and gay communities. “At the end, there was networking, there were hugs—it was beautiful.” He adds: “That was my goal: To get everyday people who may not have known what was happening to our community...listening, looking, and getting the facts for themselves.”

Those who missed the first wake-up call will get a second: J.L. has started to work on Confessions, a more in-depth look at the five behavior types. He also recently launched the Lillie Mae King Foundation. Named in honor of his mother and currently run by his daughter, Ebony M. King, the grantmaking foundation supports African-American youth and children who have been impacted or affected by the virus. Always willing to give back, a percentage of the proceeds from book sales and speaking engagement fees goes to the foundation.

“We are reaching people who have never walked into a clinic, who have never looked at a billboard, who have never attended a conference, who have never picked up A&U, and learned about their behavior and its impact and how to protect themselves.” He recalls a compliment someone from the CDC paid him, a prediction that, “when there is a decrease of HIV in communities of color, and even in the white communities,” J.L. will be recognized for disclosing his lifestyle, putting his life on the frontlines, forcing people to take a look at sexuality and to change their behavior. He treasures that daydream—it speaks to the man he is trying to, or might already, be. 

For more information, log on to J.L. King’s Web site at www.livingdownlow.com.
To purchase On the Down Low, through Amazon.com, click here

Chael Needle interviewed sexologist Dr. Charley Ferrer for the July issue.